Design drawing 3rd edition ebook pdf

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FRANCIS D. K. CHING WITH STEVEN P. JUROSZEK

DESIGN D RAW I N G THIRD EDITION

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P R EFA C E T O T HE T HIR D ED IT I ON This is a comprehensive drawing manual for students of architecture, interior design, and related design disciplines.

Drawing guides typically range from beginning texts on how to draw certain subjects, such as landscapes or the human figure, to more advanced treatises on drawing as art. Some focus on a specific medium, such as pencil or pen-and-ink; others dwell on a particular technique, such as perspective drawing. Further, the discussion is often limited to learning how to draw from observation. This book is based on the premise that drawing is central to the design process. It therefore focuses on drawing as a medium for visualizing and communicating design ideas.

The work begins with an introduction to the drawing process, which involves seeing, imagining, and representing. The remaining content is divided into three parts. Part 1: Drawing from Observation introduces the graphic elements that constitute the vocabulary of drawing—line, shape, tone, form, and space. This largely remains the province of freehand drawing because we can best learn to see, understand, and represent these elements through direct examination.

Part 2: Drawing Systems describes the formal systems for representing three-dimensional objects and space, which constitute the language of design drawing. Regardless of the drawing medium or technique we use, each system represents a uniquely different way of seeing and describing the visible world that we experience directly, or a future world that we imagine in design.

Part 3: Drawing from the Imagination addresses issues that arise as we think in a speculative manner to stimulate the design process, develop our design ideas through drawing, and plan how to present our design proposals in the best possible light.

It is in this arena where digital drawing and modeling tools have made major advances, both in academia and the profession.

Accompanying each section are a series of short exercises for developing skills and suggestions for longer projects that test the understanding and application of concepts. Like any discipline, drawing takes perseverance and regular exercise to develop mastery and fluency. The information in this manual cannot be received passively but must be learned by actively participating in the process of drawing.

P REFACE / v ii

P R E FAC E The emphasis remains on drawing by hand, which is the most direct and intuitive means we have to express our visual thoughts and perceptions. Through the tactile nature of drawing in direct response to our visual thoughts and perceptions, we develop an understanding of spatial concepts and the critical ability to think and visualize in three dimensions.

Nevertheless, we cannot ignore the advances in computer technology that have significantly altered the process of architectural drawing and design. Current graphics software ranges from 2D drawing programs to 3D surface and solid modelers that aid in the design and representation of buildings, from small houses to large and complex structures. It is therefore important to acknowledge the unique opportunities and challenges digital tools offer in the production of architectural graphics. While the second edition augmented the material in the first edition with discussions and examples of digital graphic techniques where appropriate to the task at hand, this third edition goes further and provides more examples of strictly digital as well as hybrid processes of producing drawings in the design process.

Whether a drawing is executed by hand or developed with the aid of a computer, the standards and judgments governing the effective communication of design ideas in architecture remain the same, just as the rules of spelling, grammar and punctuation for the written language remain applicable, whether jotted by hand traditionally, typed on a manual or electric typewriter, or entered by keyboard into a word processor.

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Introduction Drawing is the process or technique of representing something— an object, scene, or idea—by making lines on a surface. This definition implies that delineation is different from painting and the coloring of surfaces. While drawing is generally linear in nature, it may include other pictorial elements, such as dots and brush strokes, which can also be interpreted as lines. Whatever form a drawing takes, it is the principal means by which we organize and express our visual thoughts and perceptions. We therefore regard drawing not only as artistic expression but also as a practical tool for formulating and working through design problems.

D E SI G N D R AW IN G The term design drawing brings to mind the presentation drawings used to persuade the viewer of the merits of a design proposal. Also familiar are the construction or working drawings that provide graphic instructions for producing or building a project. But designers use both the process and products of drawing in other ways as well. In design, the role of drawing expands to include recording what exists, working out ideas, and speculating about and planning for the future.

Throughout the design process, we use drawing to develop an idea from concept to proposal to constructed reality.

To learn how to draw and to use drawing effectively as a design instrument, it is necessary to acquire certain fundamental skills, such as inscribing lines and laying down tonal values.

Over time and with enough practice, anyone can learn these techniques. Skillful technique is of little value, however, unless accompanied by understanding of the perceptual principles on which these techniques are based. Even as digital drawing tools evolve and augment traditional drawing methods, enabling us to transfer ideas onto the computer screen and develop them into three-dimensional models, drawing remains a cognitive process that involves perceptive seeing and visual thinking.

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T HE D R AWIN G P ROC E S S At the heart of all drawing is an interactive process of seeing, imagining, and representing images. Seeing creates the images of external reality we perceive with our eyes open, which give rise to our discovery of the world. With our eyes closed, the mind’s eye presents images of an inner reality—visual memories of past events or projections of an imagined future. And then there are the images we create on paper, drawings that we use to express and communicate our thoughts and perceptions.

Seeing Vision is the primary sensory channel through which we make contact with our world. It is our best-developed sense, the farthest reaching, and the one we rely on the most for our dayto-day activities. Seeing empowers our ability to draw, while drawing invigorates seeing.

Imagining The visual data received by the eye is processed, manipulated, and filtered by the mind in its active search for structure and meaning. The mind’s eye creates the images we see, and these are the images we attempt to represent in drawing. Drawing is therefore more than a manual skill; it involves visual thought that stimulates the imagination, while imagining provides impetus for drawing.

Representing In drawing, we make marks on a surface to graphically represent what we see before us or imagine in the mind’s eye. Drawing is a natural means of expression, creating a separate but parallel world of images that speak to the eye.

The activity of drawing cannot be detached from seeing and thinking about the subject being represented. We cannot draw an object or a scene unless we see it before us as a model, or are sufficiently familiar with it to recreate it from memory or our imagination. Drawing proficiency must therefore be accompanied by knowledge and understanding of what we endeavor to represent in graphic form.

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VI SU A L PE R CE PTIO N The act of seeing is a dynamic and creative process. It is capable of delivering a stable, three-dimensional perception of the moving, changing images that make up our visual world. There are three phases in the swift and sophisticated processing that results in the images we see: • Reception: our eyes receive energy input in the form of light—either its source or its reflection from illuminated surfaces. The optics of the eye form an upside-down image of incoming light rays on the retina, a collection of nerve cells that are an extension of the brain. These photosensitive cells convert electromagnetic energy into electrochemical signals and provide a point-by-point assessment of the intensity of light received.

• Extraction: the mind extracts basic visual features from this input. The input—basically a pattern of lights and darks—is further processed by other nerve cells in the retina and moves down the optic nerve. After an intermediate stop it arrives at the visual cortex of the brain, which has cells that extract specific features of visual input: the location and orientation of edges, movement, size, and color.

The eye sees… the mind interprets.

• Inference: on the basis of these extracted features, we make inferences about our world. Only a very small area of the retina is capable of distinguishing fine detail. Our eyes must therefore continuously scan an object and its environment to see it in its entirety. When we look at something, what we see is actually constructed from a rapid succession of interconnected retinal images. We are able to perceive a stable image even while our eyes are scanning. Our visual system thus does more than passively and mechanically record the physical features of a visual stimulus; it actively transforms sensory impressions of light into meaningful forms.

Bust of Queen Nefertiti The pattern of eye movement of a person viewing a figure, from research by Alfred L. Yarbus of the Institute for Problems of Information Transmission in Moscow.

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V IS U A L P E RC E P T I ON Seeing is a vigorous, pattern-seeking process. The mind’s eye uses the input extracted from the retinal image as the basis for making educated guesses about what we encounter.

Inference is easy for the mind. The mind’s eye actively seeks those features that fit our image of the world. It looks for closure—for meaning and understanding in the patterns it receives. We are able to form images from the barest scaffolding of visual data, filling out the images if necessary with information that is not really there. For example, we may not understand this incomplete pattern of lights and darks, but once recognized, it cannot not be seen.

Visual perception thus is a creation of the mind’s eye. The eye is blind to what the mind does not see. The picture in our head is not only based on input extracted from the retinal image but is also shaped by our interests and the knowledge and experiences each of us brings to the act of seeing. Our cultural environment also modifies our perceptions and teaches us how to interpret the visual phenomena we experience.

In this illusion designed by psychologist E. G. Boring in 1930, one can see either the profile of a younger woman or the head of an older woman.

Different ways of perceiving and interpreting the same visual phenomena.

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SE E I N G & D R AW ING Seeing Facilitates Drawing The drawing of things we see before us, including the careful copying of a master’s work, has traditionally been fundamental training for artists and designers. Drawing from observation is the classic method for developing eye-mind-hand coordination.

Experiencing and examining the visible world in a direct manner through drawing makes us more conscious of the dynamics of sight. This understanding, in turn, helps us to draw.

Drawing Invigorates Seeing We normally do not see all that we are capable of seeing.

Preconceived notions of what we expect or believe to be out there usually direct our seeing. Through familiarity, we tend to pass over things we confront and use every day without really seeing them. These perceptual prejudices make our life simpler and safer. We do not have to pay full attention to each and every visual stimulus as if seeing it for the first time each day.

Instead we can select out only those that provide information pertinent to our momentary needs. This expeditious kind of seeing leads to our common use of stereotypical images and visual clichés.

The labeling of visual stereotypes, while necessary to avoid perceptual chaos, can also prevent us from looking anew at what we see as familiar. The visual environment is usually fuller and richer than what we normally perceive at a glance. To make full use of our visual faculty—to see more than symbols—we must learn to see things as if we were going to draw them.

Drawing encourages us to pay attention and to experience the full range of visual phenomena and appreciate the uniqueness of the most ordinary things. In fostering a heightened and critical awareness of the visual environment, drawing also nurtures understanding and improves our visual memory. In drawing from the imagination, we recall past perceptions and draw on these memories.

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IMAGINING Our perception is not limited to what we can see in the here and now. Images often appear spontaneously in response to a sensory perception—something seen, touched, or smelled.

Even without any sort of sensory stimulation, we have the mental faculty of recalling or recreating images. Easily, almost effortlessly, you can imagine something as soon as it is suggested to you. As you read these words, you can easily visualize: • Places, such as a childhood bedroom, the street where you live, or a scene described in a novel.

• Things, such as a triangle or square, a balloon floating in the air, or a grandfather’s clock.

• People, such as a close friend, relative, or a TV newscaster.

• Activities, such as opening a door, riding a bicycle, or throwing a baseball.

• Operations, such as a cube rotating in space, a ball rolling down an incline, or a bird taking off in flight.

In responding to all of these verbal prompts, we are picturing with the mind’s eye. We are thinking visually.

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VI SU A L THI N KIN G Visual thinking—thinking in images—pervades all human activity. It is an essential part of everyday life. We think in visual terms when we drive down a street looking for an address, set the table for a dinner party, or contemplate a move in a game of chess. Our thought has visual form when we search for constellations in the night sky, build a cabinet from a set of drawings, or design a building. In each of these activities, we actively seek to match the images we see with the images we hold in the mind’s eye.

The images in our head are not limited to what we see in the present. The mind is capable of forming, exploring, and recombining images beyond the normal bounds of time and space. With hindsight we visualize memories of things, places, and events from the past. With foresight, we are also able to look forward in time—to use our imagination to envision a possible future. Imagination therefore enables us to have both a sense of history as well as a plan for the future. It establishes connections—visual bridges—between the past, present, and future.

Which configuration does not match the pattern of the other two?

Remembering the past: an 8th-century Japanese structure

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D R AWIN G & I M A G I N I N G Imagination Inspires Drawing The images we conjure up in the mind’s eye are often hazy, brief, and all too elusive. Even if vivid and clear, they can come to mind and just as suddenly disappear. Unless captured in a drawing, they can easily be lost in awareness and replaced by others in the stream of consciousness. Drawing thus is a natural and necessary extension of visual thought. As the mental picture guides the movement of our eyes and hand on paper, the emerging drawing simultaneously tempers the image in our head. Further thoughts come to mind and are integrated into the process of imagining and drawing.

Drawing Stimulates the Imagination Drawing is a medium that influences thought just as thought directs drawing. Sketching an idea on paper enables us to explore and clarify it in much the same way as we can form and order a thought by putting it into words. Making thoughts concrete and visible enables us to act on them. We can analyze them, see them in a new light, combine them in new ways, and transform them into new ideas. Used in this way, design drawings further stimulate the imagination from which they spring.

Imagine how you could transform these circles into other things by simply drawing a few lines.

This type of drawing is essential to the initial and developmental phases of the design process. An artist contemplating various compositions for a painting, a choreographer orchestrating a dance sequence for the stage, and an architect organizing the spatial complexities of a building—all use drawings in this exploratory way to imagine possibilities and speculate on the future.

Imagining the future: a weekend retreat

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R E P R E SE N TIN G A drawing can never reproduce reality; it can only make visible our perceptions of that outer reality and the inner visions of the mind’s eye. In the process of drawing, we create a separate reality, which parallels our experiences.

Our perceptions are holistic, incorporating all the information we possess about the phenomena we experience. A single drawing, however, can only express a limited portion of our experience. In drawing from observation, we direct our attention to particular aspects of our vision and we choose either consciously or unconsciously to ignore others. The choice of medium and technique we elect to use also affects what we are able to convey in a drawing.

We can also draw what we know about a subject, which can be expressed in ways other than how it appears to the eye. In drawing from the imagination, for example, we are not limited to the perceptual views of optical reality. We can draw instead a conceptual view of what the mind sees. Both perceptual and conceptual views are legitimate means of representation. They represent complementary ways of seeing and drawing. The choice of one over the other depends on the purpose of the drawing and what we want to communicate of the subject.

Different ways of representing the same objective reality.

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R E P RE S E N T I N G Visual Communication All drawings communicate to the extent they stimulate an awareness on the part of those who view them. Drawings must catch the eye before they can communicate or instruct. Once they engage the viewer, they should assist their imagination and invite a response.

Drawings are by nature information-rich. It would be difficult to adequately describe with words what a drawing is able to reveal at a glance. But just as we each see in a different way, we can each view the same drawing and interpret it differently.

Even the most realistic drawing is subject to interpretation.

Any drawing we use to communicate visual information should therefore represent things in a way that is comprehensible to others. The more abstract a drawing, the more it must rely on conventions and text to communicate a message or convey information.

A common form of visual communication is the diagram, a simplified drawing that can illustrate a process or action, clarify a set of relationships, or describe a pattern of change or growth. Another example is the set of presentation drawings that offer a design proposal to others for their review and evaluation. More utilitarian forms of graphic communication include design patterns, working drawings, and technical illustrations. These visual instructions guide others in the construction of a design or the transformation of an idea into reality.

Examples of drawings that communicate relations, processes, and patterns.

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R E P R E SE N TIN G Reading Drawings While we are able to read drawings we do not author or that we are incapable of executing, the converse is not true. We cannot construct a drawing unless we are able to decipher the graphic marks we make and understand the way others might see and interpret them. An essential part of learning how to draw is learning to read the drawings we encounter as well as the ones we execute ourselves.

Being able to read a drawing means that we understand the relationship between a subject and how it is represented in a drawing. For example, any drawing, whether generated on a computer screen or created by hand, can be improperly constructed and misconstrue the three-dimensional idea that it represents. We should be able to recognize when a drawing conveys something that is not possible in reality, even though the graphic image may give the opposite impression.

What appears to work on paper may not be possible in objective reality.

To better critique and improve our own drawings, we should cultivate the habit of reading them the way others might see them. It is easy to convince our eyes that one of our drawings actually stands for what we believe it represents. It is just as easy to see mistakes in another’s drawing because we see it with fresh eyes. Looking at a drawing upside down, from a distance, or through a mirror causes us to see it in a new way. The sudden changes of view enable us to see problems our minds predisposed us to ignore. Even small errors that appear to be trivial are of some consequence if they muddy the message or meaning of a drawing.

object thought

thought

drawing

A fundamental question in design drawing is how closely what viewers read in a drawing matches the intentions of its author.

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Drawing from Observation “Learning to draw is really a matter of learning to see—to see correctly—and that means a good deal more than merely looking with the eye. The sort of ‘seeing’ I mean is an observation that utilizes as many of the five senses as can reach through the eye at one time.”

Kimon Nicolaïdes The Natural Way to Draw

Despite the subjective nature of perception, sight is still the most important sense for gathering information about our world. In the seeing process, we are able to reach out through space and trace the edges of objects, scan surfaces, feel textures, and explore space. The tactile, kinesthetic nature of drawing in direct response to sensory phenomena sharpens our awareness in the present, expands our visual memories of the past, and stimulates the imagination in designing the future.

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Line and Shape A point has no dimension or scale. When made visible as a dot, the point establishes a position in space. As the dot moves across a surface, it traces the path of a line—the quintessential element of drawing. We rely principally on the line to portray the edges and contours of objects we see in visual space. In delineating these boundaries, the line naturally begins to define shape—the pictorial element that establishes the figures in our visual field and organizes the composition of a drawing.

LINE Conceptually, a line is a one-dimensional element having a continuous extent of length but no breadth or thickness. Such a line does not actually exist in the physical world of matter.

Whatever we regard as a line is in fact a thin, solid volume, such as a strand of wire; or a very narrow depression, such as a crease; or a discontinuity in color or tonal value, such as where an object meets its shadow. Yet our vision perceives all of these as lines. Just as lines are critical to the way we perceive our world, they are essential in representing our perceptions in a drawing.

In drawing, we pull or drag the point of a tool across a receptive surface to produce a line. As a graphic element, the line is a one-dimensional trace on a two-dimensional surface. Yet, it is the most natural and efficient means we have to circumscribe and describe the three-dimensional form of a subject. We construct these lines as we do in sight in order to recreate a sense of the form’s existence in space. And as viewers, we readily associate the drawn lines with the physical boundaries of a form and the edges of parts within it.

In succeeding chapters, we will explore the use of the line in conveying light and shade, texture, and the internal structure of form. For now, we are concerned with the role of the line in delineating edges and contours—the most common form of pictorial representation.

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C ON T OUR Contours dominate our perception of the visual world. The mind infers the existence of contours from the patterns of light and dark the eyes receive. Our visual system seeks out and creates a cognitive line along the points where two fields of contrasting light or color meet. Some of these edges are clear; others are lost in the background as they change color or tonal value. Still, in its need to identify objects, the mind is able to fabricate a continuous line along each edge. In the seeing process, the mind enhances these edges and sees them as contours.

The most noticeable contours are those that separate one thing from another. These contours give rise to the images of objects we see in visual space. They circumscribe an object and define the outer boundary between the figure and its background. In limiting and defining the edges of things, contours also describe their shape.

But contours do more than describe the outline of a flat, twodimensional silhouette.

• Some contours travel inward at folds or breaks in a plane.

• Others are formed by overlapping or projecting parts.

• Still other contours describe the shapes of spaces and shadows within the form.

In both seeing and drawing, we are able to follow these contours as they eloquently describe the three-dimensional nature of forms in space.

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C ON T OU R D R AW ING Contour drawing is one approach to drawing from observation.

Its primary purpose is to develop visual acuity and sensitivity to qualities of surface and form. The process of contour drawing suppresses the symbolic abstraction we normally use to represent things. Instead, it compels us to pay close attention, look carefully, and to experience a subject with both our visual and tactile senses.

Our goal in contour drawing is to arrive at an accurate correspondence between the eye as it follows the edges of a form and the hand as it draws the lines that represent those edges. As the eye slowly traces the contours of a subject, the hand moves the drawing instrument at the same slow and deliberate pace and responds to every indentation and undulation of form. This is a meticulous and methodical process that involves working from detail to detail, part to part, and form to form.

The process is as much tactile as visual. Imagine the pencil or pen is in actual contact with the subject as you draw. Do not retrace over lines or erase them. Most importantly, draw slowly and deliberately. Avoid the temptation to move the hand faster than the eye can see; move in pace with the eye and examine the shape of each contour you see in the subject without considering or worrying about its identity.

Contour drawing is best done with either a soft, well-sharpened pencil or a fine-tipped pen that is capable of producing a single incisive line. This fosters a feeling of precision that corresponds to the acuity of vision contour drawing promotes.

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B LIN D C O N T O UR DRAW I N G Blind contour drawing involves the drawing of contours while looking only at the subject, not the surface upon which we are drawing or the evolving image. Turn your body away from the paper and concentrate all of your attention on the subject.

Your eyes should remain on the subject as the hand attempts to record on paper what you see.

Focus the eye on a clearly defined point along a contour of the subject. Place the tip of the pen or pencil on the paper and imagine it is actually touching the subject at that point.

Slowly and painstakingly follow the contour with your eyes, observing every minute shift or bend in the contour. As your eyes move, also move your pen or pencil on the paper at the same deliberate pace, recording each variation in contour that you see.

Continue to draw each edge you see, bit by bit, at a slow, even pace. You may have to stop periodically as you continue to scan the subject, but avoid making these stopping points too conspicuous. Strive to record each contour at the very instant you see each point along the contour. Allow the eye, mind, and hand to respond simultaneously to each and every critically perceived event.

In this mode of drawing, distorted and exaggerated proportions often result. The final drawing is not intended to look like the object but rather to document and express your careful perception of its lines, shapes, and volumes.

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M OD IFIE D CON TOUR DRAWING In modified contour drawing, we begin as in blind contour drawing. But in order to check relationships of size, length, and angle, we allow ourselves to glance at the emerging drawing at certain intervals.

Begin as in blind contour drawing. Select any convenient point along a contour of the subject. Place the tip of the pen or pencil on the sheet of paper and imagine it is in contact with the same point on the subject. Check the relationship of the contour to an imaginary vertical or horizontal line. As your eyes follow the contour in space, carefully draw the contour line at the same slow and deliberate pace.

Work from contour to contour, along, across, or around the edges and surfaces of a form. Respond to each and every surface modulation with equivalent hand movements. At certain points—breaks in planes or folds across contours— a contour line may disappear around a bend or be interrupted by another contour. At these junctures, look at the drawing and realign your pen or pencil with the previously stated edge to maintain a reasonable degree of accuracy and proportion. With only a glance for realignment, continue to draw, keeping your eyes on the subject.

The more we focus on what we see, the more we will become aware of the details of a form—the thickness of a material, how it turns or bends around a corner, and the manner in which it meets other materials. When confronted with a myriad of details, we must judge the relative significance of each detail and draw only those contours that are absolutely essential to the comprehension and representation of the form. Strive for economy of linework.

Do not worry about the proportions of the whole. With experience and practice, we eventually develop the ability to scan each contour of a subject, hold an image of that line in the mind’s eye, visualize it on the drawing surface, and then draw over the projected trace.

While a true contour drawing uses a single line weight, varying the width of a line while drawing enables one to be more expressive. Thickening a line can provide emphasis, create a sense of depth, or imply a shadow. The characteristics of the line used to define a contour can communicate the nature of the form—its materiality, surface texture, and visual weight.

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MO D IF IED C O N T O U R DRAW I N G Exercise 1.1 Pick a subject that has interesting contours, as your own hand, a pair of sneakers, or a fallen leaf. Focus all of your attention on the contours of the subject and draw a series of blind contour drawings. Blind contour drawing develops visual acuity, sensitivity to contours, and hand-eye-mind coordination.

Exercise 1.2 Pair up with a friend. Draw a contour drawing of your friend’s left eye using your right-hand. Then draw a contour drawing of your friend’s right eye using your left-hand. Compare the drawing done with your normal drawing hand with that executed with the opposite hand. Drawing with your “unfamiliar hand” forces you to draw more slowly and be more sensitive to the contours you see. This exercise may also be done by looking in a mirror and drawing your own pair of eyes.

Exercise 1.3 Compose a still life of objects having different forms—flowers and a hand tool, several fruit and bottles, leaves and a handbag.

Draw a series of modified contour drawings of the composition.

Try not to name or identify the things you are drawing, which can lead to the drawing of symbols. Rather, pay close attention to, sense, and record the differing nature of the edges and contours as you see them.

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C R O SS-CON TOU R DRAWING In cross-contour drawing, we draw lines not as we perceive them but as they would appear if inscribed across the surfaces of an object. So rather than depict the spatial edges of a form, cross-contours emphasize the way its surfaces turn and shift in space.

We use cross-contours to explore and represent the volumetric nature of an object, especially when its form is not composed of flat planes or is organic in character. Cross-contours flow over the ridges and along the hollows of a surface. Where the surface is indented, the cross-contour line indents; where the surface rises, then the cross-contour line rises as well.

To better visualize the spatial turns and shifts that occur along the surfaces of an object, imagine cutting a series of equally spaced, parallel planes through the form. Then draw the series of profiles that result from the cuts. Through the series of closely spaced cross-contour lines, the form of the object will emerge.

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SHAPE The lines we see in visual space correspond to discernible changes in color or tonal value. In contour drawing, we use visible lines to represent these lines of contrast that occur along the edges of objects and spaces. The contour lines delineate where one area or volume begins and another apparently ends. Our perception and drawing of the boundary lines that separate one thing from another leads to our recognition and description of shape.

Shape is the characteristic outline or surface configuration of a figure or form. As a visual concept in drawing and design, shape refers specifically to a two-dimensional area enclosed by its own boundaries and cut off from a larger field. Everything we see—every area in our field of vision enclosed by a contour line or bounded by an edge between contrasting colors or tonal values—has the quality of shape. And it is by shape that we organize and identify what we see.

A shape can never exist alone. It can only be seen in relation to other shapes or the space surrounding it. Any line that defines a shape on one side of its contour simultaneously carves out space on the other side of its path. As we draw a line, therefore, we must be conscious not only of where it begins and ends, but also how it moves and the shapes it carves and molds along the way.

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SE E I N G SHAPE S At the threshold of perception, we begin to see parts of a visual field as solid, well-defined objects standing out against a less distinct background. Gestalt psychologists use the term figure-ground to describe this property of perception.

Figure-ground is an essential concept in the ordering of our visual world: without this differentiation of figure from ground, we would see as if through a fog. A figure emerges from a background when it has certain characteristics.

The contour line that borders a figure appears to belong to it rather than to the surrounding background.

The figure appears to be a self-contained object, while its background does not.

The figure appears to advance in front of a continuous, receding background.

The figure has a color or tonal value that is more solid or substantial than that of the background.

The figure appears to be closer and the background more distant.

The figure appears to dominate its field and be more memorable as a visual image.

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F IG U RE -G ROUN D The visual environment is in reality a continuous array of figureground relationships. No part of a visual field is truly inert. A thing becomes a figure when we pay attention to it. When we fix our gaze on a book on a crowded desk, it becomes a figure while the rest of the desktop dissolves into the background. As we shift our awareness to another book, a stack of papers, or a lamp, each can become a figure seen against the ground of the desktop. Broadening our view, the desk can be seen as a figure against the ground of a wall, and the wall can become a figure seen against the enclosing surfaces of the room.

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P O SI TIVE A N D N E GATIVE SH APES A figure that we can see relatively clearly against a background is said to have a positive shape. By comparison, the figure’s rather shapeless background is said to have a negative shape.

The positive shapes of figures tend to advance and be relatively complete and substantial, while their background appears to recede and be comparatively incomplete and amorphous.

We are conditioned to see the shapes of things rather than the shapes of the spaces between them. While we normally perceive spatial voids as having no substance, they share the same edges as the objects they separate or envelop. The positive shapes of figures and the shapeless spaces of backgrounds share the same boundaries and combine to form an inseparable whole—a unity of opposites.

In drawing, also, negative shapes share the contour lines that define the edges of positive shapes. The format and composition of a drawing consists of positive and negative shapes that fit together like the interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In both seeing and drawing, we should raise the shapes of negative spaces to the same level of importance as the positive shapes of figures and see them as equal partners in the relationship. Since negative shapes do not always have the easily recognizable qualities of positive shapes, they can be seen only if we make the effort.

2 6 / DRAWING FR OM OB S E RVATI O N

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DANCE ON STILTS AT THE GIRLS’ UNYAGO, NIUCHI

Newala, too, suffers from the distance of its water-supply—at least the Newala of to-day does; there was once another Newala in a lovely valley at the foot of the plateau. I visited it and found scarcely a trace of houses, only a Christian cemetery, with the graves of several missionaries and their converts, remaining as a monument of its former glories. But the surroundings are wonderfully beautiful. A thick grove of splendid mango-trees closes in the weather-worn crosses and headstones; behind them, combining the useful and the agreeable, is a whole plantation of lemon-trees covered with ripe fruit; not the small African kind, but a much larger and also juicier imported variety, which drops into the hands of the passing traveller, without calling for any exertion on his part. Old Newala is now under the jurisdiction of the native pastor, Daudi, at Chingulungulu, who, as I am on very friendly terms with him, allows me, as a matter of course, the use of this lemon-grove during my stay at Newala.

FEET MUTILATED BY THE RAVAGES OF THE “JIGGER” (Sarcopsylla penetrans)

The water-supply of New Newala is in the bottom of the valley, some 1,600 feet lower down. The way is not only long and fatiguing, but the water, when we get it, is thoroughly bad. We are suffering not only from this, but from the fact that the arrangements at Newala are nothing short of luxurious. We have a separate kitchen—a hut built against the boma palisade on the right of the baraza, the interior of which is not visible from our usual position. Our two cooks were not long in finding this out, and they consequently do—or rather neglect to do—what they please. In any case they do not seem to be very particular about the boiling of our drinking-water—at least I can attribute to no other cause certain attacks of a dysenteric nature, from which both Knudsen and I have suffered for some time. If a man like Omari has to be left unwatched for a moment, he is capable of anything. Besides this complaint, we are inconvenienced by the state of our nails, which have become as hard as glass, and crack on the slightest provocation, and I have the additional infliction of pimples all over me. As if all this were not enough, we have also, for the last week been waging war against the jigger, who has found his Eldorado in the hot sand of the Makonde plateau. Our men are seen all day long—whenever their chronic colds and the dysentery likewise raging among them permit—occupied in removing this scourge of Africa from their feet and trying to prevent the disastrous consequences of its presence. It is quite common to see natives of this place with one or two toes missing; many have lost all their toes,

or even the whole front part of the foot, so that a well-formed leg ends in a shapeless stump. These ravages are caused by the female of Sarcopsylla penetrans, which bores its way under the skin and there develops an egg-sac the size of a pea. In all books on the subject, it is stated that one’s attention is called to the presence of this parasite by an intolerable itching. This agrees very well with my experience, so far as the softer parts of the sole, the spaces between and under the toes, and the side of the foot are concerned, but if the creature penetrates through the harder parts of the heel or ball of the foot, it may escape even the most careful search till it has reached maturity.

Then there is no time to be lost, if the horrible ulceration, of which we see cases by the dozen every day, is to be prevented. It is much easier, by the way, to discover the insect on the white skin of a European than on that of a native, on which the dark speck scarcely shows. The four or five jiggers which, in spite of the fact that I constantly wore high laced boots, chose my feet to settle in, were taken out for me by the all-accomplished Knudsen, after which I thought it advisable to wash out the cavities with corrosive sublimate. The natives have a different sort of disinfectant—they fill the hole with scraped roots. In a tiny Makua village on the slope of the plateau south of Newala, we saw an old woman who had filled all the spaces under her toe-nails with powdered roots by way of prophylactic treatment. What will be the result, if any, who can say?

The rest of the many trifling ills which trouble our existence are really more comic than serious. In the absence of anything else to smoke, Knudsen and I at last opened a box of cigars procured from the Indian store-keeper at Lindi, and tried them, with the most distressing results. Whether they contain opium or some other narcotic, neither of us can say, but after the tenth puff we were both “off,” three-quarters stupefied and unspeakably wretched. Slowly we recovered—and what happened next? Half-an-hour later we were once more smoking these poisonous concoctions—so insatiable is the craving for tobacco in the tropics.

Even my present attacks of fever scarcely deserve to be taken seriously. I have had no less than three here at Newala, all of which have run their course in an incredibly short time. In the early afternoon, I am busy with my old natives, asking questions and making notes. The strong midday coffee has stimulated my spirits to

an extraordinary degree, the brain is active and vigorous, and work progresses rapidly, while a pleasant warmth pervades the whole body. Suddenly this gives place to a violent chill, forcing me to put on my overcoat, though it is only half-past three and the afternoon sun is at its hottest. Now the brain no longer works with such acuteness and logical precision; more especially does it fail me in trying to establish the syntax of the difficult Makua language on which I have ventured, as if I had not enough to do without it. Under the circumstances it seems advisable to take my temperature, and I do so, to save trouble, without leaving my seat, and while going on with my work. On examination, I find it to be 101·48°. My tutors are abruptly dismissed and my bed set up in the baraza; a few minutes later I am in it and treating myself internally with hot water and lemon-juice.

Three hours later, the thermometer marks nearly 104°, and I make them carry me back into the tent, bed and all, as I am now perspiring heavily, and exposure to the cold wind just beginning to blow might mean a fatal chill. I lie still for a little while, and then find, to my great relief, that the temperature is not rising, but rather falling. This is about 7.30 p.m. At 8 p.m. I find, to my unbounded astonishment, that it has fallen below 98·6°, and I feel perfectly well. I read for an hour or two, and could very well enjoy a smoke, if I had the wherewithal—Indian cigars being out of the question.

Having no medical training, I am at a loss to account for this state of things. It is impossible that these transitory attacks of high fever should be malarial; it seems more probable that they are due to a kind of sunstroke. On consulting my note-book, I become more and more inclined to think this is the case, for these attacks regularly follow extreme fatigue and long exposure to strong sunshine. They at least have the advantage of being only short interruptions to my work, as on the following morning I am always quite fresh and fit.

My treasure of a cook is suffering from an enormous hydrocele which makes it difficult for him to get up, and Moritz is obliged to keep in the dark on account of his inflamed eyes. Knudsen’s cook, a raw boy from somewhere in the bush, knows still less of cooking than Omari; consequently Nils Knudsen himself has been promoted to the vacant post. Finding that we had come to the end of our supplies, he began by sending to Chingulungulu for the four sucking-pigs which we had

bought from Matola and temporarily left in his charge; and when they came up, neatly packed in a large crate, he callously slaughtered the biggest of them. The first joint we were thoughtless enough to entrust for roasting to Knudsen’s mshenzi cook, and it was consequently uneatable; but we made the rest of the animal into a jelly which we ate with great relish after weeks of underfeeding, consuming incredible helpings of it at both midday and evening meals. The only drawback is a certain want of variety in the tinned vegetables. Dr. Jäger, to whom the Geographical Commission entrusted the provisioning of the expeditions—mine as well as his own—because he had more time on his hands than the rest of us, seems to have laid in a huge stock of Teltow turnips,[46] an article of food which is all very well for occasional use, but which quickly palls when set before one every day; and we seem to have no other tins left. There is no help for it—we must put up with the turnips; but I am certain that, once I am home again, I shall not touch them for ten years to come.

Amid all these minor evils, which, after all, go to make up the genuine flavour of Africa, there is at least one cheering touch: Knudsen has, with the dexterity of a skilled mechanic, repaired my 9 × 12 cm. camera, at least so far that I can use it with a little care.

How, in the absence of finger-nails, he was able to accomplish such a ticklish piece of work, having no tool but a clumsy screw-driver for taking to pieces and putting together again the complicated mechanism of the instantaneous shutter, is still a mystery to me; but he did it successfully. The loss of his finger-nails shows him in a light contrasting curiously enough with the intelligence evinced by the above operation; though, after all, it is scarcely surprising after his ten years’ residence in the bush. One day, at Lindi, he had occasion to wash a dog, which must have been in need of very thorough cleansing, for the bottle handed to our friend for the purpose had an extremely strong smell. Having performed his task in the most conscientious manner, he perceived with some surprise that the dog did not appear much the better for it, and was further surprised by finding his own nails ulcerating away in the course of the next few days. “How was I to know that carbolic acid has to be diluted?” he mutters indignantly, from time to time, with a troubled gaze at his mutilated finger-tips.

Since we came to Newala we have been making excursions in all directions through the surrounding country, in accordance with old habit, and also because the akida Sefu did not get together the tribal elders from whom I wanted information so speedily as he had promised. There is, however, no harm done, as, even if seen only from the outside, the country and people are interesting enough.

The Makonde plateau is like a large rectangular table rounded off at the corners. Measured from the Indian Ocean to Newala, it is about seventy-five miles long, and between the Rovuma and the Lukuledi it averages fifty miles in breadth, so that its superficial area is about two-thirds of that of the kingdom of Saxony. The surface, however, is not level, but uniformly inclined from its south-western edge to the ocean. From the upper edge, on which Newala lies, the eye ranges for many miles east and north-east, without encountering any obstacle, over the Makonde bush. It is a green sea, from which here and there thick clouds of smoke rise, to show that it, too, is inhabited by men who carry on their tillage like so many other primitive peoples, by cutting down and burning the bush, and manuring with the ashes. Even in the radiant light of a tropical day such a fire is a grand sight.

Much less effective is the impression produced just now by the great western plain as seen from the edge of the plateau. As often as time permits, I stroll along this edge, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, in the hope of finding the air clear enough to let me enjoy the view; but I have always been disappointed.

Wherever one looks, clouds of smoke rise from the burning bush, and the air is full of smoke and vapour. It is a pity, for under more favourable circumstances the panorama of the whole country up to the distant Majeje hills must be truly magnificent. It is of little use taking photographs now, and an outline sketch gives a very poor idea of the scenery. In one of these excursions I went out of my way to make a personal attempt on the Makonde bush. The present edge of the plateau is the result of a far-reaching process of destruction through erosion and denudation. The Makonde strata are everywhere cut into by ravines, which, though short, are hundreds of yards in depth. In consequence of the loose stratification of these beds, not only are the walls of these ravines nearly vertical, but their upper end is closed by an equally steep escarpment, so that the

western edge of the Makonde plateau is hemmed in by a series of deep, basin-like valleys. In order to get from one side of such a ravine to the other, I cut my way through the bush with a dozen of my men.

It was a very open part, with more grass than scrub, but even so the short stretch of less than two hundred yards was very hard work; at the end of it the men’s calicoes were in rags and they themselves bleeding from hundreds of scratches, while even our strong khaki suits had not escaped scatheless.

NATIVE PATH THROUGH THE MAKONDE BUSH, NEAR MAHUTA

I see increasing reason to believe that the view formed some time back as to the origin of the Makonde bush is the correct one. I have no doubt that it is not a natural product, but the result of human occupation. Those parts of the high country where man—as a very slight amount of practice enables the eye to perceive at once—has not yet penetrated with axe and hoe, are still occupied by a splendid timber forest quite able to sustain a comparison with our mixed forests in Germany. But wherever man has once built his hut or tilled his field, this horrible bush springs up. Every phase of this process

may be seen in the course of a couple of hours’ walk along the main road. From the bush to right or left, one hears the sound of the axe— not from one spot only, but from several directions at once. A few steps further on, we can see what is taking place. The brush has been cut down and piled up in heaps to the height of a yard or more, between which the trunks of the large trees stand up like the last pillars of a magnificent ruined building. These, too, present a melancholy spectacle: the destructive Makonde have ringed them— cut a broad strip of bark all round to ensure their dying off—and also piled up pyramids of brush round them. Father and son, mother and son-in-law, are chopping away perseveringly in the background—too busy, almost, to look round at the white stranger, who usually excites so much interest. If you pass by the same place a week later, the piles of brushwood have disappeared and a thick layer of ashes has taken the place of the green forest. The large trees stretch their smouldering trunks and branches in dumb accusation to heaven—if they have not already fallen and been more or less reduced to ashes, perhaps only showing as a white stripe on the dark ground.

This work of destruction is carried out by the Makonde alike on the virgin forest and on the bush which has sprung up on sites already cultivated and deserted. In the second case they are saved the trouble of burning the large trees, these being entirely absent in the secondary bush.

After burning this piece of forest ground and loosening it with the hoe, the native sows his corn and plants his vegetables. All over the country, he goes in for bed-culture, which requires, and, in fact, receives, the most careful attention. Weeds are nowhere tolerated in the south of German East Africa. The crops may fail on the plains, where droughts are frequent, but never on the plateau with its abundant rains and heavy dews. Its fortunate inhabitants even have the satisfaction of seeing the proud Wayao and Wamakua working for them as labourers, driven by hunger to serve where they were accustomed to rule.

But the light, sandy soil is soon exhausted, and would yield no harvest the second year if cultivated twice running. This fact has been familiar to the native for ages; consequently he provides in time, and, while his crop is growing, prepares the next plot with axe and firebrand. Next year he plants this with his various crops and

lets the first piece lie fallow. For a short time it remains waste and desolate; then nature steps in to repair the destruction wrought by man; a thousand new growths spring out of the exhausted soil, and even the old stumps put forth fresh shoots. Next year the new growth is up to one’s knees, and in a few years more it is that terrible, impenetrable bush, which maintains its position till the black occupier of the land has made the round of all the available sites and come back to his starting point.

The Makonde are, body and soul, so to speak, one with this bush.

According to my Yao informants, indeed, their name means nothing else but “bush people.” Their own tradition says that they have been settled up here for a very long time, but to my surprise they laid great stress on an original immigration. Their old homes were in the south-east, near Mikindani and the mouth of the Rovuma, whence their peaceful forefathers were driven by the continual raids of the Sakalavas from Madagascar and the warlike Shirazis[47] of the coast, to take refuge on the almost inaccessible plateau. I have studied African ethnology for twenty years, but the fact that changes of population in this apparently quiet and peaceable corner of the earth could have been occasioned by outside enterprises taking place on the high seas, was completely new to me. It is, no doubt, however, correct.

The charming tribal legend of the Makonde—besides informing us of other interesting matters—explains why they have to live in the thickest of the bush and a long way from the edge of the plateau, instead of making their permanent homes beside the purling brooks and springs of the low country.

“The place where the tribe originated is Mahuta, on the southern side of the plateau towards the Rovuma, where of old time there was nothing but thick bush. Out of this bush came a man who never washed himself or shaved his head, and who ate and drank but little.

He went out and made a human figure from the wood of a tree growing in the open country, which he took home to his abode in the bush and there set it upright. In the night this image came to life and was a woman. The man and woman went down together to the Rovuma to wash themselves. Here the woman gave birth to a stillborn child. They left that place and passed over the high land into the valley of the Mbemkuru, where the woman had another child, which

was also born dead. Then they returned to the high bush country of Mahuta, where the third child was born, which lived and grew up. In course of time, the couple had many more children, and called themselves Wamatanda. These were the ancestral stock of the Makonde, also called Wamakonde,[48] i.e., aborigines. Their forefather, the man from the bush, gave his children the command to bury their dead upright, in memory of the mother of their race who was cut out of wood and awoke to life when standing upright. He also warned them against settling in the valleys and near large streams, for sickness and death dwelt there. They were to make it a rule to have their huts at least an hour’s walk from the nearest wateringplace; then their children would thrive and escape illness.”

The explanation of the name Makonde given by my informants is somewhat different from that contained in the above legend, which I extract from a little book (small, but packed with information), by Pater Adams, entitled Lindi und sein Hinterland. Otherwise, my results agree exactly with the statements of the legend. Washing?

Hapana—there is no such thing. Why should they do so? As it is, the supply of water scarcely suffices for cooking and drinking; other people do not wash, so why should the Makonde distinguish himself by such needless eccentricity? As for shaving the head, the short, woolly crop scarcely needs it,[49] so the second ancestral precept is likewise easy enough to follow. Beyond this, however, there is nothing ridiculous in the ancestor’s advice. I have obtained from various local artists a fairly large number of figures carved in wood, ranging from fifteen to twenty-three inches in height, and representing women belonging to the great group of the Mavia, Makonde, and Matambwe tribes. The carving is remarkably well done and renders the female type with great accuracy, especially the keloid ornamentation, to be described later on. As to the object and meaning of their works the sculptors either could or (more probably) would tell me nothing, and I was forced to content myself with the scanty information vouchsafed by one man, who said that the figures were merely intended to represent the nembo—the artificial deformations of pelele, ear-discs, and keloids. The legend recorded

by Pater Adams places these figures in a new light. They must surely be more than mere dolls; and we may even venture to assume that they are—though the majority of present-day Makonde are probably unaware of the fact—representations of the tribal ancestress.

The references in the legend to the descent from Mahuta to the Rovuma, and to a journey across the highlands into the Mbekuru valley, undoubtedly indicate the previous history of the tribe, the travels of the ancestral pair typifying the migrations of their descendants. The descent to the neighbouring Rovuma valley, with its extraordinary fertility and great abundance of game, is intelligible at a glance—but the crossing of the Lukuledi depression, the ascent to the Rondo Plateau and the descent to the Mbemkuru, also lie within the bounds of probability, for all these districts have exactly the same character as the extreme south. Now, however, comes a point of especial interest for our bacteriological age. The primitive Makonde did not enjoy their lives in the marshy river-valleys.

Disease raged among them, and many died. It was only after they had returned to their original home near Mahuta, that the health conditions of these people improved. We are very apt to think of the African as a stupid person whose ignorance of nature is only equalled by his fear of it, and who looks on all mishaps as caused by evil spirits and malignant natural powers. It is much more correct to assume in this case that the people very early learnt to distinguish districts infested with malaria from those where it is absent.

This knowledge is crystallized in the ancestral warning against settling in the valleys and near the great waters, the dwelling-places of disease and death. At the same time, for security against the hostile Mavia south of the Rovuma, it was enacted that every settlement must be not less than a certain distance from the southern edge of the plateau. Such in fact is their mode of life at the present day. It is not such a bad one, and certainly they are both safer and more comfortable than the Makua, the recent intruders from the south, who have made USUAL METHOD OF good their footing on the western edge of the CLOSING HUT-DOOR plateau, extending over a fairly wide belt of country. Neither Makua nor Makonde show in their dwellings anything of the size and comeliness of the Yao houses in the plain, especially at Masasi, Chingulungulu and Zuza’s. Jumbe Chauro, a Makonde hamlet not far from Newala, on the road to Mahuta, is the

most important settlement of the tribe I have yet seen, and has fairly spacious huts. But how slovenly is their construction compared with the palatial residences of the elephant-hunters living in the plain.

The roofs are still more untidy than in the general run of huts during the dry season, the walls show here and there the scanty beginnings or the lamentable remains of the mud plastering, and the interior is a veritable dog-kennel; dirt, dust and disorder everywhere. A few huts only show any attempt at division into rooms, and this consists merely of very roughly-made bamboo partitions. In one point alone have I noticed any indication of progress—in the method of fastening the door. Houses all over the south are secured in a simple but ingenious manner. The door consists of a set of stout pieces of wood or bamboo, tied with bark-string to two cross-pieces, and moving in two grooves round one of the door-posts, so as to open inwards. If the owner wishes to leave home, he takes two logs as thick as a man’s upper arm and about a yard long. One of these is placed obliquely against the middle of the door from the inside, so as to form an angle of from 60° to 75° with the ground. He then places the second piece horizontally across the first, pressing it downward with all his might.

It is kept in place by two strong posts planted in the ground a few inches inside the door. This fastening is absolutely safe, but of course cannot be applied to both doors at once, otherwise how could the owner leave or enter his house? I have not yet succeeded in finding out how the back door is fastened.

MAKONDE LOCK AND KEY AT JUMBE CHAURO

This is the general way of closing a house. The Makonde at Jumbe Chauro, however, have a much more complicated, solid and original one. Here, too, the door is as already described, except that there is only one post on the inside, standing by itself about six inches from one side of the doorway. Opposite this post is a hole in the wall just large enough to admit a man’s arm. The door is closed inside by a large wooden bolt passing through a hole in this post and pressing with its free end against the door. The other end has three holes into which fit three pegs running in vertical grooves inside the post. The door is opened with a wooden key about a foot long, somewhat curved and sloped off at the butt; the other end has three pegs corresponding to the holes, in the bolt, so that, when it is thrust through the hole in the wall and inserted into the rectangular opening in the post, the pegs can be lifted and the bolt drawn out.[50]

MODE OF INSERTING THE KEY

With no small pride first one householder and then a second showed me on the spot the action of this greatest invention of the Makonde Highlands. To both with an admiring exclamation of “Vizuri sana!” (“Very fine!”). I expressed the wish to take back these marvels with me to Ulaya, to show the Wazungu what clever fellows the Makonde are. Scarcely five minutes after my return to camp at Newala, the two men came up sweating under the weight of two heavy logs which they laid down at my feet, handing over at the same time the keys of the fallen fortress. Arguing, logically enough, that if the key was wanted, the lock would be wanted with it, they had taken their axes and chopped down the posts—as it never occurred to them to dig them out of the ground and so bring them intact. Thus I have

two badly damaged specimens, and the owners, instead of praise, come in for a blowing-up.

The Makua huts in the environs of Newala are especially miserable; their more than slovenly construction reminds one of the temporary erections of the Makua at Hatia’s, though the people here have not been concerned in a war. It must therefore be due to congenital idleness, or else to the absence of a powerful chief. Even the baraza at Mlipa’s, a short hour’s walk south-east of Newala, shares in this general neglect. While public buildings in this country are usually looked after more or less carefully, this is in evident danger of being blown over by the first strong easterly gale. The only attractive object in this whole district is the grave of the late chief Mlipa. I visited it in the morning, while the sun was still trying with partial success to break through the rolling mists, and the circular grove of tall euphorbias, which, with a broken pot, is all that marks the old king’s resting-place, impressed one with a touch of pathos.

Even my very materially-minded carriers seemed to feel something of the sort, for instead of their usual ribald songs, they chanted solemnly, as we marched on through the dense green of the Makonde bush:—