Formed by bees heating up and rocks cooling off, hexagons inspire modern design both aesthetic and functional. Read on to experience how the 6-sided polygon interweaves physics and life, process and pattern, past and present, in a dizzying, epoch-spanning array of forms created by function.
1. Maximum honey, minimum wax.
The honeycomb is an elegant design solution that allows bees to store the maximum amount of honey with the minimum amount of wax. In this quick video tour of the evolutionary math behind the honeybees’ “modern” design, TED ED describes how the hexagon beat out circles, triangles, squares, and pentagons as the most elegant, and efficient, answer to the honeybees food-storage question.
No honeybee ever “did the math” to determine precise angles, nor do contemporary honeybees calculate angles. Over time, honeybee bodies evolved to automatically deposit wax in hexagonal shapes by internally warming and cooling in a pattern that would perfectly shape the flow of wax! According to a study posted at AskNature.org:
“Here we show that honeybees neither have to measure nor construct the highly regular structures of a honeycomb, and that the observed pattern of combs can be parsimoniously explained by wax flowing in liquid equilibrium. The structure of the combs of honeybees results from wax as a thermoplastic building medium, which softens and hardens as a result of increasing and decreasing temperatures. It flows among an array of transient, close-packed cylinders which are actually the self-heated honeybees themselves.”
Pirk, CWW; Hepburn, HR; Radloff, SE; Tautz. 2004. Honeybee combs: construction through a liquid equilibrium process?. Naturwissenschaften. 91: 350-353.
Geologists note that the hexagon is also a shape that worked for prehistoric coral, as shown in the fossil at right.
Living between 460 and 273 million years ago favosites coral featured tightly packed hexagonal calcite columns that sheltered marine polyps who extended tentacles to extract prey from the seawater around them.
Small gaps in the calcite walls allowed the polyps to share nutrients, while the hexagonal walls allowed individualized organisms to stay as closely packed with minimal structural material.
Stumbling upon perfectly geometric columns of rock can only be described as magical. Even the most austere scientist might find herself (or himself) gaping in awe at the flawless shapes and wondering if men or Gods carved those immaculate columns.
In a fascinating twist of physics, hexagons are also formed by igneous rocks cooling off!
When objects contract, they often crack or fracture. When contraction occurs at centers which are equally spaced, then a hexagonal fracture pattern will develop. If the contraction is not evenly spaced, then other geometries of fractures, such as 5-sided or 7-sided fractures, may occur.
Quotes from American Geophysical Union Georneys blog
“A Question: Why is it that other cultures… had such beauty about them in their daily lives–and we have not? Is it important? I suspect that it is extremely important for ourselves, for our children, and for our friends that we seek to surround ourselves with beauty. Suspicions: I suspect that how a culture defines beauty greatly affects its success as a culture. I wish I could persuade our world to see life itself as a work of art…”- Bill Coperthwaite in A Man Apart: Bill Coperthwaite’s Radical Experiment in Living
There is no rootsier a designer than Bill Coperthwaite, whose lifelong and stalwart commitment to the handmade, the simple and the beautiful, and to design as a way of life, set him apart from nearly everyone. Many know Bill as an innovator of wooden yurts from his life’s work adapting Mongolian round houses. Indeed he built over 300 wooden yurts around the world, often fantastical, often multi-tiered, likely no two exactly alike as he was always perfecting his designs and trying new ideas.
A new book by his friends Peter Forbes and Helen Whybrow takes us deeper into Bill’s world. Painted in letters, stories, and a narrative spanning the couple’s experience building a yurt at Bill’s homestead, are Bill’s philosophy of democratic design and experiential education, his fascination with handmade craft the world over, his 50 year remote homestead on the Maine coast, and his thoughtful, if difficult, relationships with those he loved.
Human habitat, artfully rendered and free of the trappings of modern mass production, is now rare, and I seek it out whenever I can. Indigenous cultures struggle to maintain or revive their time-hewn methods under the crush of Western homogenization and occasionally, individuals also emerge here and there who are able to imagine – and build – something authentic and free. The process of creating this is what Bill Copperthwaite called “democratic design” and I have come to call “wild design.” Design that by its existence, keeps real another way of living on earth, one that puts authenticity and meaning above the banal push for profit and personal gain. One that requires relationship – between people and land, between generations, between cultures. One that demonstrates that people can create shelter that is both deeply human (expressive, artful, unique), and also natural (designed to decompose, to create conditions conducive to life, to ingeniously embody the natural patterns that structure our world).
Visiting the habitat of such wild designers is a treat! In a whimsical twist of fate, I was fortunate enough to be part of the yurt build described in A Man Apart and have included some photos of my time to compliment this nod to Peter and Helen’s excellent book. Go get the book and have a read to travel deeper: A Man Apart: Bill Coperthwaite’s Radical Experiment in Living. And then start designing. And building. The cultural impetus for democratic design has never been greater.
Bill Copperthwaite’s tri-level (plus atrium!) wooden yurt on his remote homestead on the far-flung coast of Maine near Machias. Bill built the yurt by hand, a few miles walk from the nearest road, with no access to power tools and all materials carried in by foot or canoe. Peter and Helen relate in their book that Bill actually began by building the top two stories, and some time later, on his own and without benefit of power tools, jacked these up and built the ground floor workshop.
Bill Copperthwaite’s “bathroom.” Bill lived for 50 years with no running water. He showered in an open-air stone room by the ocean, and kept a hand made basin and hand carved soap dish for his indoor washroom.
A few of Bill’s treasured carving tools, part of the collection of hand made craft implements that he spent a lifetime gathering from all over the world. Peter details the odds and ends of joining Bill on one of his worldly sojourns in A Man Apart.
Working on a “Yurt John”, a mini-version of Bill’ yurts. These have also been adapted by others to become small meditation spaces, as at Peter and Helen’s farm in Vermont, or by design/builder Aaron Westgate.
Bill believed the confluence of experiential education and hand made craft presented a great antidote to the despair of industrialized versions of both. He earned a PhD in Education from Harvard, teaching design/build through the construction of a wooden yurt on the Harvard campus that would serve as his classroom in the 1960s.
Here I am, receiving instruction from Bill on how to build this fantastical design.
Bill’s library, complete with hundreds of books on education, craft, handmade tools, indigenous cultures, as well as a few of his handmade chairs.
Bill demonstrating how to make a wooden bowl with a mounted carving knife.
The yurt john design, in Bills characteristic detailed hand rendering. Bill engineered hundreds of atypical, round buildings without the use of a single CAD or design program.
Bill’s shower, overlooking the ocean.
Another angle on Bill’s shower.
A guest yurt on Bill’s land in Maine, complete with a ladder, re-imagined.
Since the 1960s, Bill made his designs available to others through poster instructions that you could get through written order. He liked to provide just enough information to get a new yurt-builder going, but also require her to think!
Got a link to one of Bill’s yurts you’d like to share? I’m happy to post them here…
Like a novel written by a poet, the wild architecture of German artist Mark Huebner is a hand-wrought meditation on place and the senses. Here we wander the winding pathways of Ojo del Mar, the solar-powered “simple life retreat” Huebner created with Niko Fischer, and explore an artful world where human habitat plays with that of howler monkeys, scarlet macaws, and green iguanas.
An accomplished artist as well as author of a cadre of intricate bamboo timber works, Huebner’s vision has truly flourished at Ojo del Mar, where the pegged bamboo structures and hand-made furniture are carefully crafted of and with their jungle landscape.
Ojo has been an experiment in tropical architecture that skips foreign and unsustainable building materials. The elegant result embraces its location on a rugged beach adjacent to one of Costa Rica’s wildest and most biodiverse national parks.
Huebner has learned the hard way that the Osa peninsula’s intense weather swings and aggressive jungle make it a tough place to build anything that lasts, especially if you’re trying to avoid concrete. In order to maintain structures that withstand searing heat and off the charts humidity, endless insects, and pummeling rainy-season downpours, Mark has made a few concrete concessions and replaced some aging bamboo with eucalyptus poles. But for the most part, his “casa grande” lodge, 10 or so guest and staff structures, and all the furniture, are hewn from pegged bamboo and hardwoods grown on or near the property and finished with natural oils.
Ojo’s casa grande hosts a formal dining space, barefoot lounge extraordinaire, open-air whole foods kitchen, and guest library. It’s also a timber-framed shelter and rainforest art installation, a delightful study in both intricacy and economy of design.
Huebner built a scale model to scheme out Ojo’s casa grande, now collapsed and tucked in the shed. Originally built with bamboo, the casa grande’s lengthy timbers were replaced with eucalyptus after a decade or so of tropical living. Huebner prefers building (and re-building) light and temporary, acknowledging the jungle will take it all back in the end anyhow.
Eucalyptus roundwood timber framing in the casa grande lodge. Huebner uses a home made jig to hold joints in place while mortises are drilled.
Niko’s cooking is fresh fish forward, with a yummy and educational emphasis on local fruits and vegetables.
Abundant tropical flowers are grown on site and artfully arranged in all the structures.
A former agricultural area, Ojo has been re-cultivated as an extension of the wild rainforest protected in nearby Corcovado National Park. Structures are small and scattered along winding paths that tour dense jungle gardens. Since the grounds are actually a regenerating ecosystem with a diversity of habitat niches, guests are treated to close encounters with acrobatic howler and spider monkeys swinging through the upper canopy, a colorful company of lizards and frogs sharing the walkways, and a perpetual symphony of bird song and fluttering wings as bright hummingbirds, parrots and trogons go about their daily business.
Huebner has re-thought the western bathroom, replacing it with outdoor showers and sinks, and hand-sculpted, plumbed outhouses.
Bamboo and timber outhouse with a trademark Huebner hingeless door.
Each guest space is unique, but all carry similar elements and are artfully designed and curated for ‘outside in’ living.
Nature’s forms are on display, gallery like, everywhere you turn!
“Bamboo is not only sustainable, it’s sexy,” says Huebner.
Abundant heliconia flowers delight birds and butterflies alike.
What would a Costa Rican lodge be without a yoga studio? Ojo’s beachside studio hosts a variety of wellness retreats.
A sitting area in the casa grande common area.
Each unique guest cabina is open to the rainforest, and located on its own winding path. While Ojo’s typical guests are certainly not of the high-brow wealthy set, increasing Western visitors and expats in a region where people make $3 per hour is creating tension on the Osa Peninsula. Huebner opts to prevent theft through maintaining long term relationships with local community members, as well as individual lock boxes (handmade, of course) in each guest space, rather than the heavy security and barbed wire fencing used at some resorts.
Huebner’s doors and gates show you how to swing with no hinges!
Quiet beaches dot the Matapulo coast, reached by a 45 minute, jarring drive on a pot-holed dirt road from Puerto Jimenez. This one’s a short, barefoot walk down the beach from Ojo del Mar.
With limited wifi (Niko offers her phone as a hotspot when needed) and abundant ocean-view hammocks, guests can disconnect and reconnect.
Thanks to Mark and all at Ojo del Mar!
Photosynthetic Neighborhoods by Henry S. Horn is a piece featured in Princeton’s 2013 Art of Design online gallery. In it, the “artist” – professor emeritus of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology at Princeton – contrasts the cellular cluster of plant leaves with an aerial photo of an American neighborhood. He writes:
Leaves carry out photosynthesis in clusters of cells locally serviced by end-units of pipes hat deliver water and take away sugar. The cells must be within diffusion distance of pores to exchange carbon dioxide and oxygen. Diffusion may set an upper limit on the size of an efficient cluster, and quasi-fractal branching of pipelines may set a lower limit. Accordingly, many species of local woody plants show photosynthetic clusters of approximately uniform size, and these clusters themselves group hierarchically into neighborhoods of successively larger sizes. The photo fields are 4 millimeters wide, except for the aerial photo of human neighborhoods.
Why do these images of seaweed ladies and moss men matter to designers? Because each is mirror and portal. Not of what you should make, but of who you could be.
These indescribably important images come from Eyes as Big as Plates, an international exhibition by a duo of finnish photographers, Karoline Hjorth and Riitta Ikone.
Singing just past the threshold of what I have tried to say, the gorgeous Laura Mvula offers a brilliant invitation to get outside, get barefoot, and sit in the green garden.
Americans have been busy transforming the east shore of San Francisco Bay since the late 1800s, filling in tidal marshes with parking lots and in the process trading dynamic ecological function with industrial barrens. An ambitious lightbulb-shaped peninsula appeared off the Albany shore in 1963, laid down with construction waste as a future landfill. But legal action halted the flow of trash in 1984, and the “Albany Bulb” was given back to nature, time, and chance.
In the last 30 years or so, wildness has reclaimed this space we reclaimed from the bay. The 25 acre rip rap and rebar base has been colonized by a vibrant succession of plants and trees, many of them “invasives.” But even if you view the non-natives as unnatural (and I hope you will not), you’ll agree the process by which they appear is consistent with “natural” ecological succession around the globe. I know of no effort to intervene and ecologically “restore” the Bulb, likely because its nonlinear history quickly deflates our assumptions about ecological restoration. Restore exactly what to its conditions when?
Early in the ecological succession of the Albany Bulb, some keystone species appeared: homeless humans and Bay Area artists. A small community of semi-temporary dwellings has resisted waves of law enforcement, perhaps helped by the Bulb’s unique geography and cultural ambiguity. It’s now part of the East Bay Parks system, but its free-for-all technicolor murals and rip rap shoreline feel more urban than they do natural or park-like.
Several human-shaped sculptures stand watch over its northern shore, including a 12′ woman with a cascade of tree branch hair, scrap metal skirts, and driftwood arms raised to the sky. Intentional or no, the sculpture embodies the peninsula’s deft meanderings between the worlds of culture and nature: a human made of trash, and of the earth. Where our engineers failed to consider ecological function and biodiversity in the creation of the Bulb, our artists have participated gracefully in its ongoing environmental design.
Spending a morning walking the Bulb’s trails and shorelines, as I have just done, is good for perspective. It’s a place where our world is mixed up on a scale and register we are not used to. Sea water twinkles and swirls around its concrete beaches and tinny music radiates from the tent dwellings, carried by a breeze along the water. The colors of the rainbow are painted on its concrete, rocks that we’ve already ground and processed, built, torn down, and thrown “away.”
At the top of the promontory, on a gentle knob facing Golden Gate bridge and surrounded by thickets of brush, we found an old walking labyrinth. Though many of the chunks of concrete serving as its markers had been displaced by weather or overgrown by lush grasses, the pattern of the spiral footpath was obvious. We added our steps to those before us, transforming the ground as we followed a densely twisting path defined by an absence of forks or choices.
Subsisting, as many of us do, on a daily diet of angled buildings and neighborhood grid patterns, can lead to a default definition of humanity as fundamentally square. We navigate right angles from our first steps to the bathroom in the morning to the four way stop we cycle through on the way home from work. If our built environment is an expression of who we are as a species, we might assume our kind are markedly linear and composed of angled planes.
Shinichi Maruyama‘s nudes strip the angles off our bodies, documenting that as we move, we embody patterns that flow deeper than the squares that define modern culture. His composites of 10,000+ stills of human dancers fluttered through design and photography blogs late in 2012, earning thousands of “likes.” But what is it, exactly, that so many of us like about these images?
The biophilia hypothesis states that we have an innate love of other living things. It follows that we also have an inherent fondness for the patterns that give rise to those living systems. The circle may be one of the most pervasive shapes in our universe, and Maruyama’s work exposes that shape expressing itself through our bodies. We see that even as we are moving through the grids of our culture, we are drawing circles with our limbs that even conscious effort could not disavow. We are always tracing something that neither begins nor ends, down beneath our clothes, without need of conscious thought.