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Liane Lefaivre
EROS, ARCHITECTURE,
AND THE HYPNEROTOMACHIA POLIPHILI
An architectural treatise and a love story. This is how the Hypnerotomachia
Poliphili, published in 1499, traditionally was read. When the book became
the object of academic scholarship, however, roughly in the 1870s, its
interpretation took a strange twist. Attention turned almost exclusively
to the architectural treatise, and the love story was dismissed as a corollary
of secondary importance. In fact, some of this century's most prominent
Renaissance scholars have characterized the love story as a "dull
unreadable romance," a "serious runner up for the most boring
book in Italian literature," and "the ridiculous manifestation
of a madman." In Benedetto Croce's opinion, "If this book had
not been so serious and so long and boring, it might have been interpreted
as a caricature of humanism." The plot has, at best, been reviled
as an unimaginative derivative of the classics in the courtly romance
by Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Dante. At worst, it has been denounced as
a thinly disguised plagiarism of an obscure 14th-century poem entitled
Fimerodia by the otherwise unknown author Iacopo da Monte Pulciano.
Scholars have had good reasons for holding the architectural treatise
in the Hypnerotomachia in high regard. The work was completed in 1467,
making it one of the first architectural treatises to be written. It was
published in 1499, making it the second to appear in print. Furthermore,
its many woodcut engravings make it the first illustrated architectural
book ever to be published. The significance of this feature cannot be
overstressed at a time when the architectural public had only verbal descriptions
and very few paintings to rely on in order to visualize antique and Renaissance
building types. Among those included in the book were a peripteral temple
(a temple surrounded with columns), a pyramid, an obelisk, a porta (an
ornamental gateway), an amphitheater, a tholos (round temple), a polygonic
temple, a grotto, a colossus, and monumental ruins.
The Hypnerotomachia was printed at the press of Aldus Manutius of Venice,
the most celebrated publisher of the Italian Renaissance, in the famed
roman type font, which is generally viewed as the culmination of the efforts
of the humanists, beginning with Petrarch, to re-create the script of
classical antiquity. This font, which appeared for the first time in Bembo's
De Aetna and for the second time here in improved form, has survived in
name and use up to our own times. The book also contains a prototypical
Greek type, one of the first examples of Hebrew type, and what is possibly
the first example of Arabic type in Europe.
The engravings have attracted equal attention. The Hypnerotomachia is
unique in being the only illustrated book published by Aldus, who is renowned
for his scholarly editions, in particular the first complete edition of
Aristotle. Although neither the inventor nor the cutter is known, the
engravings have been associated with the names of the greatest contemporary
artists: Fra Giocondo, Carpaccio, Bellini, Mantegna, and even the young
Raphael. But its most significant typographical feature derives from the
overall composition of image and type into a harmonious whole, leading
to the widespread consensus that it is the best of all the illustrated
masterpieces of early printing, known as incunabula. It is, to be sure,
the most sought after. Ironically, as William Ivins points out, what has
become the pride of any collector was originally one of the greatest fiascoes
in early publishing history. Ten years after it was published, its sponsor
applied for a ten-year extension of his copyright, arguing that the enterprise
had cost him hundreds of ducats and that he had hardly sold any copies.
The Hypnerotomachia, now an extremely rare work of art, may even have
been "remaindered" at the time.
In spite of this unpromising start, the book became one of the most popular
books of the 16th century. It was reprinted by the Aldine press in 1545
and published in an abridged English version under the title The Strife
of Love in a Dreame in 1592. But France is where the book had its greatest
success. After François I's mother, Louise de Savoie, gave him
a manuscript version of the book as a wedding present, Le Songe de Poliphile
went through many editions, the most beautiful being the first edition
produced at the press of Jacques Kerver in Paris in 1546. The woodcuts
and typography are attributed to the great engraver Jean Cousin and the
exquisite translation to Jean Martin.
Finally, scholars looking at the Hypnerotomachia as a treatise have focused
on the scholarly aspect of the book, on the mass of details the book supplies
concerning the size, proportions, materials, colors, plan, elevation,
and facade of buildings. These descriptions are often even richer than
in Alberti's De Re Aedificatoria (1485). Julius Schlosser, in his great
synthetic work on the artistic literature of the Renaissance, Die Kunstliteratur
(1924), is probably the first to place it firmly within the canon of architectural
treatises, ranking it alongside the works of Alberti, Filarete, Fra Giocondo,
and Cesariano. Other scholars have gone so far as to attribute the work
to Alberti in collaboration with several other humanists. There have been
detailed repertories of the antiquarian, philological, and literary culture
of the book (the antique sources include Vitruvius, Pliny, Herodotus,
Diodorus, and Pomponio Mela, with Alberti, Perotti, and Ciriaco d' Ancona
representing the modem ones), and several studies have concentrated on
the archaeological basis of the book's erudition (based mostly on the
antique Roman remains lying between the Orti Salustiani and the Via Appia,
and between the Circus Maximus and the Roman Forum). Maurizio Calvesi
has devoted almost an entire book to the thesis that the basis of all
the buildings is the antique site of Preneste, today Palestrina, outside
Rome, the seat of the Colonna dynasty. The high level of erudition in
the Hypnerotomachia relates to other artifacts besides architecture. The
book has been characterized as an "encyclopedia of all artistic,
archaeological and technical knowledge of the fifteenth century."
Finally, scholars have identified the Hypnerotomachia not only as a design
encyclopedia but also as an influential handbook for design practice.
Yet, both as an encyclopedia and handbook, the Hypnerotomachia is much
less canonical than scholars have generally al- lowed. For all its fanatic
cult of erudition, its spirit is not one of blind acceptance of antique
authority, at least about architecture. On the contrary, the Hypnerotomachia
takes great liberties, in particular with classical building types, and
the book has a wild, almost iconoclastic side. If the building types it
describes do belong to the great typological topoi, or commonplace figures,
these are handled in most unconventional ways. An amphitheater is combined
with a fountain, one temple with a catacomb, another temple with therms.
Two tholoi kiss at the vestibule. But the most extravagant of the book's
architectural barbarisms is a strange hybrid whose description occupies
thirty-nine of the first fifty pages. It is at once a peripteral temple,
aporta, a pyramid, a labyrinth, and an obelisk. These are piled one on
the top of the other, except for the porta, which is affixed to the temple
facade, and the labyrinth the porta leads to, dug into the viscera of
the pyramid. The temple is just over two-thirds of a mile long and almost
equally high. The pyramid its columns support is six times the size of
the great pyramid of Cheops at Giza, its flanks two-thirds of a mile long.
An obelisk sur mounts the pyramid, and is another two-thirds of a mile
high. Finally, the bronze statue perched at the pinnacle of this almost
two-mile-high, transtypological architectural monster is "proportionate"
in height. The attitude of the Hypnerotomachia to architecture is clearly
closer to a "modem" than "ancient" sensibility. "This
construction exceeds the immensity of the Egyptians," the author
boasts. "Be silent, works of Lemnos [famous for its 150 columns].
The tomb of Mausoleus does not even reach this building. Never before
has such a building been seen or conceived." Interestingly, the engraving
is more conventional and fails to do justice to the verbal description.
Equally libertine, and equally modem in its way, is the Hypnerotomachia
Poliphili as a love story. Poliphilo is the youth, Folia the maiden. Both
depart from the stereotypical protagonists of the romanza d' amore, the
courtly love story. Poliphilo is a dolce stil nuovo, postchivalric hero,
but to an almost aberrant degree. He flees not only from a dragon but
from a chameleon. When confronted, like Hercules at the crossroads, with
the alternatives of the "active life," the "contemplative
life," and the "voluptuous life," he chooses the latter,
simply because it is the most pleasurable. In addition, although like
the heroes of Petrarch, Dante, and Boccaccio, Poliphilo loves his beloved
for her beautiful spirit, unlike them he is basically interested in her
"virginal and divine little body. " His gaze is constantly drawn
to it as her diaphanous garments flutter in breezes. Finally, as opposed
to his more celebrated predecessors, Poliphilo is promiscuous. His gaze
is constantly drawn to the bodies of other nymphs, and he has an orgy
with five of them. As for Polia, she is even more of a nonconformist compared
to her literary predecessors. Whereas Petrarch' s Laura and Dante's Beatrice
were chaste objects of desire, Polia is a carnal creature. No passive
sex object, Polia picks up the story and
narrates it from her own point of view, opposing the principle of chastity
and en- gaging in a polemical defense of the right to erotic pleasure
for women that fills almost one-fifth of the book.
In this barely veiled parody of the 13th- and 14th-century tradition of
courtly love literature, the quest for hedonism and mutual seduction takes
hero and heroine through a series of mock heroic predicaments as preposterous
as they are pleasurable. One such predicament occurs at a sumptuous feast,
when Poliphilo tries to convince his hostess, the Queen of Freedom, that
he is genuinely devoted to the ideal of love. In the Temple of Venus,
he must undergo a solemn but basically titillating purification rite before
he can be joined with Polia. Sometime later, Polia must revive her lover
with a kiss after he has characteristically fainted from momentarily unrequited
love. In the end the lovers are transported to the Island of Love by the
little boatswain Cupid and six practically nude nymphs at the oars.
The name Poliphilo is Greek for "lover of Polia." But Polia,
in turn, translates as "many things." And, indeed, besides Polia,
Poliphilo loves many things: diaphanous garments, precious stones and
gems, gold, fine linen, food, chandeliers, sculptures, epigrams, sweet
fragrances, ballet, triumphal processions, hieroglyphs, mosaics, antique
vases and, not least, women's shoes - all the objects that make up the
"total design" concept of the courtly humanist Renaissance lifestyle.
But he loves architecture the most; he loves it as much as he loves Polia,
and in the same carnal way. One after the other, the buildings described
in the book become objects of desire, metaphors for Polia's solid body.
Poliphilo describes the marble of the portas as "virginal,"
the veinless marble of another surface as "flawless," which
is the same term he uses to describe the skin of a certain nymph. Upon
seeing the buildings, Poliphilo feels "extreme delight,""incredible
joy," "frenetic pleasure and cupidinous frenzy." The buildings
fill him with "the highest carnal pleasure" and with "burning
lust." He loves them because they are beau-
tiful to behold, but also because they are fragrant and nice to touch.
He partakes of architectural pleasures with all his senses. Before a frieze
of a sleeping nymph he cannot keep from placing his hand on her knees
and "fondling and squeezing" them, nor can he resist pressing
his lips to her breasts, lasciviously sucking and nuzzling.
The sex of buildings Poliphilo loves is polymorphic. He describes the
order of the columns in a certain temple as "hermaphroditic"
because they combine male and female characteristics. The altar of Bacchus
is made of a darkly veined marble especially selected to express the virility
of that deity. A great phallus "rigidly rigorous" is carved
onto it. Above the prone nude body of the sleeping nymph in the aforementioned
frieze leers a naked satyr with a watchful eye and an erect penis.
This erotization of architecture comes to its logical conclusion. In three
cases Poliphilo manages to locate the appropriate orifice through which
he can engage in sexual congress with the building. The effect on him,
always described at length and in much detail, is one of sheer coital
ecstasy. In one case the effect on the building is mutual.
The carnality of the Hypnerotomachia extends to the illustrations, many
of which have been censured as pornographic, surely a unique case in the
history of architectural publishing. Among the objectionable images observed
by Lamberto Donati to have been either erased or inked over in the collection
of the Vatican Library are the emblem of a priapic Hermes, the leg of
an elephant mistaken for the genital organ of his neighbor, Bacchus's
phallus, the seduction of Leda by the swan, Polia kissing Poliphilo (who
sits in her.1ap). A nymph's nudity is covered with a skirt.
How could the erotic side of the Hypnerotomachia, which is indissociable
from the erudite one, have eluded the scrupulous gaze of so many scholarly
readers? Among the factors is the book itself. The Hypnerotomachia Poliphili,
one of the most enigmatic works ever published, is a succession of riddles.
The reader is first confronted by a practically unpronounceable title,
only to be lost in highly arcane prose, an idiosyncratic concoction of
Tuscan, Latin, and Greek on the lexicographical and syntactic levels.
Interpretation is frustrated at almost every level and the effect is clearly
intentional. As if in a selfreferential manner, the book repeatedly exploits
the theme of hermeneutic impenetrability: Poliphilo spends about thirty
pages of the book trying to decipher 88 epigrams in Latin and Greek, in
addition to inscriptions in hieroglyphics, messages in Chaldean, sayings
in Hebrew, and signs in Arabic. Sometimes he succeeds, but sometimes their
meanings remain sealed. And although he meets Polia by the end of the
first quarter of the story, he cannot be sure she is who she says she
is until three-quarters of the way through the book. As a result he cannot
express his love directly to her.
And who, for that matter, was Francesco Colonna, the author, whose name
only cryptically appears in the acrostic made up of the first letters
of each of the chapters? His identity is still hotly debated. Like many
scholars, Giovanni Pozzi believes he was a Dominican monk attached to
the convent of SS. Giovanni e Paolo in Venice, and others that he was
the scion of the powerful Roman baronial dynasty of the Colonna, traditional
foes of the papacy and with many ties to the first generation humanists.
Maurizio Calvesi has argued most convincingly that Francesco Colonna and
his father were patrons of Alberti, and Ludwig Heydenreich has called
their villa at Palestrina, completed under the probable guidance of Alberti,
the first of the Renaissance. But then why such anonymity for a book so
expensive to produce, printed at the press of such an illustrious publisher,
and written by a representative from such an elite political and cultural
circle? Does the date of completion, May 1467, mentioned at the end of
the book, have any symbolic significance? Why the paradoxical combination
of unbridled eroticism with an often impenetrable secrecy?
It would appear that the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili is more than an artless
manneristic experiment or the result of coincidence and chance. Its intricate
composition and plan reveal intention and forethought. Something is going
on beneath the surface here, invisible to the uninitiated, undetectable
to the innocent. The metaphor of the building as a body is part of a game
being played on several levels at the same time. At one level, the game
might be taken as nothing more than the frivolous and phantasmagoric effusion
of an eccentric spirit. But at another, it is something like revolution.
Mikhail Bakhtin observed that any utterance, spoken or literary, is inevitably
marked by its relation to another utterance, whether this relation is
one of agreement or dissent. However powerful this "dialogical"
relation, it is not always obvious. It can take place through a code,
through "passwords," all the more effective for remaining unformulated
and therefore irrefutable. If there is a work the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili
is in dialogue with, it is Lorenzo Valla's notorious De Voluptate (1431),
an outspoken defense of epicurian hedonism and free love. In his plea
for the abolishment of all sexual constraints in society, Valla blames
Meneleaus (who was unable to tolerate the love between Helen, his wife,
and Paris) for the Trojan War rather than blaming Helen, as was customary.
Valla also wrote an equally notorious tract, De Donatione Constantini,
denouncing as illegal the assumption of temporal power by the papacy.
By the time of the writing of the Hypnerotomachia thirty years later,
Valla's ideas were condemned not only as heretical, but as seditious,
and his disciples (grouped together in the Accademia Romana under the
leadership of Pomponio Leto) were arrested for conspiracy and tortured
under Pope Paul II. This, and the heightening of the age-old rivalry between
the papacy and the Colonna faction, which included Pomponio Leto and his
academy, helps to explain the muted, guarded, elliptical form the dialogue
takes.
The immediate cultural and political events surrounding the Hypnerotomachia
do explain many aspects of the book. But the erotization of architecture
should also be seen on a much broader horizon, which stretches from a
world where it was forbidden to love architecture-the world of the Western
Ro- man Empire after the collapse of its international economy, the rise
of the Latin Church, and the development of autonomous, stagnant, household
economies. The dominant official doctrine of the Latin Church, as professed
by the patristic theologians, in relation to architecture as in relation
to everything else, remains antifetishistic, governed by the imperative
of asceticism. The body becomes a symbol for all that is sinful, a metaphor
for evil. Sexual abstinence plays a key role in the enforcement of this
imperative. In the doctrinal strictures, any attachment to the things
of this world, including buildings, is condemned as lust. For almost five
hundred years the love of architecture in the world of the post-Roman
Empire is condemned as a form of "lust for building" (libido
aedificandi), of "voluptuousness," of "perverse delectation."
With the Hypnerotomachia that world is "turned upside down,"
to borrow another term from Bakhtin. From being condemned as the ignominious
"root of all evil," the body becomes the most important symbol
of the "highest good."
Seen from this perspective, the erotic revolution that culminates in works
like the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili is part of a sweeping attack against
an older, more archaic social and cultural order. With its obsessive hammering
home of the irrepressible libidinal spirit, it is also a manifesto for
the new ordo amoris associated with the rise of our own "many loving,"
"poliphilic" consumer world to come.
Author's note:
This article summarizes some of the themes included in my forthcoming
book, Eros and Architecture, a study of the hedonization of architecture
in early court cultures of Europe, especially as it is expressed in the
metaphor of the building as a body. Although the footnotes have been omitted
from the present article, I would like to point to the three basic studies
on the Hypnerotomachia (although their interpretations differ from the
one presented here). These are G. Pozzi and L. A. Ciapponi, Francesco
Colonna. Hypnerotomachia Poliphili. Edizione critica e commento, 2 vols.
(Padova: Antenore, 1980); M. T. Casella and G. Pozzi, Francesco Colonna.
Biografia e opere (Padova: Antenore, 1959); and M. Calvesi, Il sogno di
Polifilo Prenestino (Rome: Officina, 1983). Among the many other shorter
studies of particular interest are D. Gnoli, "II sogno di Poliphilo,"
La Bibliofilial (1899-1900),pp.189-212,266--83; Ch. Huelsen, "Le
illustrazioni della Hypnerotomachia Poliphili e Ie antichita di Roma,"
La Bibliofilia12 (1910), pp.161-76, W. M. Ivins "The Aldine Hypnerotomachia
Poliphili of 1499," Bulletin of the Metropolitan Museum of Art18
(1923), pp. 249-52, 273-77. Of immense value are the unsurpassed philological
notes to the Hypnerotomachia supplied by A. Popelin in his translation
and critical edition of the book under the title Le Songe de Poliphile
(Paris: 1883, reprinted 1981).
GARLAND
Alexander Tzonis
architectural editor
DBR: Did Garland have an architectural publication program before it published
the Le Corbusier Archive?
AT: Yes. During the 1970s Garland re- printed hard-to-find material useful
for researchers: outstanding dissertations (for example, Leo Steinberg's
on Borromini, Paul Turner's on Le Corbusier, and David de Long's on Bruce
Goff), key essays (James Ackerman was on the editorial committee), and
books. A series on literary sources of the English landscape garden was
edited by John Dixon Hunt. But at the same time there were discussions
and planning for a large-scale publishing program. I was still at the
Harvard Graduate School of Design, and one of the projects we were working
on was the comprehensive Harvard Encyclopedia of Architecture. Finally,
the Architectural Archives emerged out of this period of thinking.
DBR: The idea for an Architectural Archives series was novel when Garland
first published the Le Corbusier Archive. How did the idea occur to you?
AT: There were two precedents that I found particularly inspiring. Both
were outside the architectural domain and both made me dream of a publication
related to architecture and, more specifically, of starting with a project
based on the work of Le Corbusier. The first was the monumental publication
by Christian Zervos of the complete catalogue of Picasso's oeuvre in thirty-three
volumes. The second was a unique project Garland undertook in the 1970s
- the publication of James Joyce's archive in sixty-three volumes that
included notebooks, manuscripts, and typescripts.
The concept of the Architectural Archives was to present the totality
of a corpus of documents, ordered and with a minimum of assisting information,
without any editorial preselection of documents according to which would
be the "most significant" or the "most appealing"
for reproduction. Architectural documents were seen to be as significant
as painters' sketches and poets' notes, and no longer just as poor relatives.
The idea was to offer the researcher maxi- mum access with the least bias
to these documents.
DBR: The boom in architectural publishing has helped turn architecture
into a more consumable item. Does the Garland series fit into this boom?
AT: Every publication reflects the needs and world views of its times.
The Architectural Archives express certain changes that are occurring.
Architecture is beginning to rival the other visual arts and literature
for scholarly attention and there is a growing desire to understand the
meaning of buildings as objects of knowledge, to interact with them as
partners in a dialogue, rather than just use them or hedonistically stare
at them. Hence the interest in everything that helps this understanding,
and the fascination with documents that offer relevant clues. Hence also
the emergence of major documentation centers of architecture around the
world that collect drawings and other kinds of documents. These are not
museums in the sense of monuments to the dead, so much as organizations
that assist us to participate more intensely in our environment. This
is the context the Garland Architectural Archives sprang from.
DBR: Doesn't the Architectural Archives series risk preempting the work
of younger scholars who traditionally publish a monograph on the work
of an individual architect appended by illustrated catalogues raisonnés?
AT: I believe, on the contrary, that it makes the writing of such monographs
easier. The role of the Architectural Archives is not to replace such
monographs but to assist them. The case of the Le Corbusier Archive has
already proven this point. In the few years since its publication, it
has stimulated rather than frustrated researchers. We should also keep
in mind that the character of these monographs is changing in time: there
is a new accent on design hermeneutics and interpretation, or rather,
interpretations, I would say, and a growing need to comprehend architecture
rather than simply identify, list, and describe its products.
DBR: The Le Corbusier Archive must be the largest architectural publication
ever undertaken on a single architect. If I'm not mistaken, it was followed
by the publication of the Mies Archive, and then the Kahn. What other
projects are coming up?
AT: We are completing the Mies Archive of the Museum of Modem Art. The
first part of the archive, which covers the 1907-1938 period, is being
supplemented by two more volumes. The second part, which covers the 1938-1969
period, will be published in sixteen more volumes. Stuart Wrede has joined
the editorial group as the new director of MOMA' s department of architecture.
Another project coming up in 1990 is the Walter Gropius Archive of the
Busch-Reisinger Museum in four volumes, edited by Winfried Nerdinger.
It will be followed by the archives of Louis Sullivan, Hollabird and Roche,
and Hollabird and Root; and David Gebhard is editing the Schindler Archive.
DBR: What are the criteria for the quality of reproduction?
AT: The Garland projects are conceived as tools for scholars. For this
reason the publisher opted for information rather than aesthetics, for
the highest-quality library- standard bindings and printing on acid-free
250-year-life paper, rather than the visual : pleasure of the so-called
coffee-table books. :
DBR: Wouldn't color have been necessary in this case? I believe you publish
only black and white.
AT: With very few exceptions, the reproductions in the Garland Archive
are black and white simply to keep the price of the book reasonable. Color
reproduction would increase the costs of publication disproportionately.
We do not believe the effective- ness of the Architectural Archives for
researchers has been diminished. The verbal description of the drawing
informs re- searchers that a document contains certain colors. Ultimately
a researcher might have to visit a collection and look at the actual documents.
The Garland Archives series is not a substitute for such a study but instead
prepares and helps organize such a study.
DBR: A common complaint about the Garland Archives is that they are presented
without explanation. Obviously it would have been impossible to supply
comments on each item in the thirty-two volumes of the Le Corbusier Archive,
but it might have been helpful to know about groups and number systems.
For instance, the items were not numbered chronologically but in the order
in which they were found. Is anything being done to better guide the reader
through the archival material?
AT: Our Corbu Archive groups documents by building project, as the Fondation
Le Corbusier had grouped them when we started discussing the project with
them. Due to the colossal scale of the work the Fondation had already
carried out, we compromised and Garland accepted the Fondation's own system.
In contrast, our other archives are more "user-friendly" and
explicit in their organization. They also include notes for each building
project.
DBR: The first three publications of the Architectural Archive series
included only drawings. Is this a general policy?
AT: No. The concept of the Architectural Archives is broader. It covers
any type of document whose study can contribute to the understanding of
the generative process of architectural creation-three-dimensional models,
paintings, photographs, writings, correspondence, professional-legal documents.
Certainly, drawings are the key documents. We have already published a
five-volume index to the Taliesin correspondence of Frank Lloyd Wright
edited by Anthony Alofsin, together with a complete list of FL W projects
compiled with Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. And I hope we will soon begin other
projects that contain such diverse kinds of documentary material.
DBR: Are there any other architectural publications by Garland besides
the Architectural Archives?
AT: Garland publishes other tools for architectural researchers. These
include annotated bibliographies on individual architects such as Le Corbusier,
Kahn, Aalto, or on specialized research topics such as architectural preservation
and renovation, congressional documents, or architecture and women, or
indexes, like the Burnham Index to architectural literature of the Art
Institute of Chicago. Other more unusual reference publications are being
prepared, such as The Synergetics Dictionary: The Mind of Buckminster
Fuller.
DBR: What impact might the Architectural Archive series have on the practice
or understanding of architecture?
AT: It makes easier the understanding of architectural creation as a complex
process of conflict resolution and compromise, reconciling existing constraints,
rather than a mystifying, so-called "creative" process in a
tabula rasa, freewheeling world.
GARLAND BOOKS CITED: DeLong, David G., The Architecture of Bruce
Goff: Buildings and Projects, 1976 Gordon, Michael, editor, The James
Joyce
Archive, 63 volumes, 1978
Hunt, John Dixon, editor, The English Land- scape Garden, 1970
Steinberg, Leo, Borromini's San Carlo aile Quattro Fontane: A Study in
Multiple Form and Architectural Symbolism, 1959
Turner, Paul V., The Education ofLe Corbusier,
1971
ALSO CITED:
Zervos, Christian, Pablo Picasso: Cahiers d'Art, 23 volumes (Paris: 1932-1978)
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