The Influence and Importance of the Built Environment

Abstract

When it’s hot, we find a shady tree to sit under; when it’s cold, we find a windbreak and build a fire; and if there’s danger, we find a safe protected place. This is what people have always done; we’re just a little more sophisticated in the twenty-first century. It’s still about function and amenity of the shelter: function – the requirements of utility and economy, efficiency in construction of a serviceable building for the needs of production and profit. Architecture is the consequence of human interactions and lies on the realm of memory and the experienced. Architecture has the power to comfort and to inspire, and through the intimacy of places and moments lived, there is a blurred line between the built and natural environment – dream and reality – time and space. Every creative endeavour is woven from and relative to the processes that influence the way we experience the world, and mostly it’s the little unnoticeable things that create sweeping change.

Tania Dennis is the primary author of this chapter.

Tania Dennis and Keith Noble have contributed more to this chapter.

When it’s hot, we find a shady tree to sit under; when it’s cold, we find a windbreak and build a fire; and if there’s danger, we find a safe protected place. This is what people have always done; we’re just a little more sophisticated in the twenty-first century. It’s still about function and amenity of the shelter: function – the requirements of utility and economy, efficiency in construction of a serviceable building for the needs of production and profit. If function brings short-term advantage, amenity brings long-term satisfaction – how a building or a place works for its user, its current and future purpose. A building that is open-ended and changeable can more easily be repurposed or repaired after a disaster. The eye and movement through these spaces play a crucial role in our visual and tactile experience of place.

Architecture is the consequence of human interactions and lies on the realm of memory and the experienced. Architecture has the power to comfort and to inspire, and through the intimacy of places and moments lived, there is a blurred line between the built and natural environment – dream and reality – time and space. Every creative endeavour is woven from and relative to the processes that influence the way we experience the world, and mostly it’s the little unnoticeable things that create sweeping change.

1 Introduction: A Place to Call Home

Home for me is a place that I can feel comfortable, healthy and happy with the people I love, doing what we like, learning, giving, caring and sharing – a place of wellbeing, security, solace and, at times, metamorphosis. Home is private and semiprivate space – a place to sleep, eat and live. A garden. The longer people can stay in their homes, the longer they stay in their community, the greater the bonds of trust and social connection. A home is a single collective unit inside the social machine of a community. There’s the here and the now, then there’s memory and history, and it all contributes to how I understand my local and global place in the world – all are important in my daily face-to-face interactions with life, my environment and my neighbourhoods. It’s my personal space and part of who I am – not as an architect, as a person.

I was born in Darwin and raised in Katherine, and flying with my Dad to install and service generators across remote Top End communities and stations nourished my dreams and provided intimacy with life in the North Australian tropics. Through these influences, I learnt about people, place and buildings in remote and beautiful landscapes. Often hard landscapes, hard lives and stoic people; on the surface at least, until you got to know them. This time taught me enduring life lessons and to always respect the interdependence of place, experience and its people – and that the whole point of the tropics is living outside.

People in rural Australia have a sense of belonging and interdependence, and by shaping their environment, they contribute to and connect to their community. Being smaller than cities, most rural communities are cohesive and actively engaged, strengthening residents’ sense of belonging and participation. The fabric and resilience experiences of my life are bound in the connection between architecture and life and a fundamental premise of my practice – architecture is philosophy. The built environment influences the people who use and experience it just as much as they influence the environment in which it is built.

I recall, as a 7-year-old, arriving at my grandparent’s house that they had built into the cliff on the Darwin Esplanade, surrounded by shady trees and with big prop shutters to maximise air flow through the house. I remember walking down to the laundry entrance and seeing my Nana hand-washing clothes on a glass washboard. That night Cyclone Tracy changed a lot of people’s values, including mine.

2 What Is Architecture and Why Is It Important

City skylines, imposing public buildings, funky ‘Grand Design’ houses … sure, architects do that, but they can also do a whole lot more. Architecture is a process of empowerment. Architects can help us, as individuals or communities, distill the vast collective human knowledge and experience of a place to live work and play and focus it on a location or aspiration to realise a vision. Architects aren’t magicians – they’re conductors, aligning and harmonizing the skills, knowledge and expertise required to turn dreams into reality irrespective of scale, and it is as much a process of empowerment, building capacity and nurturing hope as it is about creating spaces that nurture people. Good places aren’t designed for the community; they’re designed with the community. A good architect brings people together around an idea, but not from the top – they inspire collaboration; and codesign more often enables adaptable places that can respond to change of use.

What a place looks like matters, but not in a keeping up with the Jones sense – the character, design and quality of a neighbourhood influence people’s sense of belonging in their community and contribute to social interaction and intercultural understanding. And design is not necessarily the most important element in the development of a good built environment: the folding together of practicalities needed or preferred use of public space can result in a unique design – witness the distinctive individuality of many of the world’s great multilayered cities.

Architecture can contribute positively to our overall quality of life, health and wellbeing. Through good design, buildings can inspire, grow and adapt to suit changing needs, and buildings and places should be beautiful, functional and sustainable. Architecture has a significant influence on wellbeing through shaping our individual experiences in a place, and collaboration lies at the heart of all our work. Good architecture is too complex for one person: the process of briefing, designing, constructing, operating, using and maintaining buildings has to begin with identifying and then understanding the client’s business case, strategic brief and other core project requirements; and never assume that the first thing people tell you is really what they want. So, we ask (Fig. 7.1):

Fig. 7.1

What works best for you? (Courtesy of Insideout Architects and Mark Thomson)

This conversation is not particularly easy when everyone speaks the same language and has at least some shared societal/cultural/life experience, so you’d think it would be especially difficult when there was no shared language, cultural orientation or familiarity with basic building concepts and functions and for a project in an extremely isolated and demanding physical environment, with very limited access to experienced building service providers. Not so.

3 Flying Woman Creek: Local Knowledge

Driving out to Kalkatarra with a Toyota full of Ngaanyatjarra women to check some rock hole ideas for Tjulyuru, we crossed sand dunes and occasionally stopped to burn country. We crossed the final sand dune, then a small stony rise with granite boulders strewn all over it, and the country swooped down, and you could see purple ranges in the distance. Driving down the other side of this rise, someone in the back of the Toyota called out ‘watch the creek’ and I thought okay, so where’s the creek? … BOOM! We hit the creek and flew off our seats. Ngaanyatjarra women call this creek ‘Flying Woman Creek’ because most people drive through it at a great rate of knots like I did. Local knowledge, you can’t beat it.

I’d gone to Warburton community to build a cultural and civic centre for the Shire of Ngaanyatjarraku. At 400 people, Warburton was the largest of the 11 Ngaanyatjarra communities, where 2000 Yarnangu¹ live – the traditional and uncontested owners of 3% of mainland Australia. The existing design was by a big-city architect who had never visited the lands and, I discovered, would require a budget more than twice that available. In addition, the community’s power station would require a significant upgrade if we were to build it and then turn the air-conditioning on. So when Ngaanyatjarra people asked if I could build something with the money available, I said ‘let’s try, together’ – so for the next 3 years, I was Australia’s most isolated architect.

Warburton was established by the United Aborigines Mission in 1933. People still lived wholly traditional lives till as late as the 1980s; most Elders were born in the bush; and English was very much a second language. Their experience with built forms was predominately limited to an imposed cost-effective housing system. Their answer to the question ‘what sort of house would you like’ was obviously ‘the same as everyone else’, as neither the language nor built form understanding existed to specify anything else. In fact, the whole concept of living in one place was still a novel and largely untested concept, with only two or three generations having done so compared with the hundred thousand prior generation’s experience of living with and of the land. But Ngaanyatjarra are an adaptable and adventurous mob, and they understood that a civic centre was just what they needed to better interact with the rest of the world.

The initial consultation process was slow as we learnt to work together in this cross-cultural environment. We designed not from pictures but from words, notes and models: who will be there; when will you be there; what will you do there; where will you sit; where will you eat; where does the wind come from in winter; and where is the shade in summer? Where will the kids play and who will keep an eye on them? We made boxes for places, with price tags, and Ngaanyatjarra people went shopping, arranging various layouts of their building, gardens and courtyards until they got something that worked for everyone.

While we were codesigning Ngaanyatjarra Tjulyuru, we also worked out how Ngaanyatjarra people wanted to run the place and manage tourism in the lands. We drove to rock holes, reera ² and gorges where we dug for tirnka ³ and yirlirltu ⁴ and talked about what was special about those places, when was a good time to visit them, how the colours changed with time of day and seasons and discrete connection to country. And I discovered Flying Woman Creek. Because I wore trousers and kept my hair short, I was considered a somewhat androgynous being, so I could talk to the women and men. I was neutral. Not that we needed any of that secret stuff – just an understanding of how people liked to live their life on a day-to-day basis. And what was important to them.

This Ngaanyatjarra space, Tjulyuru, is one in which the sacred and temporal are fused, and this amalgamation is the underlying concept for both the built form and its landscape. The architectural form of the building and its extension into surrounding places through the landscape has many references to Ngaanyatjarra culture and society, and the site itself is a significant cultural location, but I didn’t need to know the details. The secret stuff, well that was mostly kept quiet, though there are discrete references through landscapes and vistas for the people who knew where to look.

Construction in one of the most remote locations in Australia was not easy. There are a lot of people to manage in a project, and there are a lot of people behind a good building. Working alongside people in remote areas to deliver their dream does take a certain kind of tenaciousness and passion. It doesn’t matter who or what you are, you have to love what you do. A mix of Ngaanyatjarra and outside contractors were employed and considerable logistic hurdles and cultural issues addressed. The project was completed within budget and 9 weeks early. The result is a well-considered living architecture, bridging non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal culture. The Tjulyuru Cultural and Civic Centre is the home and exhibition space for the nationally recognised Warburton Art Collection, some 300 paintings and architectural art glass. This is the most substantial collection of Aboriginal art in the country still under the direct ownership and control of Aboriginal people. The community’s desire to retain this fundamental cultural material was central to the project.

Tjulyuru has a big internal courtyard with rock holes, ground patterns, trees, places for fire, sitting and talk or cooking quandong pies (or Fray Bentos^® Steak & Kidney pies), wattle seed damper, working on paintings or making artefacts. It is woven into Ngaanyatjarra people’s front yard along the Great Central Road, which links Perth to Cairns via Uluru. The Centre is a container of aspects of Ngaanyatjarra (this/separate/people) and will immerse people in a significant mutual space where they can have an immediate and compelling experience of Ngaanyatjarra culture and society. In 2000, it was awarded the Northern Territory’s most prestigious Architectural Award, the Tracy Memorial Award, along with the Commercial Award and the Environment Award for energy-efficient design. But more important than these awards was a Ngaanyatjarra woman saying to me, ‘Thank you for listening to us and doing things the right way’ (Figs. 7.2 and 7.3).

Fig. 7.2

Tjulyuru courtyard. (Photo by Tania Dennis, courtesy Insideout Architects)

Fig. 7.3

In Tjulyuru Gallery with Lalla West and Tania Dennis. (Photo by Tania Dennis, courtesy Insideout Architects)

Vignette 7.1: Tjulyuru

FAR from Australia’s great cities, like a gleaming secret unknown and unseen by outsiders, lies the nation’s deepest, most coherent and focused collection of desert Aboriginal art. On public view for the first time over the next 2 months at the Tjulyuru Regional Arts Gallery in the remote heart of the Victoria Desert, these key works from the Warburton Collection complete our map of Western Desert painting.

New ways of portraying the desert are on offer here and they require new forms of appreciation and response … What was clear at once, though – from the colours, from the subjects – was that this art had not been conceived for outside consumption. The colours hung together in striking, unfamiliar fashion; there were paintings that, to Western eyes, seemed ridiculously full of water snakes.

The Warburton Collection is the nation’s largest private assemblage of desert art collected and retained in indigenous hands. It has a distinct role, as an underpinning of traditional Ngaanyatjarra society. But what part could it play in the modern life of the desert? Could it be a bridge to the wider world?

The shimmering circles and the wavy, mirage-like lines of the canvases hang mute on the Tjulyuru Gallery’s walls, like so many echoes of the desert landscape stretching away through the windows outside. They mirror, of course, the country: it gives them their power, and they take their force from its austere, receding splendour. A visit to the gallery, in fact, is enough to set a disturbing thought in mind: out here amid the rangelands of the Gibson Desert, desert art seems to gain a dimension, the depth of place. City galleries and museums of Aboriginal paintings, however subtly conceived, inevitably have something in common with the great museums of Western art, so full of religious paintings stripped from their altars, offered up as mere works of beauty, shorn of spiritual charge.

• Hidden Testament

• By Nicolas Rothwell

• The Weekend Australian, 08 May 2004

4 The Classical Elements

Architecture is design for wellbeing and is about understanding how building elements can improve the health and wellbeing of its occupants, from air, water, light, materials to space planning, fit-out and gardens. These classical elements are reflected in many cultures as they provide a human context to buildings and places (see Alexander et al. (1977):

• Earth – life-giving, creator, land, connecting to and looking after country – cartographers landscapes, cities and towns – to define, explain and navigate our way through and around the world.

• Life – balancing ecological harmony, sustainability and diversity. Contributing to local biodiversity through human-inclusive biophilic design principles. Recognising and nurturing the human/nature connection and interactions, both inside and out. Transforming projects by incorporating natural shapes, forms, light, space and air and indoor gardens that improve air quality. Connection to place, climate and culture through place-based relationships that develop outside gardens, courtyards, seats and verandahs. Ecologically restorative use of local building materials that contribute to biodiversity and are compatible with the landscape.

• Water – optimum water quality and efficient use of water inside and in gardens – water for drinking, food preparation, bathing and washing. Permeable paving in courtyards or driveways that house underground water storage.

• Fire/light – maximising internal and natural daylight to minimise the need for artificial lighting benefits natural body rhythms. Orientation and opening arrangements to optimise light, views and connection to nature.

• Air/wind – cool fresh air through good ventilation principles. Openings that capture prevailing breeze and use of non-toxic locally sourced materials wherever possible.

• Aether/sky – inspiring places that enrich our lives and experiences – a canvas for creativity and happiness. Spaces that create atmosphere and theatre in the building

Then, by looking at a building’s context you can innovatively design for adaptability and longevity – places that are loose are more likely to adapt or expand to suit evolving needs within lifetimes and across lifetimes. Designing and building for wellbeing means including places to discover, learn, research, be active in, get connected, give and explore and don’t necessarily cost a lot of money. It’s remembering to connect and to think beyond today (Fig. 7.4).

Fig. 7.4

Different. (Courtesy of Insideout Architects and Mark Thomson)

• People: connect with people – provide places to gather, share a meal or a conversation – bright green leafy verandahs and shady sheltered courtyards. Get together with friends and family and share a meal under the sky. A relaxed tropical lifestyle, with balance in work, life and play.

• Self: breathe – be active – keep yourself nice. Keep your place nice. Provide accessible buildings with universal equitable access.

• Place: innovate, and create connection with the bigger community; reflect our role and connection. Livable connections with interwoven private and public space. Shared places, internal and external, for living. Positive environmental and health outcomes through the architecture. Convenient. Spacious. Pause. Reflect. Serene. Lively.

• Mind: keep learning; listen. Strengthen community. Seek out and respect local knowledge. Multicultural heritage. Memory. Diversity. Opportunity. Adapt. Grow.

• Spirit: meet, give, let life flow. Embrace local culture and art. Seek out places to share and listen, spaces where people can feel at ease and retreat from their daily stresses to regenerate and nurture their spirit and connections with nature.

• Landscape: we live in landscapes – with aesthetics and connectivity to other immediate and wider landscapes – care and balance of urban with green – about your home and yard, and extend this into your community. Nature supports human wellbeing and people support nature in a mutually beneficial way. Use locally sourced natural materials. Create imaginative inspiring outdoor learning places. Using local skills, knowledge and talent brings together people who appreciate and value a healthy life and provides awareness of the importance of conservation for our own wellbeing and that of the planet.

Vignette 7.2: Lightning Through the Floorboards

Tropical Cyclones don’t travel in straight lines, they change course; just like life.

December 24, 1974: On our drive from Katherine to Darwin there was a loud BEEP, BEEP, BEEP out of the Land Rover radio … ‘Be quiet you kids so we can listen to this’…

• ‘PRIORITY! CYCLONE WARNING!’

… we were listening to something nobody wants to hear… ‘SEVERE TROPICAL CYCLONE TRACY IS CENTRED 80KM WEST-NORTHWEST OF DARWIN AND MOVING SOUTH-EAST AT 7 KILOMETRES PER HOUR. THE CENTRE IS EXPECTED TO BE NEAR’.

… Dad said ‘It looks like we’re in for a blow’. We continued to drive – to see our relatives and my grandmother in her 1920s prop-shutter house on top of the Darwin Esplanade cliff face, overlooking the Arafura Sea. We were kids, and it was Christmas.

MIDNIGHT CST. 24 DECEMBER 1974: By now we could barely hear the warnings over the wind and waves lashing the cliff below my Grandmother’s house. We were downstairs now – my Pappoús had dug the house into the sloping ground at the top of the cliff, so it felt like we were sheltering in a bunker, my Nana saying ‘This house has been through the bombing [of Darwin during World War 2] and survived many cyclones – take the children upstairs so they can sleep my dear’ and Dad saying ‘they can’t, the roof has gone’ – Nana not believing until she saw the lightning through the floorboards.

5 Other Elements

The catastrophic experience of Tropical Cyclone Tracy in 1974 introduced me to the temporal nature of architecture and has been with me ever since – the need to have structures that are comfortable and durable – and of the people and their place. Initial response to this destruction was ‘an over-reaction to the cyclone and climatically inappropriate. Architects just didn’t seem to be looking at their own local building traditions. They were ignoring an entire heritage of Top End architecture’ (Goad 2005) (Fig. 7.5).

Fig. 7.5

Early Darwin living – light-weight and tropical. (Photo by Jessie Litchfield, courtesy the Tania Dennis Collection)

Cyclone Tracy blew Darwin away and changed a lot of people’s values, including mine. People mattered, and material things didn’t. Tracy was a real leveller because everyone who survived was in the same boat. Some people made a fresh start, while others left and never returned. Darwin community worked as a collective to transcend destruction and rebuild a different Darwin. Darwin society changed and so did people’s dream homes. The chaotic disorder created by a natural disaster introduced a new imposed order on Darwin – the desire for resilience. The concrete box design mentality took over – a concrete esky ⁵, strong and durable, but a climatically impractical solution designed and built solely on the functional need for survival. Practically and culturally, the concrete esky didn’t work in the tropics; and mango madness was ripe. Though still young, I remember when Troppo Architects came to town with their ‘Green Can’ house that, just like my grandmother’s house, referenced early Darwin homes from the 1880s to 1920s and used tropical construction elements such as timber slats, woven or bamboo walls and shutters and vegetation.

So, when it came to designing a tropical open house in a cyclone region, this came naturally to me. Brooks Beach House is a strand of pavilions perched on the rim of a very steep rainforest slope some 150 m above the ocean. The house, with the fragile rainforest habitat of the critically endangered cassowary, aims to minimise environmental impacts. This tropical house combines working and living space for two professionals, with specific and contrasting physical requirements. Together with the engineer, steel shop detailer, steel fabricator and builder, we detailed a house that was climatically responsive, minimised construction time and costs, maintenance and cyclone exposure. Completed in 2003, Brooks Beach House was the only house in the area that largely withstood severe Category 5 tropical cyclones Larry (in 2006) and Yasi (in 2011) that both crossed the east coast over Brooks Beach House, while the owners sheltered inside. Although light-weight and tropical, the house was durable through honouring the ABC construction principles – anchorage, bracing and continuity (Fig. 7.6).

Fig. 7.6

Brooks Beach House, Brooks Beach Queensland, Australia – in its setting

‘As the architect works organically she was able to feed into and be challenged by the client’s wildest dreams. The result is a series of structures that are adventurous, dramatic, bright and playful. The architect by her own admission is a modernist, yet responded with vigour to the clients demand for more and more chaos. This house clearly reflects the diverse personalities of the two clients. It is about performance and narrative culminating in a dialogue that is articulated by the play of the pavilions. It is nothing short of delightful!’ Jury Statement, Australian Institute of Architects. (Photo by Mike Gillam, courtesy Insideout Architects)

Can design tinker⁶ with the social architecture of our minds? A diverse range of flexible housing forms ensure places can accommodate people from different backgrounds, and they can expand or modify the composition of their home as their needs change. Common spaces foster healthy interactions among people with different interests. Private to public – verandahs and gardens – social spaces create a clear though gentle transition between private and public realms. Strong social connections can emerge when people have opportunities for unscheduled interactions with neighbours, knowing they have somewhere to retreat if the mood takes them, maintaining their agency by providing personal territory, safety and satisfaction.

Disasters like tropical cyclones can shake our communities into better places ‘destroying a community’s past mistakes to make a community more livable and healthy … an opportunity to build it better’ (Donovan 2013). Disaster engages an ethnically and socio-economically diverse community and can bring them together. Shocks or disasters can shake us out of our habitual reserve, and people from other communities come to help and support those in need, and everyone learns from the experience. We share responsibilities, resources and activities that give flexibility and support to one another during post-cyclone clean-ups. We realise we are not alone and that there is genuine good in people and communities.

Outside the context of disaster, can we change our communities using the knowledge of these experiences? Strangers working together – strong social connections emerge when people work or play on tasks or causes bigger than themselves, e.g., social and sporting clubs and community gardens. Such strategies enable communities to meet a range of interests and needs, and the interaction of people of different ages, ethnicities, income levels and household sizes develops social opportunities and multigenerational support.

Local knowledge – local community-based knowledge – is vital post-disaster, when locals guide disaster workers as they identify vulnerable homes and public spaces suitable as temporary service centres, negotiate or preserve cultural complexities and appropriately manage natural environment systems⁷. This is where, as a community, we get back to the specifics of place and approach design using local knowledge and an insider understanding of how things work based on local experience, rather than on untested theory or the experience from elsewhere. Increasingly, designers are aware of the importance of local knowledge as a dimension of healthy community life and maintaining it. Maintenance of local knowledge comes from informal social interaction through public spaces where people can learn about each other and share their knowledge. Local knowledge is fostered by publicness – by people connecting with each other in face-to-face interactions because they’re visible.

As architects, we learn from natural disasters. Darwin’s post-Tracy aesthetic opened designers to a tropical model of design with permeable walls, connection to the outdoors and passive coolness; or did the cyclone shake off an imposed non-regional mindset to rediscover traditional resilient design and construction techniques used in disaster-prone regions around the world – similar methods because they work? If we accept that climate change and natural disasters are going to happen, and if we live with and work with them, they are less likely to scare us into inappropriate responses when they do occur.

Vignette 7.3: Shed (Shared) Living

When they arrived, they found the tent had been pitched under the shade of a huge kurrajong tree. It was still growing green and strong in front of the new homestead, standing out proudly among the poincianas and oleanders and frangipani and all the other Johnny-come-lately foreign trees about it. She could remember lying on her back on the short thick grass in front of the tent and looking up into the dense canopy of leaves above her and seeing a tiny red-backed wren peeping at her round a twig. His little head was cocked sideways and his perky spike of a tail jerked energetically. She pretended he was beckoning her into his house and she was suddenly happy and at home.

It had not been much of a home, by city standards; only the most primitive of accommodation. A couple of tents and a bough shed under the trees, then after a year, a single roomed hut with paperbark roof and adobe walls. As time went on, tin had replaced the bark on the roof, and two verandahs had been added and a little kitchen annex with its huge stone fireplace. The present homestead, was comparatively recent. They used the old house as a barn now, and sometimes Sonny would stand there among the feed bins and the great racks of stored grain, and remember where the kitchen table had stood up against the east wall, and how the little fat geckoes had come out of the cracks in the adobe and scuttled over the table at night after the insects that fell around the light. (They fell onto the table off the ceiling in the new house – once one had landed in the soup with a tremendous splash!)

Mum and Dad had slept over against the west wall, and every time it rained a single drip would land right on Dad’s head. He had spent hours looking for that leak, but he could never find it. Still, they had to have the nets up in the wet, and Mum just put a dish in the right place on top of the net, so that took care of the drip. She could still hear the small musical ‘plink…plonk’ as the water dropped slowly into the tin dish.

• Wallaby Man by Helen Litchfield (2012) – an extract from her unpublished manuscript describing her 1920s home on the Roper River.

6 A Sense of Place

The tea things were put out on the small cane table on the north verandah, and everyone just helped themselves and sat wherever they pleased. There were a couple of squatters chairs and a couple of home-made easy chairs of unique design, their shape dictated by the curve of the tree from which they had been built. They were wide, deep and comfortable, and so large that Sonny practically disappeared from sight in them – exactly what she wanted to do today. (Litchfield 2012)

People feel a stronger sense of comfort and attachment to places that reflect their culture, values and sense of self. Local aesthetics reflecting local identities increase satisfaction and support social wellbeing by allowing self-expression and individuation. Collective values can be nurtured by providing spaces for people to share ideas, work on new projects and support each other. Spaces for cocreation and self-expression help define a collective identity in a place, and people are more likely to talk to one another while they’re cocreating. Working together is a powerful generator of social trust and happiness – learning by doing, design in the real world, looking to the future, building, testing, refining – reframing architectural research and construction design language redefines community values and commitment to make things work. Good design is for the whole of society, not a single client, and good codesign feels like a gift. When a community participates in the planning and design process, social relationships are strengthened, and trust grows between all players.

People are happier in their homes when they have a visual window connecting them to nature. Gardens promote physical and mental wellbeing, and green space is one of the strongest correlates of health and happiness. When people enjoy direct contact with nature, they are more likely to appreciate their environment and engage in sustainable living, and controllable natural light increases satisfaction and comfort; and when people are comfortable, they are more likely to engage with others.

Spaces and places have memory – physical artefacts help us remember things. Every time I go back to Darwin, I remember Tracy and build on my knowledge of what happened in the past. The destruction of Darwin removed the collective memory of Darwin’s people who chose to rebuild it again – architectural behavioural shapers, environmental determinism – driving positive change through the power of design, the human response to environment.

There is a difference between a building triggering a physiological response and architecture changing behaviour. We are products of our choices more than of our environment. People make places, and as we become an increasingly global connected society, it’s important to resist becoming international and anonymous. Homes and cities are behavioural devices – their shapes and systems alter how we feel, how we see each other and how we act. This would be a terrible thought if it were not for a second truth, which is that our homes are malleable – we can change it whenever we wish. We can redesign our homes, our minds and our own behaviours to build a life that is easier on the planet, more convivial, more fair, more fun and more happy. When people travel, they are open to new ideas, new tastes and new experience. People leave home to see things and are intrigued by and drawn to places different from their own – to experience someone else’s sense of place. And we like to bring home a souvenir, a little something to remember it by – a tea towel or a change to our home inspired by something seen or experienced, which brings us to the Ghunmarn Cultural Precinct in Wugularr community, 100 km east of Katherine, where cultural tourism is helping drive regeneration and growth.

7 The Space Between Is a Collaboration Machine

The space between buildings invites occupation and resonates with a community – it is flexible and connects places and people. Djakanimba Pavilions: cheeky, vibrant, harmonious, and as inclusive as the senior man they’re named after, Victor Hood. They are adaptable, modular, cool, light, local, theatrical and fun. But it is the space between the pavilions where crowds gather to dance, share, celebrate and recover. As part of the Ghunmarn Cultural Precinct, these prefabricated pavilions bring new possibilities to Wugularr⁸ (Beswick) community. Prefab construction used here as a kit-of-parts for the Djakanimba Pavilions is a typological alternative that resolves the most complicated situations and programmes – like fold-up (and fold-down) refuge for inveterate travellers, itinerant exhibition space, training places (Fig. 7.7).

Fig. 7.7

Djakanimba Pavilions during the moon rise, Wugularr, Northern Territory

‘Winner of the inaugural Nicholas Murcutt Award for Small Project Architecture, Djakanimba Pavilions took a modest budget and created an adaptable cultural space that is helping to drive regeneration and growth to the local Indigenous community of Beswick. These projects offer a legacy of positive urban spaces, connections and approaches that will influence how their cities function and are perceive’ AIA national jury chair, Shelley Penn. (Photo by Peter Eve, courtesy Insideout Architects)

Walking with Spirits Festival is the showcase event for the Ghunmarn Culture Precinct. Held annually on Jawoyn country, the event maximises local indigenous participation and facilitates opportunities for artistic development and exchange on a local, national and international basis. Djakanimba Pavilions provide flexible kitchen, accommodation, gallery and workshop space. When you visit Djakanimba Pavilions, you support an indigenous enterprise that facilitates remote art, performance, cultural continuity and exchange, training and employment; and perhaps that useful souvenir could be seeing the in-between spaces with new eyes (Fig. 7.8).

Fig. 7.8

Jupiter, Djilpin Arts. (Photo by Peter Eve, Courtesy Insideout Architects)

‘When we dance and our feet hit the ground, they listen – they go “ohhh that song’s still going”. it’s a deep connection of our families in the land. Not on the land – in the land. It’s beautiful isn’t it?’ (Balang (The late Balang Tom. E. Lewis, Djilpin Arts Cultural Director and Traditional Owner), describing Jupiter)

They’re not unused spaces, they’re fluid and used spaces – a renaissance of change, creating places for exchange. They shape our environments into more nurturing, equal and diverse places. You might also see the politics of space and place – who is allowed to use what, and who has the right to what, and what it is that makes somewhere a good place to be. Often unwritten, seeing and respecting these cultural nuances demonstrate respect for other people and their ways which, when respected, lead to acceptance of outsiders into a group. The space between is layered and unusual; and this mix of space, activity, atmosphere, materials, light, warmth, people, shared stories and connection needs deliberate consideration. It enables social cohesion. It’s good public space.

Working alongside the Djilpin Arts Crew, outside contractors and local Wugularr builders, Insideout Architects have created an inspiring and joyful setting for the continuing regeneration of the Wugularr community, healing a community and creating a future. As a regional woman in the construction industry, it also makes me happy and inspired to work with other regional North Australian people and their communities to deliver exceptional outcomes. It is also about getting local women involved in construction – the women I’ve worked with bring a different perspective to the industry – the exchange of experiences, ways of doing things, care and personal or cultural insights and provides tangible improvement of on-site work culture and respect.

8 Will Happiness Find Us in This Place?

We transform our lives through planning for a place. Developing clear social objectives to manage and implement change in the places we live is as much a part of the design process as it is the end product. Human interventions build connections, and the intersection between human happiness and urban design is social connection. People who are socially connected are more resilient, and they are more productive at work. Wellbeing is different for everyone and is based on relationships, something that happens with people in place. Some of these relationships are physical and ecological, such as access to healthy food and connection to nature; others are social and psychological, such as being part of a community and having positive emotions. Wellbeing depends as much on what happened yesterday as it does on what is happening in the moment or could happen in the future. We like spaces that flirt with us – the mystery, the disruption of accepted thought – vernacular structures and settlements to create something suited to human needs. Give people the tools to cocreate their own places and they feel a greater sense of pride, so look outwards and drive innovation through problem-finding rather than just problem-solving. Enable local job creation and employment; support business or enterprise development opportunities.

9 Conclusion

The design process anchors buildings like Tjulyuru to their realities of place and ensures what is built is what was conceived with Ngaanyatjarra people. Tjulyuru was a bicultural group process and collaboration that extended beyond the job site and included the whole of the Ngaanyatjarra Lands and its 2000 Yarnangu ⁹. This inclusive process produced a place that provides Yarnangu with an opportunity to promote, share, maintain and continue to grow their culture. The key principle is that Tjulyuru was designed with, not designed for Yarnangu. Good architecture should never be about the architect’s ego. It’s about being ‘hands on’, working and learning from each other, so in the end you ‘just do it!’

Architecture is a bridge between theory and practice, and practitioners need to be conscious of their ability to speak, or at the very least understand, the local language; and use this understanding to explore the relationships between practice and place. So, ask people what kind of community/town/city/society they want – greener, slower, cooperative, fairer … And don’t be too driven by cost, because often what costs more initially delivers real long-term savings¹⁰, and a long-term perspective is central to sustainable design. The way we design our city systems, places and spaces has a strong effect on how we regard other people. Conviviality makes people think more altruistically and more collaboratively. Climate change demands ecologically restorative cooperation, and a connected and inclusive society will come up with solutions.

Resilience in design is much more than the buildings, it is about social value. In ancient Greek, the word krisis means decision, required when things come to a head and could no longer be avoided. That ancient spirit is what resilience should aim to recover – the most valuable craft of metamorphic reconfiguration. Today, we often hear architects and engineers being challenged to produce work that is sustainable and resilient but, analytically, ‘sustainable’ and ‘resilient’ part company in this sort of remediation. You don’t want the one party or faction to be sustainable in the sense of enduring and time-proof; you do want the system to be resilient, springing back from inadequacies or incapacities in any one part.

Calmly decide what to do when faced with a crisis – and don’t let hysteria or terror drive you. We need to demand from our designers and developers that they take into account the emotional effect of what they do if we are to achieve healthier, prosperous and resilient communities that draw us together and bring out our best. And we need to demand that they design with us. We all need a moral code.