Materiality, Engagement, and Scale: An Ecology of
Architectural Ceramics

Alexander Maddams [e-mail | Twitter]

Materials are often resigned to a state of lifelessness, conceptualised as little more than the mere matter from which the built environment is constructed. That is, they are something to be used, something which offers only brute physicality. In opposition to this thinking, and in an attempt to reflect more recent trends in anthropology, this article seeks to reanimate materials through the lens of an ecological approach to matter. With specific reference to the use of architectural ceramics, an argument is made in favour of the agentive and discursive nature of materials, which sit alongside humans as equal creative partners. From small-scale pottery, to the construction of sustainable homes in California, ethnographic data from a popular online forum is used to help illuminate the symbiotic working of skin and clay.

Gingerbread Tiles

The classrooms of the school I once attended stood coated in a thin layer of deep brown glazed clay. Uniform and orthogonal, the smooth rectangular glazed tiles created a chequerboard, the colour of gingerbread. Outlined by greying white mortar, the tiles had been sculpted by decades of exuberant adolescence. They clung to almost every surface and yet I remained largely inattentive to their presence. Now however, the atmosphere of those same tiles pervade all memories of school life. To think of school is to think of the hard glassy coolness of their touch, or the deep earthy brilliance of their colour [Figure 1].

Introduction

In recent years, contemporary architecture has seen a resurgence in the use of ceramics [Gasparian, 2016] [Figure 2]. In this vein, the term architectural ceramics has come to the foreground. Traditionally used to denote a much narrower set of clay-based building products such as bricks, tiles, chimney pots, and faience facades, the term architectural ceramics has grown to encompass a much more diverse and integrated range of clay materials. To this end, the growing use of ceramics throughout the built environment represents the coming together of a broad network of both people and materials. Inspired by a recent exhibition, Hand Held to Super Scale [Watt and Johnson, 2019-2020] [Figure 3], and building upon the work of Jane Bennett [2004] and Tim Ingold [2012], this essay looks to consider what a material ecology approach might bring to our understanding of architectural ceramics. Grounded in an awareness of how materials have historically been conceptualised, I look to understand ceramics as an agentive and transformational thing which embodies an ongoing flow of matter. In doing so, I provide a foundation from which to explore the dialectical relationship between people and architectural ceramics. To support this, the paper also includes primary ethnographic data generated from a popular online forum.

Conceptualising ceramics: an ecological view of materiality

When asked to define materiality – which is itself a contentious term – scholars have tended towards a definition which upholds materiality as having two sides [Ingold, 2012]. In this regard, studies of materiality have remained in a tradition of hylomorphism, as exemplified by Paul Graves-Brown, who speaks of the “material character of the world […] appropriated by humanity” [Graves-Brown, 2000:p.1]. This is to say that the way in which materials have been conceptualised has involved a two-step process born out of a dualism between matter and form. To apply this to architectural ceramics would be to see clay as an example of inert physical matter which must be moulded and given form to produce the ceramic in question; an object that is bounded and complete. In such thinking, the ceramic sits as a solitary artefact, the end product of a linear process of making. From here, such objects only belong to the realm of consumption. Within this tradition, the tendency of academic thought has been to accept the innate physicality of matter, whilst seeking to understand the deeper social and cultural meanings of objects, which represent materials in their final form. To do so however reduces the process of making to a lifeless and unidirectional flow of meaning. It is also a framework which appears to limit our understanding of how we might engage with architectural ceramics at a dialectical level. As a result, based on a long genealogy of attempts to critique the dominant doctrine of hylomorphism, I look to move towards an ecological understanding of materiality.

Offering an early antidote to hylomorphism, Gilbert Simondon [1964] looked to understand materials as part of an ongoing “process of ontogenesis” [Ingold, 2012: p.433]. Refuting the notion of objects as being the final product of some abstract form applied to inert matter, Simondon instead considered form to be emergent. This is to say that he saw things as the product of various transformational agents which come together in an equilibrium to create. Looking again to the example of architectural ceramics, Simondon illustrated how clay bricks are as much the product of their own material resistance, and that of the resistance of the hardwood mould, as they are of the brickmakers own efforts [Simondon, 2005]. To capture this, Simondon refers to the coming together of “transformational half-chains” [2005: p.41]. In doing so, Simondon highlights a sense of material agency far removed from a hylomorphic understanding of matter. Furthermore, his conceptualisation of making, as a process of ontogenesis, begins to speak to the movement of materials denied by the notion of objects as complete and final. Taking up Simondon’s mantle, Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari capture this well when they go on to consider objects as the coming together of flows of matter [Deleuze and Guattari, 2004]. Consequently, as well as possessing agency, we can begin to think of objects, not as objects per se, but as things; transient iterations of materials, each with their own unique histories and potentialities. To do so is to begin to draw closer to the more discursive nature of matter.

Building on from this, there is value in identifying the contribution of phenomenology to this standpoint, which alongside the work of Bruno Latour proves foundational to an ecological perspective. Contributing much to our understanding of the senses, phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty, sought to understand things as existing in a complex fabric of experiential interconnectedness [Merleau-Ponty, 1962]. With specific reference to how we perceive and engage with our environment, Merleau-Ponty looked to collapse ideas of mind-body dualism in favour of the immediate and the embodied. As he notes with reference to the sky, we cannot simply “spread out towards it some idea of blue” [1962: p.214]. To this end, just as we cannot separate mind from body, we cannot inflict some abstract sense of form onto inert materials, nor can we ascribe free floating meanings to apparently discrete objects such as architectural ceramics. Instead, our engagement with these materials is all the more immediate. In this regard, a phenomenological approach not only impacts our general understanding of how things exist in conversation, but paves the way for a more sensorial reading of our architectural environment [Norberg-Schultz, 1971]. In a similar vein, through Actor-Network Theory, Bruno Latour sought to realise the web of ‘politics’ which exist between humans and non-humans [Lezaun, 2017]. Admittedly critiqued by Latour himself and subsequently denounced by Ingold, Latour’s theory fails as a true “ecology” in so much as its non-human agents remain “resolutely inanimate” [Ingold 2012:p. 436]. In this respect, Actor-Network Theory fails to capture the energetic and recalcitrant nature of materials as outlined by Deleuze and Guattari. Nevertheless, Latour’s work remains fundamental in explicitly capturing the web-like network of interactions which exists between all things. To this end, architectural ceramics can be thought of as dwelling in a broad interactive landscape of materials.

It is on the back of such thinking that an ecological understanding of materials is formulated. Offering one of the first explicit considerations of an ‘Ecology of Matter’, Jane Bennett looks to spark a more lively debate about the nature of materials through the championing of what she calls “thing-power” [Bennett, 2004: p.348]. In doing so, she takes specific note to signal a shift away from Marxist conceptualisations of materiality. This is to say that Bennett refutes the notion of materials as being mere economic structures of exchange, instead opting to see them as the “energetic forces that course through humans and cultures without being exhausted by them” [2004: p367]. In this respect, Bennett draws on the work of Deleuze and Guattari to give specific emphasis to the iterative qualities of matter. Similarly, working some years later, Ingold moves towards his own ‘Ecology of Materials’ [Ingold, 2012]. Situating himself at the intersection of material culture studies and ecological anthropology, Ingold grapples with debates as fundamental as that of the nature-culture divide, in an attempt to realise a space in which all things, heterogenous yet nonoppositional, may co-exist. To this end, Ingold argues for a meshwork of bio-culture in which animate and inanimate materials are conceptualised as being ontologically indistinct. What makes the approaches of Bennett and Ingold ‘ecological’ as such, is their introduction of natural materials into the debate and their cohesive pooling of things into a lively and interconnected ecosystem. Whilst their work concerns itself with questions of being and inanimate agency far beyond the scope of this essay, I argue that their core conceptualisation of materials as agentive matter-flows currently offers the most holistic framework from which to understand materials. To this end, throughout the rest of the essay, I look to consider what such an approach might bring to our understanding of architectural ceramics.

Experiencing ceramics: a dialectical engagement with clay

Making as an emotional dialogue

If we are to take things as flows of matter, we must accept that our engagement with architectural ceramics begins long before they adorn structures and pathways. In this respect, the relationship between person and ceramic is not novel, but instead acts as a reunion of a partnership founded on earlier encounters between person and clay. To this end, the act of making remains an intimate dialogue central to our understanding of architectural ceramics [Brinck and Reddy, 2019].

Offering insight into how we might decode this dialogue, Maxine Sheets-Johnson describes how we understand our environment with our bodies [Sheets-Johnson, 2012]. In doing so, she draws close Merleau-Ponty’s theory of habit [Merleau-Ponty, 1945]. It is a theory which argues that we encounter the world, and specifically materials, in a highly kinaesthetic and proprioceptive manner. To this end, we can think of the process of making as resting upon an intuitive and innate appreciation of materiality. Using the example of a blind person’s stick, Merleau-Ponty describes how the stick acts as a very literal part of the person’s sensory field. Consequently, the stick embodies the person’s sense of touch, acting in place of their gaze; the body feeling the objects as if the stick were yet another limb. To bring focus back to the making of ceramics, from this standpoint, we might argue that clay acts an extension of ourselves, becoming a means through which to interact with our environment. As a result, our relationality to the material is fostered through its role as a medium through which we perceive.

Providing an alternate but in many respects complimentary interpretation, Lambros Malafouris looks to show how materials play a scaffolding role in our cognitive development [Malafouris, 2008, 2014]. Through Material Engagement Theory, Malafouris argues that rather than being innate or embodied, our understanding of materiality is instead born out of our engagement with materials. In this respect, it is through our handling of the clay that we come to understand its properties. Therefore, we might instead argue that rather than simply acting as a vessel of perception, clay is in fact a near-equal in the making process, its agency and ability to have dialogue, lying in its capability to influence our cognitive development.

But whilst both theories offer insight, neither appear to fully grasp the dynamic and conversational nature of a more ecological material relationship. As a consequence, I look to the ethnographic evidence provided by Brinck and Reddy, who argue as I do now, that making is an inherently emotional process [2019]. To this end, we engage with clay as creative partner through our deep emotional connection to it. Typifying a back and forth relationship, clay is at once both malleable and resistant. A responsive and highly workable material, its elasticity still has limits. In this respect, our relationship to clay is as both Malafouris and Merleau-Ponty would offer, highly physical and kinaesthetic. But in being so, the process of making is also fundamentally more emotional and dialectical, as transformation occurs through the symbiotic working of skin and clay. Evidenced in how ceramicists describe this process themselves, as Susan Claysmith notes, her connection to clay dates back to her own ‘muddy’ childhood [Claysmith, 2020]. In this regard, her experience of making is based on a long and personal connection to the material as it exists in multiple forms and temporalities. Equally, as Ken Matsuki speaks of “the voice of the clay”, we are provided with an explicit description of how craftspeople conceptualise their relationship to it as a creative partner [Goldmark Gallery, 2018]. In both examples, clay is offering a profound sense of emotional and physical intimacy to the material world [Benoît, 2013].

By drawing attention to the act of making as an experiential and emotional process of ontogenesis, we might better understand how we relate to the flow of matter which occurs between clay and architectural ceramic. For example, might it be that certain artisanal methods are championed over industrial brick production because of the increased intimacy they offer? Equally, by appreciating that our experience of ceramic architecture is connected to our experience of clay and mud, could it not be argued that the allure of ceramic tiles lies in their ability to embody and evoke our own ‘muddy’ dialogues with clay?

Being playful with scale

As Brinck and Reddy also acknowledge, making is a “multi-scalar” process [2019: p.24]. This seems nowhere more evident than in the use of architectural ceramics, where one ceramic can combine with many to produce a larger structure. But scale exists not only in accumulation, but also in raw size. To consider size is to consider notions of function, aesthetics and much more; and so it is not merely a lifeless question of magnitude [Knappet, 2012]. To this end, blurring the lines between what we consider to be an isolated ornamental ceramic with what is say architectural in nature - through its function and relation to other materials - throws open our understanding of how ceramics can contribute to a space. Can we truly say that a pot has no spatial value as it stands apparently alone, or equally that tile possesses no decorative idiosyncrasies that allow it stand out from a broader structure? This is a question which resonates with the exhibition from which this paper draws inspiration [Watt and Johnson, 2019-2020]. Building on from this exhibition, and in the spirit of an ecological approach to materials, I look to highlight the role played by scale in the use of architectural ceramics.

The work of the Amsterdam School movement offers insight here [Gasparian, 2016]. A loose collective of architects working within an expressionist style during the early 20th century, the movement looked to create Gesamtkunstwerk (‘total work of art’) through the championing of traditional crafts [Cascatio, 1996] [Gasparian, 2016]. A German word, Gesamtkuntswerk not only signifies the coming together of multiple disciplines, but infers the cumulative quality of a building, which stands as the sum of all its parts. In this respect, their efforts typify the coming together of a broad network of both people and materials, in the truest sense of an ecology. To take one of their constructions The Shipping House as example, their work stands testament to this. In this sense, the ceramics of The Shipping House exist in a highly complex ecology, in which the integration and accumulation of materials produces a ‘total’ product of a much greater scale [Gasparian, 2016] [Figure 4]. Subsequently, each sculpture or each brick can only be fully understood in relation to those around it, as relief and depression, light and dark create a much broader intricate pattern. And yet, there is a very different way to look at this building entirely, which in its nature, is constructed of very distinctive bits of artwork. To this end, a tension exists between the sublimity produced by scale and the emotional intensity of the intricate and miniaturised nature of each artwork [Hagen, 2002]. Consequently, the use of scale in The Shipping House is very fluid and our reading of the building is dependent on what is foregrounded in our experiential engagement with it. Moreover, whilst the ceramics exist as part of a much broader ecosystem, they also retain a strong sense of self. It is only by considering the ceramics as part of an ecology, that we are able to understand the fluidity of their relationality and the tension caused by this fluidity.

Themes of scale and size were also evident in the ethnographic research conducted for this paper. This research involved inviting ceramicists, architects and anyone who might take an interest in architectural ceramics to share their own experiences of collaborating with clay-based materials. A popular online forum provided the platform for such conversations, which ultimately informed the themes of this paper. Offering a subversive and playful take on our preconceptions of scale, one contributor to these conversations spoke of their experience of having to glaze an entire house. In this regard, the house stood as a single unified piece of clay, built in the style of a SuperAdobe [Figure 5]. Constructed as part of an ongoing apprenticeship at the CalEarth institute, the dwelling was designed to be economic, earthquake proof and offer protection from the Mojave sun [CalEarth, 2020]. Speaking of the experience, the ceramicist in question explained that “in order to fire an object as large as a house […] you have to fill the empty space with bricks and pottery”. Here, the idea of a house having to be fired as if a pot in a kiln is a novel one. It plays with notions of how we might distinguish between an ornamental ceramic and an architectural ceramic, rejecting the idea that clay-based dwellings can only be produced through the accumulation of multiple ceramics. In this respect, the materials of the house are all the more unified, producing one single corpus of flowing clay matter. Furthermore, in having to be filled with bricks and pots, the house has to act as a kiln in and of itself. It is a meta-kiln. To this end however, multiple ceramics are still needed to construct the building, but their role is as a catalyst rather than as part of the structure. In this regard, they are the enablers for the glazing process, occupying the type of processual and agentive role usually reserved for animate materials such as people. Consequently, the tale offered by the contributor is both endearing and amusing. Without being overly facetious, the story offers a powerful example of the type of ‘thing-power’ to which Bennett argues for. Moreover, through the twinning of traditional and innovative building methods, the ceramicists at the CalEarth institute are able create a house that is mindful of its social and environmental context. Easily constructed through the accumulation of bags filled with adobe, the structure as developed by architect Nader Khalili, is only possible through the rethinking of scale and ceramic relationality.

A not-so finished product

Central to an ecological reading of architectural ceramics is an understanding of things as “gatherings of materials in movement” [Ingold, 2012: p.439]. To this end, I ask how thinking about ceramics as ‘unfinished’ products might change the way we use them. Much work has already been done within theoretical geography to explore the movement of materials through processes such as recycling and reclamation [Gregson et al., 2010]. But I look towards an example, which, historical and culturally embedded, pays specific reference to how we can continue to repurpose ceramics without altering them entirely. In this regard, the Japanese practice of Kintsugi offers a means of fixing broken ceramics through the application of glue and gold leaf [Figure 6]. Refuting notions of the artform as simply being an expressive type of consumption, as Guy Keulemans notes, the broken ceramics "are repaired to a level commensurate with the care put into their creation” [2015: p113]. To this end, I argue Kintsugi shows the potential of reworking objects in a more immediate temporality, rather than discarding or recycling them. A process of morphogenesis, Kintsugi can be seen as a way of channeling flows of matter without losing them in the more immediate sense [Massumi, 2000] [De Landa, 2004]. Would it not be possible to use a similar method in the making and fixing of architectural ceramics? It is a question, which, much like the ecological approaches of Ingold and Bennett, seeks to conserve materials at a time when resource scarcity and the effects of the Anthropocene are all too apparent. Ultimately, whilst the simple appropriation of Kintsugi by the architecture community would be at once both clumsy and problematic, the adoption of techniques to resist the loss of material flows in this way appears worthwhile.

To consider the boundedness of ceramic products from a different perspective, things can be considered to be unfinished in so much as they never quite capture exactly what we mean to make. To this end, beyond the need to produce things which are functional, we might argue that the value of making is not in the thing which is produced, but is rather in the process itself. Another theme which featured heavily in the ethnographic data generated for this paper, a number of contributors spoke of their frustrations towards the things they created. As one ceramicist working with door numbers noted, “there are times that I become disappointed, but that is due to having unrealistic expectations […] best to stop having those grandiose expectations and just enjoy the process”. A passage far removed from the evocative and almost romanticised depictions of making cited earlier, the description still goes a long way to illustrate the dialectical nature of the creative partnership between person and clay. Albeit, it is one where the recalcitrance of the material causes tension and frustration. To this end, the agenda of the ceramicist and the agenda of the clay do not coalesce peacefully, and thus like all relationships can involve dialogue that is both fraught and strained. However, by grounding their engagement with the material in the process of making, it appears as if the ceramicist continues to find value in this dialogue. As a result, the experiential and embodied nature of the process make it worthwhile. However, as the same contributor went on to discuss, they still desired to have a “permanent record” of their work. It is a statement which calls for a more temperate reading of production and ultimately our relationality to materials as a whole. In addition to the processual value of making, there is also an inherent value in what is produced. In this regard, the permanence and physicality of things remain significant [Olsen, 2010]. As a result, whilst things may not be as bounded as in previous conceptualisations of materiality, the propensity of materials to mobilise and gather is not without importance. To this end, it is vital to not lose sight of what is produced. This is a realisation which helps reinforce the functionality and enduring value of architectural ceramics which remain an integral component of the many landscapes in which other materials dwell. In other words, whilst materials may ultimately be in flux, it is their ability to pool and maintain relative permanence which cements the dialectical relationships between them.

Conclusion

As I have looked to show, by thinking through architectural ceramics from an ecological perspective it is possible to understand them from angles that would be lost to conceptualisations which take objects as lifeless and bounded. In this respect, architectural ceramics represent an agentive pooling of materials that we engage with on an emotional and dialectical level. Such dialogue not only occurs with ceramics alone however, but also with the clay from which those same ceramics are made, and so it is a relationship which transcends both time and physical state. Moreover, by abandoning hylomorphic preconceptions of function, scale, and completeness we stumble across innovative and novel ways of working with ceramics. In this regard, by integrating ceramics into space rather than seeing them as isolated artefacts, and by thinking through methods of conservation and maintaining permanence, we are able to utilise the material flows of ceramics to greater effect. This is something which is likely to have both social and environmental implications. However, as I began by proposing that an ecological approach offers the most holistic framework thus far, I end in the same way as Jane Bennett, by arguing that it is important that materiality remains a “contested term” [Bennett, 2004]. To this end, we should continue to strive for even livelier conceptualisations of materials.

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