Dialectic between the verbal and the visual

In the 1980s, the architect, theorist and teacher Bernard Tschumi penned an essay “Spaces and Events,” which later appeared as a chapter in his influential book Architecture and Disjunction. In it he outlines an approach to architectural design, at least in a studio teaching context, that elides the literary with the pictorial, to the extent that architectural projects would begin with literary texts that some would say had only loose connections, if any, with architecture. It’s worth quoting Tschumi on his approach.

“This dialectic between the verbal and the visual culminated in 1974 in a series of ‘literary’ projects organized in the studio, in which texts provided programs or events on which students were to develop architectural works. The role of the text was fundamental in that it underlined some aspect of the complementing (or, occasionally, lack of complementing) of events and spaces. Some texts, like Italo Calvino’s metaphorical descriptions of “Invisible Cities,” were so “architectural” as to require going far beyond the mere illustration of the author’s already powerful descriptions; Franz Kafka’s Burrow challenged conventional architectural perceptions and modes of representation; Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death … suggested parallels between narrative and spatial sequences. Such explorations of the intricacies of language and space naturally had to touch on James Joyce’s discoveries.” p.145

That a body of text, any text, might lead to something pictorial or physical intrigues many artists and designers, suggesting that creative actions leak across the arts and the different actions of any one creator. I recall an interview with Zaha Hadid in which she explained how she would create an oil painting in response to a commission prior to undertaking an actual building design.

The mapping between modes of such expression is not direct, as if the text or painting is there to describe or illustrate the building (existing or in process). The relationship between the project brief (i.e. the program), a related work of art, literature or even music recruited into the design process is more complicated, contingent and subtle than that.

Now throw text-heavy AI, with its access to generative algorithms trained on or primed with vast collections of textual and pictorial data, into the designer’s toolbox. What does that do to the relationship between literary material and design outcomes? To find out I started with a literary source to which I have referred previously. (See post AI in the apocalypse).

I uploaded to ChatGPT an excerpt from Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials by Reza Negarestani, published by re.press in 2008. It’s an experimental philosophical novel that claims to blend fiction, critical theory, and esoteric thought. The narrative of this particular extract involves a mysterious manuscript discovered by the protagonist during a surreal and disorienting journey through the Middle East, intersecting themes of oil politics, occult practices, and philosophical speculation.

I prompted ChatGPT: “I am an architect commissioned with the design of an urban housing scheme. I want to create a design that responds in some way to the themes in this article. Please generate a visual image of such a response.” I didn’t request an intervening description as I had done in previous conversations with the platform.

The platform responded to the Negarestani text and my prompt: “Here is a conceptual image inspired by the themes of Cyclonopedia. It embodies chaos, speculative design, and the interplay of urban structures with enigma and decay.” That’s the first image below. I then asked the platform to “provide an image that reflects more of the settings in which the narrative of the story takes place.” That’s the second image here. The third image came from my prompt: “Now please provide an image of a design that responds more negatively to the ethos of the article.”

ChatGPT described that negative response as “an image reflecting a design concept that negates the ethos of Cyclonopedia. The environment is controlled, sterile, and oppressive, embodying a rejection of chaos and speculative complexity.”

I reverted to the second image which is certainly evocative and scenographic: “Please translate that colourful image (with the oil truck and oil in the streets, etc) into buildable architecture.” Without further prompting it described such a building in text, until I asked it to: “Please respond to the image with an architectural design.”

The platform responded: “Here is an architectural design inspired by the oil-themed surreal urban landscape. It incorporates angular forms, reflective materials, dense vegetation, and dramatic lighting to bring the concept into a buildable reality.”

It had already described the attributes of such a design, stating that to translate the oil-themed surreal image into buildable architecture, we should use use corten steel, darkened concrete, and reflective glass for facades to mimic the oily, textured look, and polished black granite or resin surfaces for reflective ground textures: “Design the buildings with angular, fragmented geometries and multi-layered facades, integrating dense vegetation on terraces, rooftops, and walls to evoke organic encroachment. Incorporate programmable LED lighting for an eerie glow, labyrinthine public spaces with reflective water features, and underground passages visible through skylights. Interiors should contrast raw concrete with soft materials, combining intimate and grand spaces. The proposal should show asymmetrically arranged mid-rise buildings around a central plaza with reflective surfaces, abstract sculptures, and unpredictable pathways, blending the surreal inspiration with functional design.”

I feel that description and image is something I could work with as a designer or studio tutor, at least as the basis of discussion, especially when compared with other relevant pictures.

References

• Negarestani, R. (2008), Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials, Melbourne: re.press.
• Tschumi, B. (1994), Architecture and Disjunction, Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.