September 15, 2016 § 1 Comment
This is pretty unbelievable, but multiple sources report that San Francisco’s Millennium Tower, finished in 2009 and at 58 stories the tallest residential tower in the city, is experiencing potentially grave problems with settlement–the building as a whole has settled more than 10 inches farther into its site than originally calculated, and it’s done so unevenly, so much so that the tower now has a supposedly noticeable lean.
The problems with settlement were first reported a few weeks ago, but the national media (and several friends, family, and SCI-TECH alumni) have now caught wind of the problem and it’s making headlines for the potentially explosive political consequences, if in fact the owners received an overly generous assessment from the city. Inspectors were aware of the problems as early as August, 2009, according to some reports, but approved the building anyway.
Politics aside, any building that tall that leans that much is going to attract attention, especially mine. So what’s up? (Disclaimer–all of the following is pure speculation, researched lightly with whatever’s available on line. Take with a grain of salt).
The New York Times yesterday had a particularly misleading take on this, one that SCI-TECH alums should be able to parse out pretty easily:
Mark Garay, one of the lawyers for the apartment owners, says it is too early to pinpoint the precise causes for the building sinking, but that it had already begun significantly before work on the transport terminal started.
“What we do know is that the foundation of this building does not go into bedrock,” he said. “It’s all landfill. It used to be part of the bay.”
That sounds terrifying. After all, shallow foundations on landfill were major factors in the collapse of several much smaller building in the Marina District in the 1989 earthquake. As the earth shook, the soil under the water table liquified (exactly like shaking up a french press full of settled coffee grounds), setting the buildings above afloat.
Garay’s quote makes it sound like Millennium Tower is a big version of the same problem. The excavation for the tower goes 75 feet underground, but bedrock in SOMA is more than 200′ below ground level. The basement is tanked to prevent water infiltration, so there’s a displacement force, but nothing close to the weight of the tower above.
But Garay’s quote doesn’t address the actual system in use here. Millennium Tower’s designers relied on an old-school foundation technique, friction piles, to support the weight of the tower (there’s also a 12-story mid-rise and a three-story connector…more on those shortly). Friction piles work by surface resistance with surrounding fluid soil. Imagine driving a broomstick into beach sand–you can only go so far before there’s enough broomstick in contact with the sand to put up fearsome resistance. This has always been a standard technique for building in liquid soil, and it’s why coastal construction always comes with the dulcet tones of a pile driver. Chicago builders used these to support the dozens of grain elevators that used to line the River, and Dankmar Adler was on record as wondering why building engineers didn’t use friction piles when designing skyscrapers–a foreshadowing of his eventual development of caissons for architectural applications.
According to a case study by the Concrete Reinforcing Steel Institute, Millennium Tower’s core is supported by 950 square piles, each of them 14″ x 14″. The loads from the surrounding building are apparently transferred to these piles, in part, by a 10-foot deep pile cap (with, CRSI, notes a fair dose of “vertical shear reinforcing.” No kidding.) The number of piles, the case study notes, was “governed by gravity design” and not “overturning due to earthquake.”
So that’s the section, at least as I understand it (happy to be corrected by anyone who knows more). This looks like it could be a classic vertical vs. rotational equilibrium problem. If you remember your elementary beam statics, we’re worried about structure moving through space (usually the problem is down) and providing enough resistance to prevent its translational movement. But we’re also worried about things rotating (beams in particular, but bear with me). Rotational equilibrium means providing enough resisting leverage to keep elements from spinning around one point or another. Where that resistance goes is critical–the larger the lever arm, the better able a support is able to push back and resist an unbalanced load. While the piles under Millennium Tower are designed to resist the translational load of the tower against gravity, they’re not in the most efficient place to resist rotation. So the lean could have something to do with this.
The larger-than-expected settlement in general–something like 15″ vs. an expected 5″–may not be that big a problem. Buildings in poor soil settle more or less than expected all the time, and the Chicago experience shows that guessing how much a fluid soil will compress is at best an art more than a science. There’s discussion of adjacent construction at the Transbay Terminal that may have exacerbated the gradual movement of the building down through the soil.
It’s the uneven settlement that’s more worrying. The lean itself isn’t such a big deal–the Fisher Building in Chicago leans a good 6-8″ out over the street, and has done for 120 years now–but the small changes to the building’s structural geometry could have all sorts off serviceability issues, from doors that won’t fully close because their frames are racked to pens that roll across the floor when they’re dropped. If one segment of the building is settling more than another, that can also put unanticipated stress on structural connections.
What happens in an earthquake? That’s a bigger question. Friction pile foundations can have problems with horizontal shear in large seismic events as the momentum of the building above works out of phase with the movement of the liquid soil below, but assuming they’re designed for this force they present a pretty solid keel for a tall building that suddenly finds itself afloat, and the resistance of the 950 piles will theoretically prevent the building from moving or rotating laterally. No building on the planet is “earthquake proof,” but a slight lean doesn’t necessarily make the building any more vulnerable.
What’s to be done? All kinds of possibilities. Adding piles under whatever part is experiencing greater settlement is one. Soil remediation with concrete is another, but unlikely given the surrounding soil. It’s possible that doing nothing is the best option–as long as the settlement is slow it may be that the building is entirely habitable for generations before things get too far out of hand.
But my favorite solution is the one finally employed in 1907 at the Fisher Building. The owners bought the lot to the immediate north of the leaning tower and constructed a slightly taller, heaver structure there, rigidly connected to the existing building’s steel frame. The new structure is tiny, but it balances out the lean of the older structure and literally helps to keep it upright. Sort of like the designated driver (left, below) walking a drunk friend (right, below) home from a late night…
September 6, 2016 § Leave a comment
Some longtime readers may recall a particularly successful run of option studios at ISU several years ago that combined Interior Design and Architecture students on teams that produced award-winning schemes for high rise hotels in Chicago (when I taught it) and Miami Beach, when it was taught by Jason Alread. After a fortunate elevator conversation in June with our Interior Design chair, Lee Cagley, the two of us decided to revive theidea in the Fall, when I actually teach studio, and to re-cast it as an Integrated Design studio–full of technical requirements like structure, wind bracing, exiting stairs, and climate response, but still exciting, design-wise. Lee had planned to do an ecologically-themed resort in Panama City this fall, and we used that as the basis for a hotel program on a site in Amador, formerly one of several US military installations around the Pacific end of the canal. We had a great response from students in both disciplines, and we’re just finishing up four days of site visits, precedent studies, and empanadas consumption in Panama City.
Lee orchestrated a great trip, one that started with a morning at the Miraflores Locks, where an eight-story visitors center gives you a stadium seating view of the daily ballet of ships inching through locks that are at most a meter or so wider than they are. The scale of the operation is literally unbelievable, and the fact that the locks themselves are a century old makes them that much more impressive (built, let’s remember, by many of the same people and machines that built the Sanitary and Ship Canal outside of Chicago…)
We stayed in university dorms right across the road from the locks, so this was a daily drama. But the competing drama, even just a couple of miles outside Panama City, was the rainforest that occupies every available square inch of this part of the world. And Lee made sure we saw plenty of that, too. An aerial tram and tower at Gamboa was a good introduction, but a more informal–and much more immersive–chance to see Panama’s biodiversity in action came in the form of a drenching morning at Canopy Tower, a defunct and lightly re-occupied radar tower a few miles inland. A couple of hours atop that, and walking through the dense, stratified forest, was a really intense blast of what the climate and land here are capable of, and the forces that are very obviously taking back whatever we’ve borrowed from them. Every road we drove on outside of the city was edged in an impatient tangle of vines, grasses, and trees, reminding you that everything we’ve built here is temporary–even that big slice through the Isthmus.
So that is kind of the theme for the fall–can you create an environment that lets guests have a real connection to the power and beauty of the natural forces at work in this place while also fitting in to a city that is seeing phenomenal growth, that is connected to the whole world through its unique infrastructure and its financial industry, and that respects the complicated natural and political history of this place?
We’ll see, but this seems like a fearless, clever group, and we have lucked into a site that seems to embody all of these contradictions. The Amador Peninsula was one of the most strategic points at the mouth of the canal, and its redevelopment into a convnention and entertainment center comes with all kinds of tough questions about how your remediate land that was aggressively clear cut, and then poisoned by a fuel tank farm.
One answer is to gloss over all of that with something shiny, and one of the really good debates we’ve had is over Frank Gehry’s Biomuseo, a museum of Panama’s natural history that is about half a mile down the peninsula from our site. It has a relentlessly upbeat message–this place is special, and we can do a better job of conserving it–but the building itself, designed to mimic a rainforest canopy with concrete and sheet metal “trees,” is a powder-coated monument to profligate embodied energy. Couldn’t you “raise awareness” (always a signature cop out line) by making your building an analogue of natural processes instead of a metaphorical nod to its mere forms?
I know, show don’t tell, coach don’t preach. But the more I see it (and, FBOW, you can see the damn thing everywhere in Panama City)’ the more this latest Gehry’s crumpled hut strikes me as a dramatic ethical failing and a missed opportunity to do something that really with the experience of fragile relentlessness that we saw in Canopy Tower. Is it possible for human and natural habitats to support one another in ways that are also rich with experience and connections? Good questions to ask, especially over covina alla plancha at Mer e Terra, the official fish shack of Arch 403/603 & ID 668, Fall, 2016.
August 26, 2016 § Leave a comment
Amazing who qualifies as an expert these days, but IA Houston Managing Director (and college classmate) Russ Manthy invited me to talk on their regular company podcast about how we teach designers of all stripes. A good chance to get a bit meta on what it is we do and why….
August 21, 2016 § 6 Comments
Circle of life…summer’s end, new grad students in town, and I’m on both ends of the new student orientation week this year. Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end, and all that.
The big excitement for me this fall will be the re-birth (see what I did there?) of Architecture 423, our department’s Renaissance class. For decades, this was taught by John Maves, much loved but now well into retirement. We haven’t taught the course ever since, and last spring I’d mentioned in a meeting with our Chair that it was a shame to send students off to Rome without having some coursework beforehand that let them know what they’d be looking at. So, guess who’s teaching it now?
My qualifications are pretty much that I’ve spent a good amount of time in Rome, and that I’ve enjoyed this particular era ever since taking the awe-inspiring class at Illinois taught by Richard Betts. So I dove in over the summer and started thinking about how you might teach Renaissance from someplace that encompassed traditional, art historical methods, the history of construction position that I teach from when I include the Renaissance in Big and Tall, and a broader sense of the social, political, and economic contexts that I think are important to any era.
Along the way, I picked up and read Robert Friedel’s A Culture of Improvement, a brilliant 2007 history of technology that makes the case that Europe’s defining moment came with the realization around the Carolingian Renaissance that society could in fact elevate itself–that while the Dark Ages had been a devastating period of decline, it was possible, step by step, to build a better society, economy, etc. Friedel, interestingly, uses Abbot Suger’s reconstruction of St. Denis as a paradigmatic moment in this progressive movement, and this made me think that perhaps the course should include the broadest possible definition of “Renaissance.” So, we’re going to start with Charlemagne and see the Italian Renaissance as a middle chapter in three “rebirths:” the economic and cultural rebirth of northern France and southern England in the 11th-14th century, the Florentine and eventually Italian rebirth in the 15th-17th century, and the English and French rebirth that coincided with the Reformation and the scientific revolution in the 17th and 18th centuries. Fortunately, the class title is “Topics in Renaissance to Mid-Eighteenth Century Architecture”–I owe Prof. Maves for the all-encompassing title that’s going to allow us to see Gervase of Canterbury and Jacques-Germain Soufflot as part of a continuum of technically progressive and aesthetically critical work over the course of 800 years or so.
We start Tuesday, so I’m frantically scanning excerpts of everything from Augustine to Alberti. And in the interest of peer review, I’ll include this year’s syllabus for anyone who wants to follow/read along…
July 25, 2016 § Leave a comment
Ganter Bridge at Ried-Brig, 1977–1980. Photo © Ralph Feiner
Every so often something really interesting shows up in the inbox. A few months ago the journal Built Environment asked if I’d be interested in reviewing a new monograph on the bridge designs of Christian Menn. Needless to say, I was willing, and enjoyed the chance to dive into the career of one of the 20th century’s most prolific and thoughtful bridge engineers.
The formal review comes out later this Fall, but in the meantime there are some gorgeous images and a few paragraphs at Blogged Environment that will lend a nice structures-geek vibe to a Monday afternoon…
June 29, 2016 § Leave a comment
Just to make the point that 432 Park Avenue is really tall and really skinny, here’s the view from Rockefeller Center’s observation deck (in the rain, which is by far the best time to hit these things since it keeps the crowd down…nothing but skyscraper nerds and their immediate family members, who may have been coerced into the whole adventure). Philip Johnson’s AT&T Tower sits comfortably at its feet.
Nothing, I think, could more clearly contrast the tenor of the late 1970s and early 1980s, when a building that blew up a piece of Chippendale furniture to cartoon-like proportions ended up on the cover of Time, and now, when the yardstick proportions of Rafael Vinoly’s ludicrously tall attempt at minimalism seems to make daily internet headlines because its bathrooms have ended up in the wrong place and its window frames have proved to be unworkably big…
Just for the record, at 37 stories, AT&T is actually a pretty tall piece of furniture. But from 70 floors up it does kind of look like a misguided attempt at a footstool for 432 Park, doesn’t it?
June 28, 2016 § Leave a comment
Summer studio has always been a mix of finishing off our grad students’ first year with a combination of skills exercises and some deeper probing of what, exactly, we’re doing when we make spaces for people. This summer I’m co-teaching it with Leslie Forehand, one of our brilliant new digital production hires, and we’ve brought in a mix of curious upper-level undergrads. That combination means we have a great mix of backgrounds and skills in studio, and watching students raise the bar for one another is always its own reward.
Usually I teach a studio called “perfect works of architecture” in this course, asking students to study an extant piece of civic or sacred architecture in Iowa and to analyze it in terms of its formal structure and its material experience. I’ve given them three readings, by Mircea Eliade, Juhani Pallasmaa, and Kenneth Frampton, that touch on issues of essence and meaning. Eliade’s Sacred and Profane suggests that there are formal universals that humans recognize when we build particularly meaningful buildings, typically with vertical axes mundi that connect earth and heavens. Pallasmaa offers the most legible insight into the phenomenological world of experience, suggesting that we be mindful of the range of sensory inputs that space, materials, and detailing provide. And Frampton, of course, looks at the way materials are put together as a way of adding meaning to the actual built conditions that we create.
So, with Prof. Forehand on board, we’re reframing this with a digital emphasis. What’s gained or lost when we record or design spaces with digital techniques? She’s taken on board the College of Design’s point cloud scanner as a technique and analogy. The scanner works by shooting out thousands of tiny laser bursts and measuring the distance they travel before bouncing off of something back to the scanner. It literally scans a space in three dimensions and returns a ghostly and wildly complex digital model that can then be used to create drawings and models of uncanny precision. Needless to say, it’s the anti-Eliade, the anti-Pallasmaa, and the anti-Frampton, at least at first glance. The scans it returns are pretty antiseptic, and they’re full of accidental inclusions and omissions that are sometimes only apparent after the scan’s complete. (For instance, if someone walks in front of it while it’s recording, you get a few blips that look like a transporter from Star Trek malfunctioned. And if you put it on the wrong side of a tree, or a rock, or a piece of furniture, it obviously can’t figure out what’s behind that).
Still, it’s a fascinating process, and the results are both incredibly useful and fascinating in their own right. So we’ve had students combining data from the scanner with their own hand drawings to try to reconcile the crunchy, analogue experience of being inside a space like Drake’s Scott Chapel, or ISU’s own Beaux-Arts monument, Beardshear Hall with the millions of geometrically perfect but sensually mute points that we’re recording. To make the argument clear we’ve had them sketching while the machine is doing its thing, and we’ve thrown in a presentation assignment on Prix du Rome drawings from the 18th century to try to make the case for drawing as a recording and as an experiential act. The word “versimilitude” has come up more than once.
Very much a work in progress…students present their final projects, re-conceptions or re-detailing of Scott Chapel using hybrid drawings, next Wednesday. Drop by if you’re in town and want to take part in the discussion of how we think about space versus how we feel about it, or if you just want to see some really engaging drawings and experiments…