imagine Mr. Everbright’s delight if he were on the Advisory Committee, in tearing to pieces the plans for the branch bank in full-blown Saracenic style submitted by his arch-enemy and detractor, Sir Grabitall Gush, R. A.
Now, gentlemen, these things must not be; Sir G. Gush and Mr. Everbright are both right in their respective ways and represent different schools of thought, but — and this is the vital difference — they are trained representatives, and, gentlemen, I submit that the real enemy, the common foe, is the great untrained.
It appears to me that any standard set up by the Committees of control must of necessity be a very low one; the most that would be practically possible would be to rule out the work of the totally ignorant. The result of their labours would not be to achieve absolute beauty, to turn Putney into Parnassus, but to set a standard of common decency. We cannot make people lead beautiful lives by Act of Parliament, but we can make them feel the painful consequences of leading vicious ones. It is not a question of interfering with the freedom of the artist, with experiments in taste, but of controlling the efforts of the æsthetically blind and ignorant.
We don’t allow our neighbours to poison us with bad smells or deafen us with unlimited noise — these things are nuisances in the eyes of the law; they depreciate property, and the damages thereof are assessable in pounds, shillings and pence. Even on this low ground of material profit and loss alone the claim for control would seem to be unanswerable.
Those who are interested in what Americans call “Real Estate” know that one of the greatest factors
of depreciation is the risk of the unknown building which may spring up next door and send values down 50 per cent. in one fell swoop.
In an idealistic state all the work of designing small houses would be carried out, of course, by architects, but as things are it is only the well-to-do and the poor who can afford their services. The rich employ whom they will, how, where and when they will, and the poor employ them through the agencies of the London County Council, the Office of Works and the various county, urban and rural authorities. It is only the middling classes who live in the suburbs and are, according to your viewpoint, “the salt of the earth, ” “the backbone of England, ” “the hated bourgeoise, ” or “the outcast from the sacred enclosures. ” These are the deserving folk for whom our friend “Jerry, ” the builder, provides. Before the War “Jerry” was anathema to the elect, but
afterwards, during the housing crisis, he was hailed as the Saviour of Society and given much money in the form of subsidies.
“Jerry, ” the small house builder, has always been with us, in Mediæval, in Georgian and Victorian days, and I am inclined to think he always will be with us. This building of small houses is best done in as simple a fashion as possible: the architect qua architect is inclined to complicate matters. The best of the small houses have always been the work of architects— though not always known by that name — and always will be. But if the architect cannot hope to build all the small houses himself, he can become a very potent factor, if allowed to, in the movement towards better houses for the best people.
Mr. Chamberlain, in his speech, told us how in America the architect sells books of designs to the builder, and he seemed to think that it showed remarkable acumen on the part of these acute Americans that they could get the builders to pay for them.
Something of the sort might happen over here, though the welcome accorded the books of cottage designs issued by the Royal Institute of British Architects immediately after the War hardly leads one to be over-sanguine.
What is likely to happen when our Committees of Public Taste get going? Poor, wretched, trembling Jerry will be dragged in front of them and sternly told that his peculiarly disgraceful designs will not do, that he must amend them, recast them, and then apply again. It may dawn on him that perhaps his best method is to consult an architect, but, first of all, being a cautious man, he makes a few tentative enquiries about fees. We are dealing, it must be remembered, with a very special class of builder and not an ordinary contractor, and one, moreover, to whom the architect is a strange and suspicious person. He learns that the design of one £1, 000 house will involve him in about £60 for fees, and that even under the modified housing scale a fair-sized development will run him into hundreds. He removes his hard felt hat from off his head and slowly mops his perspiring brow with a bright bandana handkerchief; he then spits in speculative fashion into the shade and summarises his thoughts about committees, architects and fees by a muttered, “Gor’ blimey, ” and concludes that “building is a washout.”
Now I myself in this particular difficulty have what I consider two rather bright ideas to offer, though I must add in all fairness to my readers that I have never managed to persuade any builder of my acquaintance to agree to either.
My first is one which I describe as “Breaking it to ’em gently.” Under this system the architect would make one or more type plans with full working details, and would sell these to the builder on a royalty basis, say £5 on each house erected from each design — not more than one design for every ten houses to be supplied, and no more than, say six designs available — and — and this is the important point — no money would be paid by Mr. Builder to Mr. Architect until the houses had been sold. That is, the royalty should be paid over, say, within six months of each house being sold, so that the architect would, in a measure, be a partner with the builder in the enterprise of house building. If the plans were superlatively good, and crowds of eager purchasers fought to secure the houses, then the royalties would roll in and the face of the architect would beam in appreciative grins; if, on the other hand, the plans were not so good — then no royalties. It seems fair, doesn’t it? Then think of the psychological effect of this method on the builder — instead of being pursued by the phantom figure of huge fees, what he does in effect is to pass the royalty over to the purchaser — the £650 house would then be sold for £655 — and who would haggle about £5 when there was the chance of securing so perfect a house!
My other alternative or supplementary method is one I have named “Harley Street.” Under this scheme the architect becomes a consultant and is waited upon at his office by suppliant builders with the plans that have been rejected by the scornful Committee. He — that is, the architect — produces blue pencil, ordinary pencil and lots of tracing paper, and expounds, explains, corrects and generally advises poor Jerry as to what are the manifest shortcomings of his plans.
Jerry being a quick-witted fellow, or he would not make a living as a speculative builder, seizes on the points put forward, not, perhaps, without a certain amount of “argifying,” deposits a guinea or two
inconspicuously under the cover of the architect’s drawing-board, and departs to instruct his tracing clerk re revised drawings for submission to the high and haughty.
Beyond the modest payment which I hope to receive in due course as the price of this article, I ask nothing further for the excellent advice contained therein. I give it free gratis and for nothing, but when the builders and the architects have a “get together ” in order to discuss it, I shall not be there.
Now, gentlemen, these things must not be; Sir G. Gush and Mr. Everbright are both right in their respective ways and represent different schools of thought, but — and this is the vital difference — they are trained representatives, and, gentlemen, I submit that the real enemy, the common foe, is the great untrained.
It appears to me that any standard set up by the Committees of control must of necessity be a very low one; the most that would be practically possible would be to rule out the work of the totally ignorant. The result of their labours would not be to achieve absolute beauty, to turn Putney into Parnassus, but to set a standard of common decency. We cannot make people lead beautiful lives by Act of Parliament, but we can make them feel the painful consequences of leading vicious ones. It is not a question of interfering with the freedom of the artist, with experiments in taste, but of controlling the efforts of the æsthetically blind and ignorant.
We don’t allow our neighbours to poison us with bad smells or deafen us with unlimited noise — these things are nuisances in the eyes of the law; they depreciate property, and the damages thereof are assessable in pounds, shillings and pence. Even on this low ground of material profit and loss alone the claim for control would seem to be unanswerable.
Those who are interested in what Americans call “Real Estate” know that one of the greatest factors
of depreciation is the risk of the unknown building which may spring up next door and send values down 50 per cent. in one fell swoop.
In an idealistic state all the work of designing small houses would be carried out, of course, by architects, but as things are it is only the well-to-do and the poor who can afford their services. The rich employ whom they will, how, where and when they will, and the poor employ them through the agencies of the London County Council, the Office of Works and the various county, urban and rural authorities. It is only the middling classes who live in the suburbs and are, according to your viewpoint, “the salt of the earth, ” “the backbone of England, ” “the hated bourgeoise, ” or “the outcast from the sacred enclosures. ” These are the deserving folk for whom our friend “Jerry, ” the builder, provides. Before the War “Jerry” was anathema to the elect, but
afterwards, during the housing crisis, he was hailed as the Saviour of Society and given much money in the form of subsidies.
“Jerry, ” the small house builder, has always been with us, in Mediæval, in Georgian and Victorian days, and I am inclined to think he always will be with us. This building of small houses is best done in as simple a fashion as possible: the architect qua architect is inclined to complicate matters. The best of the small houses have always been the work of architects— though not always known by that name — and always will be. But if the architect cannot hope to build all the small houses himself, he can become a very potent factor, if allowed to, in the movement towards better houses for the best people.
Mr. Chamberlain, in his speech, told us how in America the architect sells books of designs to the builder, and he seemed to think that it showed remarkable acumen on the part of these acute Americans that they could get the builders to pay for them.
Something of the sort might happen over here, though the welcome accorded the books of cottage designs issued by the Royal Institute of British Architects immediately after the War hardly leads one to be over-sanguine.
What is likely to happen when our Committees of Public Taste get going? Poor, wretched, trembling Jerry will be dragged in front of them and sternly told that his peculiarly disgraceful designs will not do, that he must amend them, recast them, and then apply again. It may dawn on him that perhaps his best method is to consult an architect, but, first of all, being a cautious man, he makes a few tentative enquiries about fees. We are dealing, it must be remembered, with a very special class of builder and not an ordinary contractor, and one, moreover, to whom the architect is a strange and suspicious person. He learns that the design of one £1, 000 house will involve him in about £60 for fees, and that even under the modified housing scale a fair-sized development will run him into hundreds. He removes his hard felt hat from off his head and slowly mops his perspiring brow with a bright bandana handkerchief; he then spits in speculative fashion into the shade and summarises his thoughts about committees, architects and fees by a muttered, “Gor’ blimey, ” and concludes that “building is a washout.”
Now I myself in this particular difficulty have what I consider two rather bright ideas to offer, though I must add in all fairness to my readers that I have never managed to persuade any builder of my acquaintance to agree to either.
My first is one which I describe as “Breaking it to ’em gently.” Under this system the architect would make one or more type plans with full working details, and would sell these to the builder on a royalty basis, say £5 on each house erected from each design — not more than one design for every ten houses to be supplied, and no more than, say six designs available — and — and this is the important point — no money would be paid by Mr. Builder to Mr. Architect until the houses had been sold. That is, the royalty should be paid over, say, within six months of each house being sold, so that the architect would, in a measure, be a partner with the builder in the enterprise of house building. If the plans were superlatively good, and crowds of eager purchasers fought to secure the houses, then the royalties would roll in and the face of the architect would beam in appreciative grins; if, on the other hand, the plans were not so good — then no royalties. It seems fair, doesn’t it? Then think of the psychological effect of this method on the builder — instead of being pursued by the phantom figure of huge fees, what he does in effect is to pass the royalty over to the purchaser — the £650 house would then be sold for £655 — and who would haggle about £5 when there was the chance of securing so perfect a house!
My other alternative or supplementary method is one I have named “Harley Street.” Under this scheme the architect becomes a consultant and is waited upon at his office by suppliant builders with the plans that have been rejected by the scornful Committee. He — that is, the architect — produces blue pencil, ordinary pencil and lots of tracing paper, and expounds, explains, corrects and generally advises poor Jerry as to what are the manifest shortcomings of his plans.
Jerry being a quick-witted fellow, or he would not make a living as a speculative builder, seizes on the points put forward, not, perhaps, without a certain amount of “argifying,” deposits a guinea or two
inconspicuously under the cover of the architect’s drawing-board, and departs to instruct his tracing clerk re revised drawings for submission to the high and haughty.
Beyond the modest payment which I hope to receive in due course as the price of this article, I ask nothing further for the excellent advice contained therein. I give it free gratis and for nothing, but when the builders and the architects have a “get together ” in order to discuss it, I shall not be there.