Photo: Lynn Saville

If I could write about something for more than four lines that didn’t have to be set to music, I’d write about my old friend fear.—Bill Withers

The sun has set. I leave my house. I close the door. I am outside in public. It is nighttime.

The pavement is where I left it this morning. The trees are in place. The building is still standing. Yet I have entered into an entirely different kingdom. Same place + different time of the day = different world. It’s after dark. I see my world differently. I act differently. Now a new set of rules governs my behavior and that of everyone around me. My brain is on high alert and in a nervous dialogue with itself.

At night we step into an environment where—in an evolutionary sense—we’re not supposed to be. As a species, we have less than stellar vision in the dark; we can’t see detail or color. We lack all the basics that nocturnal species have: we don’t glow like cephalopods, nor do we have eyes that enhance and collect light like cats.

As a lighting designer and environmental psychologist, I know better than to fear the dark in my own neighborhood. But like everyone else, I have read the studies on rape and crime. As a woman I know that I’m statistically in more danger from a relative or acquaintance than from a random attacker in the park. Reports show that a young man of color is far more likely than I to be a victim of nighttime assault, and that most after-dark crime happens to people living in poor communities. Yet I still feel cautious, wary, and a bit unsettled as I walk down my safe, well-lit street.

In the city, strangers are everywhere—people to whom we’re not related, people we don’t know, people who inhabit a totally different cultural space from ours. In the daytime, this isn’t a big deal. Then we make countless small judgments, nearly imperceptible, about whom to walk next to and whom to avoid. But at night, under the glow of the moon or streetlights, we strain and peer at each other. Who looks interesting? Who might be dangerous? We may feel an excitement and glee at being out at night—the joy of after-dark social life. But we may also feel our “old friend fear.” Read more…

In preparation for a panel I’ll be moderating on February 26, at the Digital Signage Expo (February 26-28) coming to the Las Vegas Convention Center, I decided to learn more about my panelists, their subjects, and the potential breakthroughs in media technologies. “New Design Directions: Dynamic Digital Environments,” organized by the irrepressible Leslie Gallery-Dilworth, FAIA, will conclude with a conversation between the day’s presenters and me. Here I start on the large scale, the city, and how the urban environment can benefit from the newest technologies, be it through offering new experiences or new development opportunities, all of which respect the glorious building stock that distinguishes many of our cities.  Philadelphia, the cradle of American democracy certainly fits into our list of treasured cities. So I start my Q&A series by asking Paul R. Levy, the president and CEO of the Center City District to talk about a recent kinetic light installation in that historic area, and his hopes for what it will bring to his city.

Paul Levy, President and CEO of the Center City District

Susan S. Szenasy: I understand that Philadelphia’s Center City District (Market Street East at the Gallery), which you oversee, has been designated as a large scale digital signage area. What will this initiative do for the area (talk about your expectations here)? And why, in the first place, has it been decided to establish digital sign guidelines?

Paul R. Levy: Market Street East is a 7 blocks shopping and hotel district that is just one portion of a 120 block business improvement district that covers the entire central business district of Philadelphia. In the 19th and early 20th century it was the city’s primary department store shopping district, but it declined for much of the latter half of 20th century. Now, it is the link between a large convention center and the Independence National Historical Park and is being repositioned a hospitality, destination retail, and entertainment district. Digital designs were approved to achieve two objectives: animation of the exterior of several large buildings and the generation of new revenues that can be captured by developers who are seeking to transform obsolete buildings and vacant sites. The guidelines were established to limit signs to only those properties that have a minimum of $10 million capital investment in their building for general renovation purposes, to limit the locations that can have signs and set size and other design parameters.

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I often find myself in scenarios that go something like this: After walking through a space, the client describes the architectural elements and tells me what’s important to see, as well as how the space will be used. “Yes,” I respond, “you can light it to perform any of the tasks you want to perform, and I can make it look the way you want it to look. But how do you want it to feel?”  In my view, that’s a critical question when it comes to lighting up a room.

Case in point: During a recent charrette to redesign a multipurpose art center, the architects were keen to have the lighting signal that each room, from gallery to classroom, has a unique function. They offered up inventive ideas on ways to design the architectural details and lighting fixtures to do just that. But my job is to shape the light itself. I want people to feel different in each room where they’ll be performing different kinds of tasks.

This affect is not as simple as emphasizing what you see directly in front of you. It can come from the periphery of your vision—the “fringe of your focus”—and it determines how you feel in a particular space. You absorb much of the affect without being acutely aware that you’re doing it through what we variously call the co-conscious, unconscious, or just the “noise around us”.  Some of this is sensed through the body—it’s everything we see out of the corners of our eyes.  Once I meet the clients’ goals of function and look, I work at the peripheral layer to establish both a sense of wellbeing and a desired emotional tone.

What, then, does it mean to talk about how a space feels? People usually respond in one of two ways.

For residential clients, the question of “how the lighting should feel” may ignite strong emotional responses, such as, “I hate fluorescent lights. I hate track. I love incandescent. I love candle light.” “My mother (or father) always went around turning off lights, and I can’t bear the feeling of not seeing.” “I hate it when it’s too bright; I feel ill.” “I’m afraid of the dark.”  “My partner and I totally disagree about the reading light in the bedroom and how bright the bathroom should be. We always fight about it.”

These intense emotional reactions—fear, hate, love, and anger are hard-wired biological functions of our nervous system—make sense to me. We grew up, as did our parents, in a world of plentiful artificial light. It is inextricably fused with our memories of home, whether gloomy or bright, candlelit or washed by a single circular fluorescent in the center of the kitchen. We remember the (now unimaginably) high levels of illumination above our desks in elementary school, and the acutely bright light at the hospital where we were rushed with broken bones, or visited relatives.

Despite these common memories, when I ask, “How do you want the lighting to feel?” I’m met with blank stares. With our focus on function and look, describing “feeling” — some neuropsychologists distinguish feeling from emotion by its subtlety, complexity, and the way it mixes intelligence, judgment, and experience — is particularly difficult.

To break through this barrier, I might ask, “Do you want it to feel comforting, calm and orderly; cozy and intimate, enchanting or glamorous, mysterious,  friendly,  playful,  surprising?” Some of our feelings are unique to us, some we share with others. For homeowners whose spaces are deeply personal, I help identify the distinct feeling they want to have in each room. For public spaces with their diversity of users, I work from a more generalized idea of what the feeling should be, based on the desired activities and psychological states.

Here’s where the peripheral layer comes in. Once we establish the emotional tone for the environment, I think about shape, movement, and light-to-shadow relationships and wavelengths. This is what the eye and brain register outside the narrow cone of focus that takes in detail and exact color.

Dining room, Colorado, by Maya Lin.  Photo by Paul Warchol

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The recent hurricane-induced blackout, and the loss of light — both in our homes and in our permanent street lighting system — plunged us into a chaotic and unpredictable environment. It was, at an emotional level, frightening, bewildering, and incredibly stressful. Indoors, it created inconvenience (where are my clothes? where are the kids’ toys?), danger (where are my pills?, how do I manage 18 flights of stairs in the dark?), and the disruption of habitual activities that focus our evenings (cooking, reading, playing games). Outdoors, the looming darkness escalated anxiety. We feared stumbling, bumping into walls; falling into manholes; that a car or cyclist might hit us;  loss of orientation (what street am I on?). We feared strangers. And then there was the loss of what I call “glow.”  It’s the social experience of light: I see you, you see me, look at everyone around us. “Glow” provides comfort and ease as we go about our nighttime routines amid the delights and enchantments a city offers, abuzz and alive after dark.

When a street lighting system goes down, we may not be able to replace each element, but we can look for useful and imaginative responses that might ease some of our very real ‘functional’ fears, and bring back some of the social dimensions of light.  We might consider the blackout as a time machine transporting us back to a Dark Age before we were so dependent on technologies that we can’t personally control.  We forget that, for all but a recent moment in human history, we have, as a species, lived without a state-supplied artificial light system.  Yet at night we maneuvered around our homes, negotiated stairs, went outside and navigated pathways.  We traveled across counties, indeed, entire countries, and explored all the continents available to explore, using the technologies we had at hand, harvesting the potential of starlight, the Milky Way, and the moon.

We need to mine this Dark Age technology, not just because another blackout might occur, but because it helps us to imagine other less electric alternatives for a future in which we may well want to use less light.  So here are a few simple principles gleaned from a review of pre-industrial cutting edge technology.

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Midtown section of the plan with building labels

Freeways have sliced through the hearts of many communities, creating derelict wastelands that destroy neighborhoods and sever connections. Our cities have buried, covered, or dismantled the massive structures required for high-speed automobile infrastructure. With our virtual vacuum of public finance for such projects going forward, we need to ask: What’s the prognosis for more such transformative, big-budget efforts? And what methods work best to integrate ribbons of concrete into our communities?

Let’s look at some instructive examples. Seattle’s Downtown Freeway Park, designed three decades ago by Lawrence Halprin, bridged Interstate 5 with five acres of green space; the city’s more recent Olympic Sculpture Park by Weiss/Manfredi Architects and Charles Anderson Landscape Architecture, spans a waterfront arterial with an art-filled urban park. In San Francisco, removal of the Embarcadero Freeway after the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake produced a grand boulevard, designed by ROMA Design Group, offering transit, bike lanes, promenades, and revitalized real estate. And the nation’s most expensive highway project—Boston’s Big Dig, which rerouted I-93 into a 3.5-mile tunnel through the heart of the city—left behind a 27-acre urban greenway reconnecting city to waterfront, a $15 billion price tag, and a mixed legacy of design flaws, accidents, and cost overruns.

Emerging projects continue to explore ways to tame the freeway. Dallas’ 5.2-acre Klyde Warren Park, designed by James Burnett and Jacobs Engineering Group, Inc. and due to open this fall at a cost of about $100 million, will bridge downtown’s below-grade freeway with new urban green space. Los Angeles is contemplating two plans for capping portions of the 101 Freeway with planted concrete lids—the 44-acre Hollywood Freeway Cap Park and the 80-acre Downtown 101 Freeway Cap Park. Funding is not yet secured. Cincinnati, St. Louis, and Santa Monica are also considering plans.

Atlanta Connector Transformation Project Overall Plan

The Atlanta Connector Transformation Project provides another, less costly approach. Rather than burying, removing or covering up the I-75/85 Connector—a five-mile stretch famous for its snarl of traffic and frequent flooding that brings Atlanta to a standstill—the project acknowledges that the Connector will remain the city’s most significant and visible infrastructural corridor for the foreseeable future. Because of the realities of transportation funding, the project will not seek to make the Connector disappear; rather it will use the Connector as a transformative piece of the city’s open space network.

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With a past life in corporate interior and architectural design in San Francisco, I have been aware of 3Form’s many uses as an interior manufacturing company for several years now. I had seen their products used again and again in our sustainable projects, but the image of a conference room divider using their organic Varia Ecoresin Interlayers, in which bear grass had been entombed within a sheet of 40 percent preconsumer recycled material still resonates in my mind. So when I was asked to preview their new showroom, I was confronted with a question I had never thought of before: how does 3Form use 3Form in their interiors?

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It had been five minutes and still I could hardly breathe. The Alps were right there, outside the airplane’s windows and they were spectacular. When I finally resumed breathing—the turbulence also played a role in my bated breath—it occurred to me that here we were, three Americans setting siege upon Italy in hopes of staking some claim in the Mecca of Design. And like Hannibal, the African General, before us who crossed these same mountains, we hoped our journey would prove fruitful.

The pace of Milan is Southern, to say the least. People move fastest when they’re trying to make it to the head of the queue to place an order for lunch or espresso. Ladies walk their dogs—often times neglecting to scoop the poop—at a leisurely pace, even the wind seems to turn corners with care. It was Milan for certain, but it felt like home, after being gone for a while.

Upon arriving we dropped our luggage at our hotel in the Navigli District, a quaint little area with a hip/underground vibe, and with no time to rest, descended into the Milan metro. Everything shined with an awe-striking glow; reality hadn’t quite set in: We were really on our way to stake our claim as bona-fide Designers, at the Salone Satelllite. Read more…

Suzan Tillotson’s lighting design at the Lincoln Center, New York. Photo courtesy Suzan Tillotson Associates.

The work of lighting designer Suzan Tillotson is no doubt quite familiar to Metropolis readers. She collaborated with Rem Koolhaas, Josh Prince-Ramis, Petra Blaisse and the designers of OMA on the now seminal Seattle Central Library. She worked with Diller Scofidio + Renfro on the School of American Ballet, at Lincoln Center, and teamed with SANNA on the New Museum of Contemporary Art, in New York. Recently Barbara Eldredge spoke to her for our Leading Luminaries story. An edited version of their conversation follows. –Martin C. Pedersen

A while back Metropolis identified day lighting as the next big thing in the field. What is today’s next big thing?

It’s definitely LEDs and organic LEDs. I’ve just seen some promising lighting packages. Really small assemblies, with low wattage that can flood a whole ceiling with light.

Tell me a little more about organic LEDs.

I saw the first usable one at Light Fair in Philly last spring and to be honest with you I’ve been trying to use it ever since. It’s very difficult because I haven’t been able to get it on a job. The photometry has been slow. We’ve got it now, but we’re waiting for pricing. It’s not cost effective yet. It’s more expensive than the typical LED but it’s has a lot of promise.

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About seven years ago James Benya, the Portland, Oregon-based lighting designer, introduced us to daylighting. Much to his chagrin, daylighting subsequently became one of the most popular and most commonly misapplied green building strategies. When we decided to interview leading lighting designers for our Leading Luminaries story, we knew the outspoken Benya would be one of our subjects. An edited version of his conversation with Derrick Mead follows.
–Martin C. Pedersen

About five years ago, you helped us identify daylighting as the next big thing in the field. What’s happening now?

More and more, we’re seeing every project come in with LEED aspirations. People are looking into daylighting. I got a call yesterday from a professor at the University of Texas Austin School of Architecture, who wanted me to give him a serious set of daylighting examples. I said, “OK, but you’ve got to understand, I’m not going to give you bad examples that have been spun into good ones. I’m going to give you projects that are simple, work fine, but may not be glamorous.” People in architecture and engineering tend to over glamorize projects, because of their aesthetics, and sweep the concerns surrounding energy efficiency and daylighting under the rug. I said, “These are genuine projects, but you’re not necessarily going to see a lot of them published. They’re everyday jobs.” We’re not going to fix energy problems in the world by turning edifice projects green with a whole of money and greenwashing. It’s going to be the other 10,000 projects where we’re going to make the biggest difference.

You’ve been critical of a lot high profile projects that have used daylighting. Why?

Because you’ve got to get the window-to-wall ratio down to a practical percentage. Take the New York Times Building. Here’s an overglazed building, where it’s very difficult for people to work near the windows, because there’s so much light. In order to control it, they had to put in shades, which defeats the purpose of the daylight. The Aria hotel, in Las Vegas, has an almost 100% window-wall ratio, with many of the facades facing the sun. And that’s in the desert! Not a good idea. Of course they employed fritting and other technologies to reduce the impact, but the fact of the matter is you can’t have that much glass without having thermal gain problems. You can underglaze a building, in which case not much happens. It’s an insulated box. But you can overglaze a building, so any savings you achieve by turning off lights are more than eaten up by the solar gain. There is a balance or plateau in most projects, where you can make tradeoffs. But that plateau has a rather limited range. It’s between 25 and 40 percent window-to-wall ratio. At 25 percent you get less daylight but better insulation; at 40 percent you get more daylight but less insulation. They’re both reasonable tradeoffs. You go to a 100% window to wall ratio, and you’re in trouble. That message doesn’t really get out. We’ve got to encourage the community to seek that technical balance. You must design buildings from the ground up with that balance being part of the thinking. It can’t be something that someone tries to fix or fit into the project after the architecture is determined. The New York Times building is a great example, I think, where specific architecture was determined, and they brought in a daylighting expert to try to make it work. In that regard, it’s not a very good building.

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For our Leading Luminaries story, Barbara Eldredge and Derrick Mead interviewed eight of our top lighting designers. To create the article that appeared in our December issue, we pulled together all of their interviews and edited them into a group conversation. I think it represents a kind of state-of-the-union for the discipline. The following is an edited version of Eldredge’s lively conversation with Hervé Descottes, the founder of L’Observatoire International. –Martin C. Pedersen

About five years ago, we identified day lighting as the next big thing in the field. So what’ today’s next big thing?

It’s LESS. (laughs)

Less?

Less is definitely a lot more.

What do you mean?

Less color, less uniformity. Be more customized. It’s about precision. I think lighting hasn’t been very precise. It’s been a lot about quantity and light level and making lots of surfaces of light and using the technology at the maximum of the extravagance of the technology.

So it’s about subtlety and form?

Yes. And it’s about time! It’s about time the lighting designer gets the place they deserve.

Do you think that lighting designers have been under-acclaimed?

No. Over-acclaimed.

You think so?

Absolutely. I think every lighting designer thinks they are much more important than they are. Many lighting designers think they’re the architects. I think its good with this recession that everyone is little bit more appropriate in their roles. Design is a team sport. Everybody has an important role. And I think for a long time lighting designers got so excited by this technology construct that they give themselves a little bit more importance than they really were in the course of the project. Lighting is important, but so is subtlety, refinement , and respect for the architecture . Thinking that we’re artists when we’re only lighting designers is not important.

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