In 1995, Herman Miller moved several hundred factory employees from an old windowless building to a new facility designed by renowned green architect William McDonough—a bright, well-lit space surrounded by West Michigan prairie. It wasn’t just a change in scenery: In addition to being a pilot for the development of the LEED certification program, the transition was advised by a team from the Rocky Mountain Institute, a think tank dedicated to sustainability research. Their goal? To find out if employees who felt more connected to nature would be more productive.
Bill Browning, a member of the original Rocky Mountain team, recalls the observation that cracked the case. “What the researchers discovered was the daytime shift had a fairly dramatic gain in productivity, the swing shift data was inconsistent, and the nighttime shift had no gains in productivity,” he says. “From this it was concluded that the landscape was the significant contributing factor.”
In the following decades, Browning and his contemporaries have sought out and analyzed a wide range of studies that examine the psychological and physiological impact of nature on humans. Over time, they have organized their findings into 15 patterns, or principles, of biophilic design, all of which have been proven to reduce stress, boost cognitive performance, and improve mood.
Browning currently helms the New York-based environmental strategy and architecture firm Terrapin Bright Green, which contracts with big-thinking clients like Google and Clif Bar to harness cutting-edge research to solve design problems. We caught up with him to talk about why the Guggenheim is a biophilic building, the importance of “peril” in design, and how to create moments of awe in interiors.
The patterns, or design elements, of biophilia fall into three broad categories. How do you break them down?
The first group is Nature in the Space, involving direct experiences of nature, like plants, animals, water, sunshine, and breezes. The next group, Natural Analogues, are indirect connections to nature, like the use of natural materials, or the use of biomorphic forms in patterns and shapes. Because the brain is attuned to those, it actually takes less energy for the brain to process them and lowers stress levels when we see them in fabrics, details, and surfaces in built environments.
The final category, Nature of the Space, is the spatial experiences themselves. Originally, we had four patterns [falling under this category]: Prospect, which is an unimpeded view through space; Refuge, where your back is protected and you have some canopy overhead—and if you put the two together, think of the big overhanging roof covering a raised porch on the front of a Craftsman bungalow. You have a view all up and down the streets—that’s a great Prospect condition—while your back is protected and you’ve got the shelter overhead. The high-backed booth where you’ve got a view of the whole restaurant is another example.
So it’s all about a sense of security?
Not exactly. Mystery, [the third Nature of the Space pattern], is a condition where there’s partially revealed information that prompts you to go explore and see what else is there. A classic example of this would be a curving street in a medieval town; another is the sound of a water feature in the distance, where you’re compelled to go see and explore it. You can do a curving wall inside as well, or an aperture that reveals some of what exists, but not all. What’s important is that you can’t see the full dimension of the next space, which makes you want to explore it.
The fourth is Risk, sometimes called Peril, which is a pattern you don’t want to use too much of: a potentially risky situation where there’s possible danger, but also a sense of safety. For example, at the Guggenheim Museum in New York, you go up to the top, look down over the rail, and Frank Lloyd Wright made that rail on the ramp just a little bit too low.
I’m scared of heights, so I’m always a little wary.
Exactly. It’s not low enough that you’re in danger falling over it, but it’s just low enough to make it really exhilarating to look over that edge. Or go to a Japanese garden and you’ll find stepping stones through a shallow pond. Are you going to fall in the water? Maybe. Is it going to be dangerous? Probably not so much. But it is a little thrilling to walk across that.
We’ve also added a new [Nature of the Space] pattern through a lot of recent research that has been sponsored by Google. Their culture is: If you don’t have the science, you can’t lay out the pattern. So we had to go full science. We developed a set of guidelines for their design teams for their spaces and campuses worldwide. The new pattern is one we wanted to include in our earlier set, but until recently there wasn’t enough science to really lay it out. That’s the experience of Awe.
You walk up to the edge of the Grand Canyon, or up to the Great Buddha of Kamakura, or into an old cathedral—what happens? What you see watching people is pretty much the same response: They stop, their jaw opens slightly, their eyes get brighter and wider, and their breathing changes as they pause. That’s a really distinct brain response. It’s actually several centers in the brain overloading simultaneously, rushing forward to the prefrontal cortex. You’re humbled; you tend to exhibit more pro-social behavior; you tend to be more charitable after having an Awe experience.