Posts Tagged Science
Constructive criticism: architecture blasts off into space
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on October 21, 2011
Richard Branson reaches for the stars and Zaha Hadid goes down the toilet
Our dreams of blasting off for a lunar mini-break took another small step towards reality this week (even if the advent of space tourism has been announced and postponed about every six months since, ooh, 1961). In a blaze of publicity that was probably visible from Jupiter, Richard Branson held a "dedication ceremony" for the Virgin Galactic Spaceport, the world's first purpose-built space-tourism launch facility, in the New Mexico desert.
After abseiling down the glass facade spraying champagne, Branson admitted commercial flights were still more than a year away, but guests could at least marvel at the building, designed by Norman Foster in association with local firms URS and SMPC Architects.
The no-frills terminal looks something like the prow of the Starship Enterprise emerging from the desert sands, though the guiding principles were less to do with science fiction than environmental impact. By being half-buried, the terminal blends into the landscape more, and the subterranean section contains 100-metre-long tubes to passively cool air for the building. Recycled materials were used where possible and everything was sourced within a 500-mile radius of the site, Foster says.
How much this will offset the whopping carbon footprint of space tourism remains to be seen. But what architect would pass up the chance to design a building requiring "astronaut changing rooms"?
Back on earth, in a small London gallery, a new exhibition has opened showing the work of Polish artist Krzysztof Wodiczko, called The Abolition of War. This industrial designer turned art provocateur regularly engages with architecture and the city in ingenious, sometimes hilarious ways. He literally brings buildings to life by projecting eyes, ears, hands and other features on to their facades, but there's always a political point. In 1985, for example, he fooled London authorities into allowing him to project images of Pershing missiles on to Nelson's Column and tank tracks on the surrounding lions (he had been given permission to project hands); then, for good measure, he directed a swastika at the South African embassy.
Wodiczko also designed mobile shelters for homeless people (which look like live-in shopping trolleys or props from Doctor Who), and repurposed military vehicles as anti-war propaganda machines, one of which is in the exhibition: War Veteran Vehicle, a Land Rover that projects statements ("Have killed") from British Iraq and Afghanistan veterans on to surfaces, to the sound of cannon fire. Among his more ambitious projects is a fabulous World Institute for the Abolition of War which, he proposes, would be built over and around the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
Anyone want to buy a museum? Now that the Design Museum is moving to the Commonwealth Institute, with a new fit-out by Rem Koolhaas, its old Thameside building is surplus to requirements, and on the market. It was converted from a 1950s banana warehouse in 1989 and remains a crisp, white modernist presence on the waterfront, ripe for another incarnation. But what should we do with it now? Anyone with a bright idea and a few million quid to spare should contact global estate agents Cushman & Wakefield.
Further proof that Britain has finally learned to love Zaha Hadid: the opening of a new gallery designed by her. This is Hadid's third building in England, following the pool (the London 2012 Aquatic Centre) and the school (the Evelyn Grace Academy, which won the Stirling prize earlier this month). But Roca London Gallery, in Chelsea Harbour, doesn't actually display art; it's, er, a bathroom showroom. Not that you'd guess it from the promotional video.
As showrooms go, it's admittedly outstanding. Zaha's fluid curves fit right in with the watery theme, and the ground-floor space is reminiscent of a riverbed. A smooth, canyon-like corridor winds through irregular spaces with curvy openings, and globules of lighting hang overhead like water droplets. There's barely a straight line in the place, and the palette of pale concrete, glass and white fittings is fittingly futuristic.
When Richard Branson finally gets round to building that lunar hotel, he should give Hadid a call. She could at least help him source a space-age bidet.
Constructive criticism: the week in architecture
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on July 15, 2011
Yuri Gagarin touches down in Britain, the Gherkin paternity battle finally ends, and typhoons strike Zaha Hadid's Guangzhou Opera House
Made from an alloy used in rockets, a statue of Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, was unveiled outside the British Council in London this week. Elena Gagarina, daughter of the Russian cosmonaut, did the honours. The casting of the sculpture, a recreation of an original made in 1984, was supervised by the architect Pavel Medvedev, whose statue of Laika the space dog, the first animal to orbit Earth, was erected in Moscow three years ago. Laika died up there.
The Gagarin sculpture is not just a memorial to a brave pioneer. It is also a reminder of a fabulous idea – the notion that space-race technology, both Soviet and American, would transform buildings, everyday goods and machinery, and ways of life. However, although Gagarin's 1961 leap into the unknown did advance design, hopes for a space-age future were nothing new. Science-fiction books, comics and films predate rocket flight, after all.
The space-age look found its way into Soviet buildings of the 1960s and 70s. Meanwhile, much of Britain's futuristic architecture of recent years – the "high-tech " movement championed by Norman Foster and Richard Rogers – has been underpinned by a delight in the sort of space-age design that surfaced when Gagarin made world headlines 50 years ago. Foster's 2004 "Gherkin" is a very modern building that also just happens to look like an old-fashioned space rocket.
Arguments over the authorship of the Gherkin appear to have come an end this week with Ken Shuttleworth of Make architects insisting it was a team effort. In countless articles since 2003, when Shuttleworth left Foster and Partners to set up his own practice, he's been credited as the designer of the London tower. "It's the desire for a figurehead or a single name attached to an individual building that still causes problems," says a spokesperson for Foster and Partners. "Norman has always insisted that his greatest creation is the team around him, and the Gherkin was – once and for all – very definitely designed by a team." Got that everyone?
The idea of a "future memory" in architecture, so dear to Foster, is to be debated in a specially commissioned pavilion for the 2011 Singapore ArchiFest in October. Asif Khan, a young London architect whose work also includes craft, furniture and product design, has been commissioned to create the Future Memory Pavilion on behalf of the British Council, in partnership with the Royal Academy of Arts and the Preservation of Monuments Board, Singapore.
Khan's sketch reveals an elemental design made of ice and sand that will morph during the course of the festival. It captures the spirit of a fascinating line of architectural enquiry, and a contradiction inherent to futuristic design: no matter how apparently innovative they are, buildings retain powerful memories of past. Even as architects try to construct the future, it slips away and becomes the past – just as Khan's pavilion will slowly dissolve back into the Earth and a state of timelessness.
Zaha Hadid's futuristic buildings, such as the flamboyant new Guangzhou Opera House, are as informed by her love of 1920s Russian constructivism as they are with the future. Sadly, the opera house has been in the news this week because of reports that it's already heading the way of Khan's pavilion and falling to bits.
Simon Yu, project architect of the opera house, called me from China. "I've just been to inspect the building. It's typhoon season and its been pouring with rain, but rain isn't 'seeping relentlessly into the building' as has been reported. Glass panels haven't fallen from windows and no large cracks have appeared. I'm not sure what all this is about. Yes, there's still a lot of snagging to be done; we've demanded a high standard of work from what is often seasonal labour, but the flaws are superficial."
Gas holders, meanwhile, were among the most futuristic structures of the 19th century. If the Victorians had invented space rockets, they would have lifted off from structures like these. Some of the most elegant, including Hornsey No 1 in London (described by English Heritage as "probably the world's first geodesic design"), remain under threat. "This is not just any gas holder," says Heloise Brown, conservation adviser for the Victorian Society. "Hornsey No 1 will soon be the last surviving example of a highly innovative design and it must not be lost." Sadly this particular gas holder, designed by Samuel Cutler, is not listed and may be demolished soon.
Gas, in the form of air, will be used to inflate the giant bags that will hopefully save the stepped pyramid of Djoser at Saqqara, near Cairo, from collapse. Cintec, the international engineering firm based in Newport, Wales, has revealed a plan to prop up the central chamber with inflated bags and anchors. Damaged by an earthquake in 1992, this 4,700-year-old structure is the world's first large-scale stone monument. Its revolutionary design was the work of the very first architect we know by name, Imhotep. Because of his visionary work, Imhotep took one giant leap way before Gagarin: he became a god.
‘I only went in for some bedding…’
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on January 31, 2011
Rebecca Hill talks to a professor of architecture about the crafty ways that furniture giants Ikea layout their shops to stimulate impulse buys
"I only went in for some bedding... I came out with two dozen tealights, six wine glasses and a three-piece suite..."
While not everyone's experience of Ikea is as extreme, most shoppers will recognise the sentiment. When I spoke to Alan Penn, professor of architecture at UCL's Bartlett School, he cited an estimate of 60% Ikea impulse purchasing - ie 60% of the stuff rung through the tills at the Scandinavian giant is stuff shoppers didn't know they wanted when they entered the store. And this phenomenon isn't restricted to the blue and yellow Scandinavian giant, we're always making impulse purchases. But why?
A lot is to do with the way shops are laid out – whether that be the areas they're in or the shop floor itself. According to Penn there are three rules of retailing – "location, location, location". For a shop to be a success it needs passing trade and good access.
The right shops need to be in the right place. If you're looking for shoes you don't go to an area full of electrical shops on the off chance there's a Barratts on the corner – you go somewhere with footwear a plenty. The shoe shops are the generators – bringing people in and clustering together to provide choice. Every so often, and somewhere with a lot of passers-by, there's a shop that doesn't fit the pattern ready to take advantage of our fickle shopping nature. These are known as suscipients - they benefit from the customers draw to the area by other shops.
So what about Ikea then? Compare your visit to a trip to the supermarket: would you ever spend the first half hour walking the length and breadth of the store (or is it, in Ikea's case, a maze?) looking at items you don't plan to buy while following a yellow line on the floor? When you reach the marketplace not only are you desperate to shop, you also have an inexplicable urge to buy a set of candlesticks (after all, they looked so nice on that table in the living room scene). Penn says Ikea's confusing layout is designed to disorientate and distract – it forces shoppers to submit to following an arduous path full of subliminal messages and well-placed, unfeasibly cheap products. "I have little doubt that the design to take shoppers past every room setting in the showroom, before they are taken downstairs and led past every product in the 'marketplace' is completely intentional. The sinuous route that results is disorienting and confusing, and leads shoppers to put items in their trolly when they first see them because they cannot be certain that they would find them again."
And the reason we all seem to mindlessly wander along like Disney lemmings? Take a look at the floorplan above. At first glance it appears to be fairly logical - but that is because you are viewing it from above. And therein lies Ikea's trick - they have created a highly confusing environment that is particularly hard to navigate from ground-level. "You can only give in and follow the route they set out for you, because to do anything else is really difficult," explains Penn. "If you want to know where the shortcut is turn around; they are always behind you. Very cunning."
His team's work hasn't just looked at the effects of a well thought out shop floor though, they have also spent time studying the layout of the molecular biology labs in Cambridge, which have produced more Nobel Prize winners than the whole of France. So what makes the lab layout so special? With a lot of open doors and a busy coffee time it appears this is a breeding ground for interaction, discussion and collaboration. "That sort of culture leads to people talking to people they wouldn't speak to otherwise," Penn explains, "we think that's where real innovation comes from." Studying such success stories is part of an ongoing project that will help research laboratories to make the most of their labs, and hopefully increase scientific breakthroughs as well.
Looking at the way architects use space can let us in on all sorts of secrets, whether that be how to promote world-class science or just trying to escape the 'Ikea effect'. But in the meantime, I've just noticed some wine glasses. At that price? Well, I'd better get six then...
Heavenly illumination: The science and magic of stained glass | Andy Connelly
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on October 29, 2010
Andy Connelly explains the chemistry behind the ethereal beauty of stained glass windows
Life, like a dome of many coloured glass, stains the white radiance of eternity – Percy Bysshe Shelley
I often find peacefulness in a soaring stone church, a cool open place to sit and contemplate. The giant trunk-like pillars and the gentle play of the light cast through the stained glass create a shaded garden of stone and multicoloured light.
Stained glass windows are never static. In the course of the day they are animated by changing light, their patterns wandering across the floor, inviting your thoughts to wander with them. They were essential to the fabric of ancient churches, illuminating the building and the people within, both literally and spiritually. Images and scenes leaded together into windows shed light on the central drama of Christian salvation. They allowed the light of God into the church.
The history of stained glass dates back to the middle ages and is an often underestimated technical and artistic achievement.
Glass itself is one of the fruits of the art of fire. It is a fusion of the Earth's rocks: a mixture of sand (silicon oxide), soda (sodium oxide) and lime (calcium oxide) melted at high temperatures. Glass is an enabling material used for more than just drinking vessels and windows. It also allows scientists to observe distant stars and the smallest biological cells, and colourful chemical reactions in test tubes.
The history of glass
The earliest evidence of human interaction with glass was the discovery of flaked obsidian tools and arrow heads dating from more than 200,000 years ago. Obsidian is a volcanic glass formed when hot volcanic lava is rapidly cooled.
The earliest manufacture of glass probably occurred in Mesopotamia during the early part of the third millennium BC. Early glass finds consist of relatively crude beads usually formed around a metal wire. They are blue and green suggesting that the earliest glass was used to replace or evoke semiprecious stones such as lapis lazuli and turquoise. This reflects much of the history of glass-making where glass was a surrogate for luxury, a man-made stone, glass being cheaper and softer and so easier to work.
Sheets of glass both blown and cast have been used architecturally since Roman times. Writers as early as the fifth century mention coloured glass in windows. Around AD 1000 Europe became less war-like, and church building and stained glass production began to flourish. However, these churches were Romanesque in style with massive walls and pillars to bear their weight and so had only relatively small windows.
But by the 12th century the pointed arch and flying buttresses of the Gothic style were allowing builders to insert "walls of light", giant windows that filled the church interior with the perfect light of God.
A common misconception is that the glass in these ancient cathedral windows has flowed over time, now being thicker at the bottom than the top. This is not true and the explanation goes to the atomic heart of glass.
The chemistry of glass
So what is a glass? Why can we see through it when other materials are opaque? Glasses exist in a poorly understood state somewhere between solids and liquids. In general, when a liquid is cooled there is a temperature at which it will "freeze", becoming a crystalline solid (eg. water into ice at 0C). Most solid inorganic materials are crystalline and are made up of many millions of crystals, each having an atomic structure which is highly ordered, with atomic units tessellating throughout. The shape of these units can be observed in the shape of single crystals (eg. hexagonal quartz crystals).
Glass is different: it is not crystalline but made up of a continuous network of atoms that are not ordered but irregular and liquid-like. This difference in atomic structure occurs because the liquid glass is cooled so quickly that the atoms do not have time to arrange themselves into regular, crystal-like patterns.
If cooled fast enough almost any liquid can form glass, even water. However, the rate of cooling must be very fast. Fortunately for us, liquids composed primarily of silicon oxide can be cooled slowly and still form a glass. They get gradually stiffer during cooling until they reach the "glass transition temperature" below which they are effectively solid.
This transparent silicate material is what we know as glass, and despite its liquid-like atomic structure it is to all intents and purposes solid, only flowing over billions of years – much too slowly to be noticed in the hundreds of years cathedral windows have been in place. Cathedral windows are sometimes thicker in one place than another because forming glass into perfectly flat sheets is a very difficult process that has only been possible in the last 60 years.
Glass's liquid-like structure is one of the main reasons it is transparent. However, transparent does not necessarily mean that all light passes through. For example, some obsidian glasses are so darkly coloured that they are effectively black and opaque. This is because electrons of some elements in the obsidian are arranged in such a way that their energy is the same as the energy of visible light. This means they absorb either some visible light, giving colour, or all visible light, making the material opaque. Clear glass does not contain elements that absorb visible light so it is colourless and transparent. However, it does absorb ultraviolet light, thus preventing you from getting sunburned through your car window.
Staining glass
This ability of certain elements to absorb light and give colour is used to great effect in stained glass windows. For example, adding cobalt oxide to the glass during melting will make it blue because cobalt absorbs wavelengths at the red end of the spectrum but does not absorb blue.
These colours were discovered by the ancients through trial and error, adding different minerals to the melting pot and melting for different periods of time, giving an incredible array of colours. Copper-bearing minerals can produce a red or sky-blue glass, manganese pink or purple, and iron various greens or a bright yellow glass. These colours were used to great effect by ancient glaziers, even though they had no inkling what caused them. Minerals often made their way into glass as impurities in sand, giving faint colours such as green (iron) and purple (manganese) that can often be seen in "clear" cathedral glass.
The term "stained glass" telescopes three different processes: colouring, staining and painting, each one complex and requiring the application of many skills. The glaziers who made these windows did not themselves make the glass, this was the job of the glass-makers. It was hot and dangerous work that required great skill and knowledge. Glass-makers knew and jealously guarded the glass recipes and furnace conditions needed to make a myriad of colours. They would mix the raw materials in clay pots heated with wood fires and then manipulate the resulting viscous liquid with metal and wooden implements.
Glass-making was a difficult and unpredictable process: it required just the right proportions of ingredients and controlled furnace conditions. Any small variations could lead to imperfections such as uneven tinting, odd colour hues, bubbles, or embedded impurities.
Glass-makers would supply sheets of coloured glasses to the glaziers to create their windows. The process of making a stained glass window begins with the artist's sketch, known in medieval times as the vidimus (Latin for "we have seen"). The vidimus was then drawn to full scale (known as a cartoon) on a whitened table top. The panes of coloured glass would then be cut to shape, placed on the cartoon, and joined with strips of lead.
The use of lead is thought to have emerged in the middle ages. It was the ideal material to join the pieces of glass because it is flexible yet strong and durable enough to support a great mosaic of glass against extremes of weather and temperature. The panels would be made weatherproof by rubbing a putty-like mixture of lime, lead and linseed oil into the joints. The panels could then be mounted in the window space.
Complex patterns of different coloured glasses could be produced to stunning effect. However, if stories were to be told human images were required, including details such as hands, faces and the folds of drapery. These were added to the surface of the coloured glass sheets using a black enamel pigment based on copper or iron oxide. This mixture was painted onto the glass with different thickness and textures to give different shading effects, allowing control of light and providing artistic detail. After painting, the pieces were fired to fuse the paint to the surface of the glass.
From the 13th century a second pigment in the form of a "stain" of silver chloride or sulphide was painted onto the glass. Traditionally, this would have been the only true "stain" in stained glass. After painting the stain onto the glass it was heat-treated in a furnace. During the treatment the silver ions migrated into the glass and were suspended within the glass network, rather than sitting on the surface like glass paints and enamels.
Silver stain can give colours ranging from pale yellow to a deep red, depending on glass composition, stain composition, the number of applications, the temperature of the furnace, and colour of the background glass. It was the perfect way to depict yellow hair, halos and crowns along with faces on the same piece of glass, so reducing the amount of light-blocking lead. The stain could also be applied to blue glass to give green, making possible depictions of blue sky and green fields.
Enamels
The variety of colours and effects that ancient glaziers could achieve with these simple facilities was incredible, but in the mid-16th century different coloured enamels began to be used. Like glazes for pottery, these used either ground-up coloured glass or clear glass with a metallic oxide in a binder, which was painted onto the glass then fired. Methods such as these continued to be used in the 17th to early 19th centuries as they allowed windows to be painted like easel pictures on clear rectangular glass. This reduced lead usage with the metal often being used merely to hold the large panes together, the designer's aim being to conceal the lead rather than integrate it.
However, it has been said that the emergence of enamelling was the death of the great stained glass window artists. I'm not sure if this is true, but I do know that to stand in front of a great leaded stained glass window is a magical experience. Next time you are in a soaring cathedral take a moment to contemplate them.
Notice the aesthetic beauty of the biblical stories depicted in vivid simplicity. As you get closer, see the amazing use of lead and coloured glass to form these images. Closer still and the individual colours, staining and shading start to come into focus. Can you see the cobalt blues and the yellow silver stain? Then, as you get really close, you can see the way the uneven handmade glass distorts the light, giving a natural organic quality with bubbles trapped forever in the heart of the glass – bubbles that were frozen in as the hot liquid cooled.
Stay awhile in that shaded garden and marvel at the conjoining of ancient stories, art and science.
Andy Connelly is a cookery writer and former researcher in glass science at the University of Sheffield. He is training to become a science teacher
Giorgio Torraca obituary
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on October 21, 2010
He helped preserve the Sistine Chapel and the Leaning Tower of Pisa
The Italian conservation scientist Giorgio Torraca, who has died aged 83 of complications from pneumonia, was a brilliant chemist and teacher who devoted his career to the preservation of historic buildings, monuments and archaeological sites. He helped co-ordinate international responses to the flooding of Florence in 1966, was consultant from 1992 for the cleaning of the Sistine Chapel in Rome, and was a member of the committee for the stabilisation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa (2004-09).
A frequent visitor to Britain, Torraca gave technical advice concerning the Rose theatre archaeological site, near Shakespeare's Globe theatre on the south bank of the Thames in London. In the 1990s, an office redevelopment was redesigned to allow continuing access to the remains of the Rose theatre beneath it. Up to his final illness, he was working as a consultant on the Herculaneum Conservation Project run by the British School at Rome, and advised the Getty Conservation Institute in Los Angeles on research to improve grouts to consolidate friable historic frescoes.
Torraca was born in Padova, northern Italy, the son of Vincenzo Torraca, a journalist who became a longstanding impresario at the Eliseo theatre in Rome. His mother, Yolanda, was president of the Italian Women's Union. Giorgio graduated from Rome University with a degree in chemistry in 1950 before taking his master's at the Case Institute of Technology (now Case Western Reserve University) in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1953.
He undertook postgraduate work in the engineering faculty at Rome University until 1958, and during this time became a consultant to the renowned Istituto Centrale per il Restauro in Rome. Here, he found himself in a powerhouse of intellectual and technical developments concerning the theory and practice of architectural conservation, surrounded by the likes of the art historian and critic Cesare Brandi, and the eminent mural painting conservators Paolo and Laura Mora. He also forged scientific links with the British Museum in London during this period.
After a brief interlude in the materials laboratories of an industrial electronics company, Torraca spent the next 20 years in charge of the technology and materials courses in the engineering faculty at Rome University. From 1969 he also taught in the specialist school for the restoration of monuments in the architecture faculty at La Sapienza University in Rome, and helped run Cistec, the university's interdisciplinary centre for science and technology for heritage, as its vice-director until 2000.
But he also doubled as, first, assistant scientist (1965-71) and then vice-director (1971-86) at Iccrom (the International Centre for the Study of the Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property) in Rome. It was through Iccrom's intergovernmental mandate – along with its goals to support mid-career international multidisciplinary training for architects, engineers, planners, conservators and archaeologists – that Torraca's influence as a scientist, educator and mentor came to the fore. He was a wonderful teacher, beloved by his students, and recently the centre's alumni clubbed together to buy him a new bicycle to better navigate the streets of Rome.
Through his writings, many came to understand for the first time the physical and chemical phenomena that affect ancient monuments (the actual causes behind the surface symptoms of material decay), and the basics of their treatment. His charmingly simple scientific textbooks – for example, Porous Building Materials (1981) and Solubility and Solvents for Conservation Problems (1975) – have been translated into many languages and influenced generations of practitioners whose educational backgrounds stem mostly from the arts, humanities and engineering.
Torraca encouraged the inclusion of scientists in conservation teams and, importantly, warned of the limitations of scientists in the wider aspects of the field of conservation. Humility and teamwork were the underpinning goals of his teaching. His research also influenced international technical standards, most notably in the development of non-cementitious mortars, and low-strength, flexible grouts for mural painting conservation. Many of those taught by Torraca now have places of influence in scientific and technical institutions concerned with conservation, for example at the Getty Conservation Institute.
A humble, quiet, polite man with an insightful mind, Torraca received many accolades, including the Forbes prize of the London-based International Institute of Conservation in 1986 and the Iccrom award in 1990. He is survived by his sister, Maia.
• Giorgio Torraca, conservation scientist, born 11 September 1927; died 25 September 2010
Is straw the building material of the future?
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on July 20, 2010
Straw houses could help to cut carbon emissions – and new research proves that they won't blow down
Building his house of straw didn't do the first little pig any favours, but a modern take on straw-bale construction may well be the grand design of the future if results coming out of the University of Bath are accepted by the construction industry.
Think of a straw-bale house and you might imagine a tumbledown shack that leaks, creaks, slumps and smells somewhat of the farmyard. But step into BaleHaus, a startlingly contemporary looking prototype home that has been built on the Bath campus, and there's nary a wisp of straw to be seen. Instead, you're in the hallway of an upside-down house with two bedrooms and a bathroom on the ground floor, and an airy open-plan living area upstairs. It feels like a little piece of Scandinavia has just arrived in Somerset.
The straw bales, it turns out, are all packed tightly inside a series of prefabricated rectangular wooden wall frames, which are then lime-rendered, dried and finally slotted together like giant Lego pieces, called ModCell panels.
The problem with straw houses, it seems, isn't that they don't work, but that people perceive them as being a bit hippy and not particularly durable. Add to that the problems of getting a mortgage – very few lenders will consider straw-bale construction – and it's hardly surprising that most homes in the UK are still built of either brick or stone.
The benefits of straw, points out Professor Peter Walker, director of the University of Bath's BRE Centre for Innovative Construction Materials, are that "it's cheap, widely available and a good insulator. It's been used in building houses for hundreds of years."
As a by-product of an industry that exists all over the world – the stalks that remain after grain has been harvested – straw also helpfully soaks up carbon from the atmosphere and locks it in, so long as it is not allowed to decompose. For the building industry, which currently depends on materials with very high embedded energy costs – concrete and brick are expensive in carbon terms both to make and to transport – straw could therefore offer a welcome solution to housing's greenhouse gas emissions.
However stylishly modern your environmentally friendly straw-bale house may look, however, you still want to know that it won't get sopping wet in a thunderstorm or go up in a whoosh of flames if you knock over a candle. The results now being published by Walker and his research partner, Dr Katharine Beadle, who have spent the last 18 months testing the BaleHaus against an exhaustive list of risk factors that could rot it, burn it or blow it down, so far seem to be reassuring.
"You always want a bit of drama, but we didn't get it!" laughs Beadle of the day the team took a ModCell unit to a test laboratory and tried to reduce it to ashes by strapping it to a fiery furnace and raising the temperature to over 1,000C.
"It's a standard test to replicate a fire in a building," explains Walker.
"You want a minimum of 30 minutes' resistance; that means you know that a house will at least retain its structural integrity for half an hour, which gives people a chance to get out."
It took an hour-and-a-half of being in direct contact with the flames, says Beadle, before the lime render began to drop off, "and then the straw did start to burn back, but because it's so compacted it suffered more charring than actual disintegration."
After waiting another 45 minutes and finding that the panel still hadn't failed, the team gave up and stopped the experiment, secure in the knowledge that the material had performed way beyond the requirements of building regulations.
When it came to blowing the house down – hydraulic jacks were placed against the walls to replicate wind forces pushing against the bales – the ModCell panels moved a few millimetres, but stayed within the tolerances allowed for by the computer modelling carried out prior to its construction.
That, says Walker, could be very good news for the price of the eventual ModCell building system.
"It means the house is stiffer than it needs to be, so we now have the option of taking away some of that stiffness – ie, reduce its internal timber – and that could reduce the cost."
The approximate cost of the current modular building system for this design is £132,000 from above the concrete slab. For a smallish two-bedroomed house with one large open-plan kitchen/diner, that doesn't seem particularly cheap given that straw is supposed to be inexpensive, and you'd still have to buy the plot and dig the foundations.
"Cost is a challenge to the introduction of this technology, but as a prototype house I think it stacks up well," says Walker.
"The aspiration is that it should be cost-competitive, with more savings coming through reduced heating bills."
To replicate the heat given off by humans and appliances, arrays of incandescent lightbulbs on timers blaze in every room at pre-programmed times of day "to see how much heat escapes, and what level of heating would be needed at different times of year," explains Beadle.
"That environmental modelling will give us all the numbers about the energy the house is predicted to use. And if we are predicting how it will operate given climate change, we can then put in those variables."
Sensors embedded within each wall panel constantly monitor the degree of moisture absorbed and then released back through the breathable lime render into the air outside by the panels. And on the airtightness test that was carried out, BaleHaus came in way under the building regulations threshold, and did considerably better than the far lower "best practice" standard.
Next up is going to be the flood test. Disappointingly, the researchers aren't simply going to leave the bath taps running: instead, they'll stand a panel in a metre of water, measure how long it takes to dry out and assess whether using industrial dryers causes damage to the straw.
"Longer term, we'd like to maybe get some people to live in it, a family of three or four perhaps, and see how it performs in a real-life situation," says Walker.
Student accommodation, I wonder? Walker suddenly looks a bit concerned for his straw-bale baby, so probably only mature, well-behaved responsible students who will promise no rampaging house parties should apply. But who knows when the first straw-bale halls of residence will be built for students desperate for some decent, earth-friendly and thermally efficient digs?bre
Video: Inside Europe’s largest biomedical research institute, the UKCMRI
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on June 19, 2010
Artist's impressions of the planned UK Centre for Medical Research and Innovation (UKCMRI) behind St Pancras in London
Notes and queries: Why is Doctor Who always a Time Lord and not a Lady?
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on March 8, 2010
Why is Doctor Who always a Time Lord and not a Lady? Journeys to the centre of the Earth; The meaning of a hiding to nothing
Why is Doctor Who always regenerated as a Time Lord, not a Time Lady?
In Doctor Who the process of regeneration is the renewing of every cell in a Time Lord's dying, damaged or unwanted body. Since Time Lords (and Time Ladies, and perhaps even Time Tots, as the children of Gallifrey are known) can change species when they regenerate, there is presumably no reason why they can't also swap sex. There's certainly nothing in the TV series' history to contradict this theory and indeed no way of telling whether the Master, the Doctor's sworn enemy, spent one or more of his 13 wasted lives as a femme fatale called the Mistress.
Kieran Grant, London N22
Time Lords can be male or female. One of Tom Baker's companions was actually a female Time Lord called Romana who regenerated between seasons and I also understand that one of his recurring enemies was another female of the species called The Rani.
Apparently, the only way a Time Lord can regenerate as a member of the opposite sex is to commit suicide. This has happened at least once to my knowledge, in a Doctor Who Unbound audiobook called Exile, where he commits suicide and becomes Arabella Weir in order to hide from pursuers.
Guy Thomas, Canterbury
Why the Doctor has never managed to exchange his Y chromosome for a second X is one of the universe's great unsolved mysteries. Had he managed to do so, we might have been fortunate enough to experience the doctorly delights of the likes of Honor Blackman, Judi Dench, Sheila Hancock, Maggie Smith or Kathy Burke. Whatever the reasons for such rigid gender typecasting, lack of available talent isn't one of them.
Sheila Kirby, Esbjerg V, Denmark
The world's tallest building is the 828m Burj Dubai, but what is the world's deepest man-made structure?
Various mines and deep geological repositories for nuclear waste approach one kilometre. At 24.5km, Norway's Laerdal tunnel is the longest road tunnel in the world, and also up to 1400 metres deep. However, the record for the deepest hole is held by the Russians, who started drilling the Kola Superdeep Borehole in 1970 and reached the depth of 12,261 metres in 1989. The purpose of this hole is to study the continental crust. However, this represents only about 0.2% of the journey to the centre of the Earth.
In a tongue-in-cheek paper published in the science journal Nature, David Stevenson, professor of planetary science at Caltech, explains how a grapefruit-sized unmanned probe could reach the centre of the earth in a week or so. The first step would be to detonate a nuclear bomb to generate a crack in the Earth's crust 30cm wide and several hundred metres long and deep. Molten iron containing the probe would need to be poured into the crack the instant it formed. Being denser, the iron would sink, which would lead to the release of gravitational potential energy, melting the underlying rock. Once the glob of iron had passed, the rock would close up again. Data would be sent to the surface as vibrations. But the £6.5bn price tag means it will not be happening any time soon.
Mike Follows, Willenhall, W Midlands
"A hiding to nothing" – I know what it implies but it doesn't make sense. Can anyone explain?
It refers to a situation where one has everything to lose and nothing to gain. It is used (often in football) to describe a contest against supposedly inferior opposition where winning would be expected and produce little credit, while losing would be a calamity. The hiding refers not so much to the other team's performance but to the public outcry and humiliation.
The meaning of "hiding" is from the association of corporal punishment with the tanning of skins. Hence, "I'll tan your hide" and "give you a good hiding". So winning the uneven contest would be "nothing", while losing would be a "hiding".
Martin Skinner, Leamington Spa, Warks
Why are there no female Formula One drivers?
Due to their ancestors' roles as (respectively) hunters and nurturers, men's and women's brains evolved different pathways to help them make decisions. Women specialised in more nuanced, longer-term decisions, while men learned how to make good instant decisions. It's a bit of a generalisation, and there are obviously exceptions – the female Red Arrow, for instance, and the men who work in caring professions – but together with their numerical advantage, it explains why men become (and want to become) racing drivers and fighter pilots.
Nick Marsh, Sutton-at-Hone, Kent
Any answers
In folklore werewolves look like real wolves. That's the whole point – you don't know which is real and which is supernatural until it's too late. So why in films and TV do they look like very hairy people?
Susan Deal, Sheffield
What is the origin of the mortarboard as an item of academic dress? Why is it worn by graduates at some universities but not at others?
Lilian Dunlop, Manchester
Send questions and answers to nq@guardian.co.uk. Please include name, address and phone number.
Golden ratio shows maths and art come from the same place in our minds
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on December 28, 2009
The beauty of the golden ratio, surely, lies in the discovery of harmony in imbalance – that is, it's not a symmetrical division, it's not 1+1, but a bit more interesting and lively. In architecture, the piers and windows of Durham Cathedral seem to apply it as assiduously as in the Parthenon in Athens. But why such mystique?
The ancient Greek thinker Pythagoras was moved to find that a string only produces perfect musical notes when divided by exact mathematical fractions. He saw this as a revelation of divine beauty. This attitude to number (that it is the key to the secret harmony of the universe) survived in the middle ages in Muslim and Christian architecture.
In the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci took it to new extremes, analysing the perfect proportions of a horse and a human and finding number at the heart of nature. In 1504 he was designing fortifications for an Italian town. While researching this for a forthcoming book, I puzzled over diagrams of pyramids that keep interrupting plans for towers – until I understood that Leonardo believed so passionately in the power of proportion that he thought it could make a castle invulnerable. He illustrated his friend Fra Luca Pacioli's book The Divine Proportion, which praises the golden ratio, and so helped to create one of the most persistent cults in maths and art.
Whether or not the golden ratio really has any special significance in human psychology, it has been given that status by artists like Leonardo. Another is surely the great 15th-century painter Piero della Francesca, whose geometrically pleasing art is rooted in mathematics. The persistent pursuit of this proportion right down to Le Corbusier proves that mathematics and art come from the same beautiful place in our minds.
So how do you find this special proportion? Divide a straight line in two so that the ratio of the whole length to the larger part is the same as the ratio of the larger part to the smaller part. The result (roughly 1.62 to 1) is the golden ratio.
Jonathan Jones's book about Leonardo da Vinci will be published by Simon and Schuster in April 2010.
Science Weekly podcast: Solar activity and global warming, plus ‘female viagra’
Posted by The Sheet in Architecture News on November 23, 2009
Astronomer Stuart Clark joins us in the studio to look at the latest thinking about the effects of variations in solar activity on the Earth's climate. Dark matter gets a mention too.
Over the coming days he will be conducting question-and-answer sessions on Twitter - both on solar activity and dark matter. Follow him at DrStuClark and post your questions using the prefix #AskDrStu. (2:00)
There's a new BBC TV series starting this week called Paradox. Its writer Lizzy Mickery comes into the studio to tell us about the challenges of getting a drama based on science onto prime-time TV. (12:10)
In the newsjam we look at a new drug hailed as the "female viagra" and Nasa's announcement that its LCROSS probe found water on the moon. (15:30)
Duncan Clark from environmentguardian.co.uk responds to the s*** storm of blog comments arising from last week's podcast on eco-myths. Who'd have thought people could get so excited about nappies? (23:25)
Steven Levitt talks about his controversial views on geo-engineering, expressed in his latest book SuperFreakonomics. Hear more of that interview in the Guardian's The Business podcast. (26:15)
All the way from Denmark, Dr Rachel Armstrong discusses living buildings and metabolic materials. She is giving a Lunch Hour Lecture at UCL this week. (30:15)
We finish the show with more music ... the winner of Discover Magazine's "evolution in two minutes or less" video competition. (33:15)
Science correspondent Ian Sample lends us his wisdom in the pod. We promise to give it back soon.
WARNING: contains strong language.
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