Test Bank for Tourism: Principles, Practices, Philosophies, 12th Edition by Goeldner, Ritchi

Test Bank for Tourism: Principles, Practices, Philosophies, 12th

Edition by Goeldner, Ritchie
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Description
The 12th Edition of Tourism: Principles, Practices, Philosophies explores major
concepts in tourism, what makes tourism possible, and how tourism can become
an important factor in the wealth of any nation. Written in global terms, it
provides an overview of the principles, practices, and philosophies that affect the
cultural, social, economic, psychological, and marketing aspects of human travel
and the tourism industry. Among the topics given expanded coverage in this
edition are: B&Bs, time shares, meetings and conventions, sustainable tourism,
climate change, social media, and mobile marketing.

About the Author

CHARLES R. GOELDNER, PH.D., is Professor Emeritus of Marketing and Tourism at

the Leeds School of Business, University of Colorado at Boulder. He is also the
founding editor of the Journal of Travel Research.

J. R. BRENT RITCHIE, PH.D., the founding Chair of the United Nations World
Tourism Organization (UNWTO) Tourism Education Council, holds the
Professorship in Tourism Management, and is Chair of the World Tourism
Education and Research Centre at the University of Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
Product details

 Publisher : Wiley; 12th edition (September 27, 2011)

 Language : English

 Hardcover : 544 pages

 ISBN-10 : 1118071778

 ISBN-13 : 978-1118071779

 Item Weight : 3.3 pounds

 Dimensions : 8.2 x 1.2 x 10.9 inches

 Best Sellers Rank: #638,543 in Books

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Povl Baumann (b. 1878) in the Hans Tavsengade or the enormous
Hornsbaekhus of 1923 by Kay Fisker (b. 1893), all in Copenhagen, are
especially fine. The extreme precision, the elegant craftsmanship in brick,
and the ascetic detailing of these blocks of flats, rivalling the contemporary
ones by de Klerk and by Kramer in Amsterdam in quality but subscribing to
a quite opposed aesthetic, are found also in many Danish private houses of
the twenties built by Gotfred Tvede (1863-1947) and other architects both
in the city and in the country.
Although Carl Westmann (1866-1936) in the Röhss Museum of
Handicraft at Göteborg and Erik Lallerstedt (1864-1955) in the University
of Architecture and Engineering at Stockholm approached the simplicity
and fine craftsmanship in brick of the Danes, Swedish work of this period
was in general richer and more robust, still reflecting the very eclectic
sources of inspiration of Östberg’s Town Hall. However, in 1923 Neo-
Classicism of a more attenuated and whimsical order than Petersen’s made
a striking appearance in the buildings for the Göteborg Jubilee Exhibition.
Of these the Congress Hall by Arvid Bjerke (b. 1880), with its serried
clerestories carried on arched principals, was the boldest and least
reminiscent. These Göteborg pavilions were very influential abroad in the
mid and late twenties; detailing of Swedish inspiration then seemed to offer
to traditional designers elsewhere a sort of Nordic spice with which to
enliven the dead-level of the local eighteenth-century revivals.
Tengbom, deserting the romantic eclecticism and the emotional drama of
his earlier Högalid Church, used a highly stylized, almost exposition-like,
Neo-Classic mode for his Stockholm Concert Hall of 1920-6. However, the
climax in Sweden—if not, indeed, the climax as regards all Scandinavia—
came with Asplund’s Central Library in Stockholm, begun in 1921 and
much simplified and refined as construction proceeded through the mid
twenties. Rejecting the frivolous decorative detail of his Skandia Cinema of
1922-3, Asplund rivalled the Danes in reducing architecture to geometrical
simplicity (Plate 176A). Thus he might almost seem to have passed beyond
C. F. Hansen and Schinkel, the Scandinavian idols of the day, to draw the
inspiration for his plain cylinder rising out of a cube directly from Ledoux
or Boullée (Plate 2A); while at the base he ran a continuous band of
windows derived from the newest architecture of these years in France,
Germany, and Holland. This juxtaposition in the same edifice of Ledoux
and Le Corbusier, so to put it, is rather awkward; but it is highly
symptomatic of the very slight step that the Scandinavians had still to take
in the late twenties when they gave up revived Romantic Classicism—
already pared down to basic geometry in this library and in much Danish
housing—to become outright converts to the International Style.
Although Sweden and Denmark produced no modern architect of the first
generation of such individual distinction as the Finnish Saarinen, and must
in any case be considered to have started out around 1900 from a position
somewhat in retard of the French and the Germans, their early twentieth-
century architecture largely avoided the stasis of traditionalism elsewhere,
moving through overlapping but discrete phases to an early and sympathetic
acceptance of the new international architecture of the twenties even before
that decade was over. So clear a picture is hard to discern in most other
countries.
In the United States the pattern of development between the 1890s and
the 1930s, in so far as one can make out any pattern at all, was quite
different; nor was there in America, in the way of England in the twenties,
any Swedish influence of consequence. Movements roughly equivalent to
the Scandinavian National Romanticism of 1900, the Richardsonian
Romanesque and the Shingle Style, had flourished in the eighties and come
to an end by 1900. The Academic Reaction that early succeeded them swept
on, however, for some forty years. Despite the ruling eclecticism of taste
that permitted an archaeological sort of revived Gothic still to thrive as a
mode for churches and educational institutions, the more widely favoured
Classical, Renaissance, and Georgian stylisms had all been initiated by
McKim, Mead & White in the eighties and early nineties. The quality of
their work began to decline[513] almost as soon as their professional primacy
became assured; yet their best buildings of the first decade of the new
century undoubtedly remain among the most competent, if unexciting,
examples of traditional architecture then produced anywhere. Americans,
not Frenchmen, were in these decades the worthiest products of the École
des Beaux-Arts, and thus heirs of the strongest academic tradition in the
world.
Whether McKim, Mead & White’s models be Renaissance, as in the
University Club in New York (Plate 179) completed in 1900, the series of
Branch Public Libraries there that were built over the next dozen years, and
the Tiffany Building finished in 1906; or Classical, as in the Knickerbocker
Trust in New York and the Bank of Montreal in Montreal, both completed
in 1904, the very similar Girard Trust in Philadelphia of 1908, and the vast
Pennsylvania Station in New York of 1906-10, this New York firm was
clearly one of the truest successors to the nineteenth-century academic
heritage that so many of the French were frittering away at the opening of
the new century in a half-hearted flirtation with the Art Nouveau.
The Gare d’Orsay in Paris of 1898-1900 (Plate 183A) by V.-A.-F. Laloux
(1856-1937) is no more to be compared with the Americans’ station than
his Hôtel de Ville at Tours of 1904-5 with their clubs and banks—his best
work, closer to the tradition of Duquesney and Hittorff, was an earlier
station, that at Tours of 1895-8. Yet Laloux was often considered the most
accomplished French traditional architect of the period.[514] Moreover, the
McKim, Mead & White repertory of stylistic modes was wide: much wider
than that of the French, although Laloux did produce in Saint-Martin at
Tours, completed in 1904, a domed basilica still in the line of the earlier
French Romanesquoid churches, though not at all of the quality of
Vaudremer’s Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge of the sixties.
McKim, Mead & White exploited a vernacular Colonial Revival, as in
the E. D. Morgan house of 1900 at Wheatley Hills, Long Island, as well as a
more formal Neo-Georgian, at which several others, such as Delano &
Aldrich[515] and Charles A. Platt (1861-1933), were quite as competent as
they. But they could also shade their Classicism towards the Byzantine, as
in the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York completed in
1906, or adapt it to industrial uses, as in the I.R.T. Power Station in New
York of 1903. They could even extend it upward into skyscrapers, as in the
New York Municipal Building completed in 1908, concentrating all their
attention on the ground floor and the crowning feature while ignoring the
many-storeyed shank between; or spread it thin over large apartment houses
such as that they built in 1918 at 998 Fifth Avenue, one of the best
examples of the apparently solid blocks that walled one side of that
thoroughfare above 57th Street facing Central Park and soon turned Park
Avenue from 46th to 96th Street into a man-made canyon. The one thing
they and their contemporaries seemed to be unable to do was to make their
architecture live, even with the derivative vitality of the Scandinavians.
Frozen ideals of stylistic ‘correctness’ stifled such expression of individual
personality as gives real character to the work of a Tengbom or a
Kampmann even when it comes closest to theirs.
In popular estimation certain buildings that made use of Gothic rather
than Classical, Renaissance, or Georgian forms had a higher reputation.
Cass Gilbert’s already-mentioned Woolworth Building finished in 1913
(Plate 178) initiated a considerable range of Gothic skyscrapers, including
Howells & Hood’s Chicago Tribune Tower of 1923-5, but it remains in the
judgement of posterity the most notable example of this sort of applied
medieval design. Despite the considerable acclaim it received when new,
such an equally characteristic Romanesquoid example as the Shelton Hotel
of 1929 by Arthur Loomis Harmon (b. 1901) rivals Gilbert’s no more in
interest than in height. The New York Telephone Company Building,
completed in 1926 by Ralph Walker (b. 1889) at the beginning of his career
with the firm of McKenzie, Voorhees & Gmelin, is more original. Its
fortress-like masses, somewhat frivolously relieved by ornamental touches
borrowed from the Paris Exposition of 1925, and its isolated location at the
Hudson River’s edge, ensure that its bold silhouette will long vie, for the
visitor arriving from abroad, with the so much taller and richer silhouette of
the Woolworth Building. Most of the other individual big buildings of the
twenties in New York and other large American cities are no more than
incidental elements in the man-made mountain ranges of their skylines.
Curiously enough the ‘correct’ Gothic churches of this period do not
receive today as favourable a response as the large-scale medievalizing
secular work that is necessarily so very unlike real work of the Middle
Ages. Those of Ralph Adams Cram (1863-1942), then the most esteemed
Gothic practitioner, are lifeless and even crude beside Bodley’s and
Pearson’s in England from which they largely derive. His first church, All
Saints’, Ashmont, outside Boston which was built in 1892 is by its early
date the least anachronistic. Cram’s former partner Goodhue’s St. Vincent
Ferrer in New York completed in 1916, a competent and well-scaled
example of Late Gothic that is more Continental than English in character,
is rather more successful than any of their joint work or that which Cram
did later with his other partner Ferguson. Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue
(1869-1924), responsible also, as has been noted, for the Spanish Colonial
revival in California, moved on in the early twenties just before his death to
an eclectic sort of semi-modernism best represented by his Nebraska State
Capitol in Lincoln. This is vaguely Byzantinesque, yet towered instead of
being domed in what had been the tradition for state capitals ever since
Bulfinch’s in Boston. His contemporary Los Angeles Public Library is
starker and more like a project by Tony Garnier.
There were other architects to match McKim, Mead & White directly at
their own academic exercises: most notably John Russell Pope (1874-
1937), with his Temple of Scottish Rite in Washington completed in 1916, a
grandiose reconstruction of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus; and Henry
Bacon (1866-1924), with his Lincoln Memorial completed the following
year (Plate 180). The latter is a peripteral Greek Doric temple of white
marble with a high attic that might almost have been designed in Paris in
the 1780s—no mean compliment. Equally French in spirit, but with no such
evident prototypes, is the Grand Central Station in New York, built in 1903-
13 by Reed & Stem and Warren & Wetmore.[516] More efficiently organized
than the Pennsylvania Station, its concourse is one of the grandest spaces
the early twentieth century ever enclosed (Plate 177B).
Compared to most work of these decades by French architects, all trained
like the American leaders at the École des Beaux-Arts, the greater
‘correctness’ of the detailing of these buildings is notable. The boast of
‘good taste’ was not altogether a hollow one, although it is at best a
negative rather than a positive criterion for architecture.
So extensive was American building production during the twenties that
it is difficult to know how to epitomize it.[517] On the one hand, there are the
later skyscrapers, essaying new stylistic garments as the older ones lost
their piquancy. Even before the Romanesquoid of Harmon’s Shelton Hotel
had come the massive simplicity of Walker’s Telephone Building. But for
all the playing around with superficially novel decoration borrowed from
the Paris Exposition of 1925 in the succeeding years, there was no basic
renewal of form before next decade opened. Just after the crash of 1929
terminated the boom, the second skyscraper age came to a belated close
with the erection in the early thirties of Shreve, Lamb & Harmon’s Empire
State Building and the initiation of the Rockefeller Center project.[518] There
a more urbanistic grouping, extending over a considerable area, replaced
the earlier ideal of building single structures of ever greater height that had
just reached its climax with the Empire State Building. This change in
approach, recognized ever since as a turning point, was for a long time
hardly at all followed up. However, the spaced skyscrapers of Pittsburgh’s
rebuilt Golden Triangle and, since then, various projects of urban renewal
for big and middle-sized cities from coast to coast are shifting the emphasis
from individual structures to the wholesale reorganization of very large
areas (see Chapter 25 and Epilogue).
In the terms of this chapter neither the Empire State Building nor
Rockefeller Center are examples of traditional architecture, even if it is
hardly proper to consider them ‘modern’ in the sense of the European
architecture of their day. Although likewise no example of the new
architecture as then understood in Europe like Howe & Lescaze’s
Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building of 1932 (Plate 169), such a
clean-cut skyscraper as Hood’s vertically striped Daily News Building in
New York marked with more distinction than its outsize rivals the end of
traditional design in this field.
Almost as remarkable as the skyscrapers of the twenties in size and
elaboration were the groups of new buildings in which so many academic
institutions, both new and old, variously housed themselves. The mode is
Classical at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, built by Welles
Bosworth (b. 1869) in 1912-15 on the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.;
‘Georgian-Colonial’ in the range of ‘Houses’ that Coolidge, Shepley,
Bulfinch & Abbott[519] built in the twenties for Harvard, also along the
Charles River in Cambridge; it is Gothic at Cram & Ferguson’s Graduate
College at Princeton, N.J. (Plate 177A) completed in 1913, in the Harkness
Quadrangle, designed in 1917, and other later buildings for Yale at New
Haven, Conn., by James Gamble Rogers (1867-1947), and at the Men’s
Campus by Horace Trumbauer (1869-1938) at Duke University in Durham,
North Carolina; it is even, by exception, Byzantinoid at Cram’s Rice
Institute at Houston, Texas, opened in 1912. The usual modes for such work
were what was known as ‘Collegiate’ Gothic, based rather loosely on work
at Oxford and Cambridge that was quite as likely to be nineteenth-century
as medieval in date, and Neo-Georgian in an Anglo-American version,
usually too grand to be plausibly Colonial yet too casually composed to be
properly Anglo-Palladian. Curiously enough, the Gothic Cram’s Neo-
Georgian Sweet Briar College in Virginia of 1901-6 is more successful than
much of his own medievalizing work or than comparable work by those
who specialized in eighteenth-century design.
 The technical competence of American architects in this period was very
great, the sums of money available almost unlimited, and the avowed
standards of design only the vague ones of ‘taste’ and ‘correctness’, by this
time little more than a schoolmasterish respect for precedent in detail,
though rarely in over-all composition.[520] Far less than in Scandinavia is it
possible to define the particular ways in which the period expressed itself,
for express itself America in these decades undoubtedly did. Yet, when
Americans of this period worked abroad, what they produced is readily
distinguishable from the work of local traditionalists. The American
Academy on the Gianicolo in Rome, built by McKim, Mead & White in
1913, has a certain chaste precision in its High Renaissance detailing no
Italian could then have achieved even if he had wanted to. In London
Helmle & Corbett’s[521] Bush House, rising between the Strand and
Aldwych, has a clarity of form and a sense of urbanistic responsibility that
few comparable buildings of its period designed by leading British
architects display; up to a point, the same is true of Carrère & Hastings’s[522]
Devonshire House in Piccadilly of 1924-6. The Ritz Hotel of 1906 across
the street by the Anglo-French firm of Mewès & Davis,[523] both of them
trained at the École des Beaux-Arts as was Thomas Hastings, is bolder in
scale, less priggish, but it also lacks the suavity and finish of its neighbour.
Bolder also, indeed too monumental for its size, is Barclays Bank of 1926
by W. Curtis Green (b. 1875), near by in Piccadilly across Arlington Street.
Of more nearly comparable quality is Green’s earlier Westminster Bank of
1922-3 on the north side of Piccadilly.
Somewhere between the extreme professional competence of the
traditional architects of America, a competence almost wholly anonymous
in its results, and the intensely personal expression of the Scandinavians lies
the pattern that the best traditional architecture, such as Green’s, followed in
England in the early twentieth century. But before turning to that a good
deal more should first be said concerning both the competence and the
anonymity of American production, since that competence and even that
anonymity came to be accepted throughout the western world as
desirable[524] characteristics of modern architecture by a great many
architects, at least in the mid century.
Partnerships were not unknown in the nineteenth century, although
professional alliances between strong personalities rarely lasted for long.
When the partner was not an equal the historian is often justified in writing,
say, of G. G. Scott and forgetting Moffatt or, with rather less justification,
only of Sullivan while ignoring Adler. But architectural firms that include
three or more named partners, with still other members listed only on the
letter-head; others such as D. H. Burnham and Company and Albert Kahn
Incorporated, or ‘partnerships’, such as McKim, Mead & White or Cram &
Ferguson, which continued to function under the same name for decades
after the death of the original partners like so many firms of lawyers: these
are more or less peculiar to the twentieth century and first became common
in the United States. Today, moreover, an architect of European background
like Mies van der Rohe does not undertake large-scale operations in
America, such as the group of buildings for the Illinois Institute of
Technology or a fortiori his tall blocks of flats in Chicago and the Seagram
skyscraper in New York, without associating himself with such large local
firms. Wright and Gropius solved the problem somewhat differently; but the
Taliesin Fellowship and TAC provided them respectively with the relatively
modest and idiosyncratic equivalents of the organization of the big Harrison
& Abramowitz firm in New York or of one of the Skidmore, Owings &
Merrill offices in Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and Portland, Oregon.
The development of the characteristic large-scale American architectural
office seems to have begun in Chicago. Burnham, on the death of his
designing partner Root in 1891, just after they had undertaken the primary
responsibility for the general planning and building of the World’s Fair of
1893, had to set up an organization of which he was no more than the
executive head. But the office of McKim, his closest associate in carrying
out the Fair, was certainly already far advanced along a parallel road. There
is a definite connexion here also with the rise of the skyscraper, for those
very large commercial buildings already required a vast amount of
uninspired draughting that could be efficiently undertaken only by a large
force of assistants working in what came later to be derisively called ‘plan-
factories’.
The same is even more true of industrial work. Here Albert Kahn took
the lead around 1905 in developing a type of subdivision and flow of work
in his office in Detroit comparable to the new methods of mass-production
that his motor-car factories were specifically designed to facilitate. Such
patterns are found at their extreme in the group[525] of firms that together
produced Rockefeller Center, in the Harrison & Abramowitz office which is
in effect their heir, and in the largely post-war expansion of Skidmore,
Owings & Merrill. Abroad, more characteristically, such organizations have
been built up in offices under a public authority such as those of the London
and the Hertfordshire County Councils, the City Architects’ Offices in
various German cities, or the Banco Obrero housing agency in Venezuela.
‘Plan-factories’ are undoubtedly conducive to speed and to a certain sort
of competence in the execution of large projects, but it must be evident that
the architecture they produce will necessarily be anonymous. In defining
the character of their competence, moreover, one must be careful not to
imply too much. Only such team-work, perhaps, can organize the logistics
of building production in such a way that extensive and ramified ventures
are carried rapidly to completion, a desideratum of the first order in a boom
period for skyscrapers that must be finished quickly in order to begin
repaying their enormous cost. Efficiency is of a different sort of
consequence where large-scale building schemes of a more public and
social nature are being undertaken, but none the less extremely important.
Le Corbusier’s Unité at Marseilles, produced without an elaborate office
organization, took some six years to build; as a result it was no longer ‘low-
cost housing’ when it was finally completed.
Yet competence in the sections of a big office that deal with the
plumbing, say, or the electrical system is no assurance that the quite
different sort of competence required in the design department will be
available. Moreover, a brilliant initial design may or may not survive intact
the various modifications that other departments bring to it as the
preparatory paper-work for the building moves through successive stages to
ultimate execution. At best, even when a particular designer’s name is
associated with a particular building, as is that of Gordon Bunshaft of
Skidmore, Owings & Merrill with Lever House (Plate 189), his
responsibility is of a very different order from Wright’s for the Price Tower-
although not perhaps so different from Mies’s for the Seagram skyscraper.
The situation in England in the first third of the century was rather
different from that in America despite a nineteenth-century inheritance
which was in many aspects common to both countries. One architect, Sir
Edwin Lutyens, had a personal capacity for invention along traditional lines
superior to that of any American of his generation. This was not, however,
of the order of individualistic intensity of an Östberg or a Jensen Klint, nor
was he able, in the way of an Asplund or even a Hood, to accept around
1930 the discipline of the newer architecture of the day. Lutyens built no
skyscrapers, nor did he develop the sort of office organization that made
them possible in America. This was, however, occurring to some extent by
the twenties and thirties in other big English offices, such as those of Sir
John Burnet & Tait[526] and of Curtis Green.
All the same, it fell to Lutyens’s lot to build some of the biggest business
structures erected anywhere outside America in these years, and his career
culminated in the design and construction of an imperial capital such as
came the way of no American. His competence was of a more nineteenth-
century order than that of the Americans, and there was certainly nothing
anonymous about his work. He was, moreover, still an inspiriting figure in
an England where architecture, under the difficult economic conditions
since the last war, tended to become anonymous without becoming
especially competent, except for public housing and for schools (see
Chapter 25).
Lutyens’s beginnings were very remote from the world of business and
governmental buildings with which his career wound up (see Chapter 15).
Very early houses, such as Ruckmans of 1894 at Oakwood Park or
Sullingstead of 1896 at Hascombe, both in Surrey, followed directly in the
line of Shaw’s Surrey manor-houses with their tile-hung walls, free and
easy composition, and simple domesticity of tone. They are, indeed,
superior to most of Shaw’s—the first of which, Glen Andred, was built
almost thirty years earlier and the last about this time—because of
Lutyens’s respect for Webb and the resultant superiority of his
craftsmanship. In his finest early houses, such as Deanery Gardens at
Sonning of 1901 (Plate 182B), he rivalled Voysey. He was already inclined,
however, like Webb in many of his later houses, to use considerable stylistic
detail, usually Neo-Georgian, in his interiors, and here and there on
exteriors as well.
Perhaps the revolution—or counter-revolution—in his development
represented by his Heathcote of 1906 at Ilkley in Yorkshire has been
somewhat exaggerated. Yet the design of this, completely symmetrical and
quite elaborately Palladian in detail, did represent as great a shift in
approach, taken in one jump, as that from Shaw’s Glen Andred of the late
sixties to his Chesters of the early nineties. It was, however, practically the
same shift. Eclectic like almost all the traditional architects of his
generation, Lutyens still occasionally remodelled medieval houses, but the
main line of his development henceforth was certainly Neo-Georgian. Yet it
was usually Neo-Georgian with an important difference from what had
become by this time in England as in America a rather drearily codified
mode. Nashdom at Taplow in Buckinghamshire, built in 1909, is a vast
white-painted house, plain, regular, massive, and hardly at all
archaeological. Yet this is so handsomely proportioned and so well built that
one could well believe it to be the result of some generations-long process
of accretion in the eighteenth century. Great Maytham in Kent of 1910 is
Queen Anne, but not the Queen Anne of the 1870s. Here a great mansion of
the early eighteenth century was re-created with such a plausibility of
craftsmanship that after only half a century it was hard to believe it was not
two hundred and fifty years old. A somewhat smaller house, the Salutation
at Sandwich of 1912, is similar and perhaps even more remarkable as an
example of what is almost ‘productive archaeology’ on the part of a man
who was not, in fact, at all archaeologically minded. Such houses are the
twentieth-century equivalents of Devey’s in the nineteenth century, but they
often have a witty originality in the handling of traditional detail that has
aptly been called ‘naughty’ and is peculiarly personal to Lutyens.[527]
If the Georgian had to be revived in the way of the Greek and the Gothic,
it could hardly have been done with more competence and more animation;
certainly the Americans of Lutyens’s generation rarely excelled so notably
in this particular field, although many of the once highly esteemed firms
mentioned earlier positively specialized in it. Beside these houses of
Lutyens, the Neo-Georgian of the Shepley firm’s Harvard Houses or Cram’s
Sweet Briar College is merely routine. Yet in such work Lutyens was still
only a country-house architect.
Before discussing Lutyens’s work at the Hampstead Garden Suburb, with
which his association began in 1908, something should be said concerning
the ‘Garden City’ movement[528] in general. In 1892 Ebenezer Howard[529]
(1850-1928) published Tomorrow. A Peaceful Path to Reform, better known
by the title of the edition of 1902 as Garden Cities of Tomorrow. Howard’s
opportunity to realize his aspirations for a new sort of town began with the
acquisition of land at Letchworth in 1903, but the construction of the
Letchworth Garden City on the plans of Sir Raymond Unwin (1863-1940)
and his partner Richard Barry Parker actually post-dates their work at the
Hampstead Garden Suburb. They had, however, already laid out a ‘model
village’ for a chocolate manufacturer at New Earswick near York in 1904.
In 1907 Dame Henrietta Barnett set out to realize some aspects of the
Garden City ideal on the outskirts of London. The next year land was
acquired near Golders Green on the far side of Hampstead Heath and the
suburb planned as a whole by Parker & Unwin.[530] Lutyens was invited to
plan and design the group of public buildings in the centre and their
immediate setting (Figure 54). This town centre was eventually largely
completed, most of it from Lutyens’s design, and the two churches, with the
contiguous squares, provide some of his finest work. His work here
certainly set a pace of coherence and urbanity that was unfortunately not
maintained in later Garden Cities such as Welwyn, begun in 1919, that
followed the rather more diffuse plan of Letchworth.
Welwyn, however, is of importance in the history of town-planning
because it was not merely a residential development but included from the
first an industrial estate as well. Thus it was a more complete entity and the
prototype of the English ‘New Towns’ initiated after the Second World War.
The Barnett project was originally, and has remained, an upper-middle-class
suburb; yet it is unique for the orderliness and the distinction of the public
buildings that Lutyens provided at the centre and the terrace-framed squares
that flank them.
St Jude’s, the Anglican church, begun in 1910 and not finally completed
at the west end until 1933, is Lutyens’s principal ecclesiastical work, his
Catholic cathedral in Liverpool having been barely begun before his death.
Lacking the emotional drama of the Scandinavian churches of its period, St
Jude’s has nevertheless a certain real boldness of silhouette, produced by
rather eclectic means, and an elegance of craftsmanship in the brickwork
that is in the finest tradition of the Gothic Revival. Yet, being by Lutyens, it
is hardly at all medieval. The tall crossing tower may have slight
suggestions of the Norman in its detailing and a cathedral-like scale, but in
general the exterior is in a vaguely seventeenth-century vernacular
descending from the later work of Shaw and Webb.
Figure 54. Sir Edwin Lutyens: Hampstead Garden Suburb, London, North and South Squares, 1908

The interior, rather surprisingly, proves to be almost High Renaissance in

character; there is even a barrel vault over the nave. On the other hand, the
timberwork of the roofs of the aisles, which descend so low on either side,
is of a structural peculiarity recalling Webb at his crankiest if not, indeed,
Butterfield. Except for the highly exceptional London church of the Holy
Redeemer, Clerkenwell, built by J. D. Sedding (1837-91) in 1887-8, so truly
Palladian—rather than Anglo-Palladian—internally as almost to persuade
one that it is Italian, no non-Gothic church of this quality had been built in
England for two generations. Lutyens’s more modest Free Church is rather
similar, both inside and out, but considerably less effective.
To surround two sides of both North Square and South Square beside the
churches Lutyens revived the Early Georgian terrace, varying the
composition ingeniously and handling the beautifully laid bricks in two
colours, reddish and greyish, with a fascinating subtlety. Unfortunately such
truly urban housing stood no chance with the clientèle drawn to this and
other Garden Cities as against the appeal of free-standing or semi-detached
houses. No general revival of the terrace occurred. But Parker & Unwin and
their emulators achieved in individual houses a standard of semi-traditional
suavity that represents one of the principal English achievements of the
period, and something frequently imitated abroad.
Lutyens’s call to lay out New Delhi as the capital of India followed in
1911, and the first plans were made before 1914. It was a commission better
suited to his leaping imagination than the modest domesticity of an English
Garden City. Construction of the buildings, notably the enormous Viceroy’s
House, began only in 1920.[531] Not since L’Enfant laid out Washington had
a fiat city of such amplitude and grandeur been conceived, much less even
partly executed. The Viceroy’s House, finally finished in 1931, is official
residence, centre of administration, and focus of the whole scheme—a tour
de force for which, from the Queen Anne, the Neo-Georgian, and the
Palladian, Lutyens lifted his sights to a Roman scale (Plate 181). The result
is grand and broad, adapted to the climate, and even reminiscent of the
Indian architectural past in some of its forms and features. Towards the
designing of such a major monument generations of Frenchmen and others
who studied at the Beaux-Arts had been prepared; there is a certain irony
that this opportunity came to an Englishman, trained in the most private and
individualistic English way.
Nashdom and Great Maytham represent a side of Lutyens’s mature talent
that follows rather directly from Webb’s Smeaton Manor of the seventies
(Plate 102A). The work at the Hampstead Garden Suburb, and above all that
at Delhi, represents another side. On the one side he had a few worthy
rivals: Leonard A. S. Stokes (1858-1925)[532] was a more adventurous
architect than he around 1900, with some leaning towards the Art Nouveau;
Shaw’s pupil Newton was almost as competent at Neo-Georgian work.
Those who tried to rival him on the other side, however, Sir Reginald
Blomfield (1856-1942), a pupil of Norman Shaw, and Sir Herbert Baker
(1862-1946), a pupil of Ernest George, hardly deserve mention, even
though their work bulks very large on the London scene.
Blomfield’s watered-down version of Shaw’s quadrant façade of the
Piccadilly Hotel, carried out in the twenties, has been mentioned. Better
examples of what may be called in W. S. Gilbert’s terms his ‘not too
French, French’ academicism face Piccadilly Circus. But his pretensions to
cosmopolitanism, although based on a very considerable knowledge of
French seventeenth- and eighteenth-century architecture, did not serve him
as well as Lutyens’s purely English background in continuing along the
‘Monumental Queen Anne’ line of Shaw’s late work.
Baker’s outrageous rape of Soane’s masterpiece, the Bank of England,
carried out over the years 1921-37, has also been mentioned; it was literally
a fate worse than death. Despite a half-hearted decision to preserve a good
deal of the relatively unimportant exterior, the Tivoli Corner was pointlessly
stripped of its idiosyncratic crown, presumably in the name of Baker’s
superior ‘taste’. His South Africa House of 1935, moreover, all but ruins
Trafalgar Square.
Lutyens’s Midland Bank of 1924, near the Bank of England in Poultry,
like Baker’s bank almost a skyscraper in size if not in height, at least
required the destruction of no earlier work of distinction and is undoubtedly
more consistently and personally designed. Yet the cliff-like massiveness of
its walls, with even less evidence of the underlying structural skeleton than
in office buildings of this period by American architects, is almost as anti-
urbanistic as Baker’s Bank of England. Because of the very narrow streets
of the area, the filling up of the City of London with such structures, very
few of them even of this degree of intrinsic interest, was a tragedy of the
twenties that even bombing did not put right. The superiority of Corbett’s
Bush House, not in the rather flat detailing but in the exploitation of the fine
site at the foot of Kingsway, and even in the politeness of the plain foil it
offers to the Baroque elaboration of Gibbs’s St Mary-le-Strand, is very
notable.
Lutyens’s other big Midland Bank buildings, one of 1928 in Leadenhall
Street in the City and one of 1929 in King Street in Manchester, are not
much of an improvement over that in Poultry. However, his elegant little
Midland Bank of 1922 in Piccadilly in front of Wren’s St James’s is a rich
and inventive exercise in the vein of Wren built of brick and stone.
Anachronistic as such a design must be considered, the verve of the
pastiche nevertheless has a distinct appeal, like a plausibly realistic setting
on the stage.
Lutyens’s most successful big business building is doubtless Britannic
House of 1924-7. This profits from its site between Finsbury Circus and
Moorgate Street, the curve of the Circus giving to the eastern front a certain
major Baroque drama that is echoed in the versatile play with seventeenth-
eighteenth-century motifs in the detailing. But one may well prefer the
massively mock-Egyptian effect of Adelaide House by London Bridge,
built by Sir John Burnet & Tait in 1924-5. This, at least, makes some
approach to the new ideals of the Continent in these years. Burnet,
moreover, had been for decades one of the most competent British
practitioners in a local version of the international Beaux-Arts mode, as his
King Edward VII wing of the British Museum of 1904 notably illustrates.
Three years later Tait was the first English-born architect[533] to attempt to
build in the International Style, as has been mentioned earlier. The closest
Lutyens came to the Continental modes of the twenties was in his public
housing.
Public housing in England between the wars was generally rather routine
in design despite the statistical importance of its social achievement,
lacking either the drama of the Dutch or the restraint of the Scandinavians.
On the one occasion when Lutyens turned his attention to this field, on the
Grosvenor Estate in Westminster in 1928, he succeeded beyond all
expectation. The bold device of chequering all the façades of his blocks of
flats in alternate oblongs of brickwork, plain stucco panels, and windows is
somewhat inhuman in scale but notably effective. The contrast is striking to
the work of the twenties by the London County Council Architect’s Office.
In that a type of design not unsuited to semi-detached houses in middle-
class suburbs was spread thin over vast many-storeyed masses.
Lutyens, one feels, in a different time and place—a generation earlier in
England, say, or a generation later—might have been a greater architect.
But even as his career actually worked out, he is not unworthy to occupy
the place given him here as the ‘last traditionalist’. Since his death there has
not been, either in England or elsewhere, any traditional or even semi-
traditional building of consequence, unless one wishes to consider Perret’s
work at Le Havre in the latter category.
The traditional architecture of the first third of the twentieth century in
Italy and France, headquarters in so many ways of the major architectural
traditions of the western world, is disappointing beside that of the countries
discussed so far. In the case of France, the situation is confused by the
modulation of Perret’s style towards a semi-traditional Classicism which,
by the thirties, official and academic taste was ready to meet half-way. In
Italy Marcello Piacentini (1881-1960), the son of the architect of the
Academy of Fine Arts in the Via Nazionale in Rome, always had more
vitality than the French of his generation other than Perret. From the new
città bassa of Bergamo, for which he won the competition in 1907 and
which was executed in 1922-4, through his general responsibility for the
Terza Roma, Mussolini’s vast project for a new capital between old Rome
and Ostia which was to have opened with an exhibition in 1942, there is a
certain assurance and amplitude of scale lacking in most contemporary
work in France. Mussolini, in the middle years of Fascism, was not averse
to modern architecture, as we have seen. When, under German influence, he
began to turn against the International Style the choice of Piacentini to set a
neo-imperial pace was as natural as Hitler’s return to the modes of twenty
years earlier in Germany. Moreover, from the public buildings of Bergamo
through the ‘New Towns’ below Rome—Littoria, Sabaudia, Pontinia, etc.,
mostly destroyed during the Second World War—to the arcaded cube of La
Padulla’s Palace of Italian Civilization at the Terza Roma, nicknamed by
Italians the ‘Square Colosseum’, fine materials, clean if familiar
proportions, and excellent craftsmanship provide certain lasting qualities
not unworthy of Italian national traditions. Where Fascist work is
interpolated in an earlier urbanistic scheme, as along the Via Roma in Turin
between the Piazza San Carlo and the Piazza Carlo Felice, the new
buildings of 1938—here by Piacentini—fit as well with the seventeenth-
century buildings of the one as with the nineteenth-century ones of the
other. For all their obviousness, moreover, the colonnades of the Via Roma,
all of polished granite monoliths, have a truly Roman scale and dignity.
Even the Square Colosseum has a Chirico-like obsessive force, like
something out of a dream; while the big unfinished structures around it,
only now being completed, are not altogether without virtues to balance the
mid century conventionality of those that have lately risen beside them.
To pursue the subject of traditional architecture further would be merely
to explore what can now be seen to have been not so much a cul-de-sac as a
road without a goal. The standards of traditionalism—standards of ‘taste’,
of ‘literacy’, of ingenious adaptation—were still on the whole nineteenth-
century ones. Yet down into the thirties, traditional buildings were the big
trees in the forest of twentieth-century architecture; with the rise of a new
range of giants in the forest, the seedlings from which they grew seem now
to have been more significant: Asplund’s Stockholm Exhibition of 1930 and
his Crematorium there of 1935-40 tend to obscure our vision of his earlier
Library, although that is perhaps finer considered absolutely. So also the
Philadelphia Savings Fund Society skyscraper of 1932, so clearly the
immediate ancestor of those built in the last decade, draws attention away
from the Woolworth Building. In England continuity has been so
completely broken that it is hard to realize how much the ‘Mannerist’
façade-treatment of Drake & Lasdun’s tall housing slabs of 1946-56 on the
Paddington Estate has in common with Lutyens’s chequered Grosvenor
Estate blocks of thirty years ago. However the future may evaluate the
achievements of the traditional architects of the early twentieth century, the
chapter is now closed.
 CHAPTER 25
ARCHITECTURE AT THE MID CENTURY

T describe the state of architecture in the late forties and early fifties,
before and after the mid-point of this century, is far more difficult than to
sketch its condition a hundred and fifty years earlier, as the first chapter of
this book attempted. The western world was enormously larger in
geographical extent, vastly more populous, and as a result very much more
productive of buildings of all types and at all levels of quality. Many of the
types most important in the twentieth century—big business buildings, low-
cost public housing, facilities for transportation such as bus stations and
airports—did not exist in 1800. These difficulties are objective and merely
imply that the sampling of executed work must be relatively much more
limited. But the very limited selection provided here is inevitably
influenced by subjective criteria. The activity of two generations of
historians writing on the architecture of the early nineteenth century has
produced something approaching a consensus of opinion as to what is and
what is not important or characteristic in that period. There remains, of
course, much to be discovered concerning building in the decades around
1800, particularly as interest rises in the technical aspects of the story; yet
the engineers[534] are unlikely ever to force the Soanes and the Schinkels out
of the centre of the picture: moreover, men like Latrobe and Mills were
themselves as much engineers as architects.
Already, in carrying the story of the production of the leading architects
of the first and second generations of modern architecture down to the mid
fifties, a certain emphasis has been given to their work in the production of
the last decades. The decisions as to what to include in rounding out the
picture are critical ones hardly comparable to the relatively objective
historical process of selection that controls in the First and Second Parts of