PAGE 5. Continued from page 4.

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“Tackling the Crime of School Design”
Book Excerpt from Rena Upitis, former Dean of Education at Queen’s University, Kingston, Ontario; currently Professor of Arts Education at Queen’s University.

Full biographical and contact information available on page 7.
Citations on page 8.

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Contrast these kinds of buildings - factories and Greek temples and one-room schoolhouses with bell towers - with some of the architecture of schools built for the youngest children attending school. Whether the program is a state-funded Kindergarten a Montessori school, a Steiner school, ( 31 ) or a Reggio Emilia day care, the buildings associated with these approaches often stimulate the imaginations of students and teachers alike. Not coincidentally, the three approaches of Reggio Emilia, Montessori, and Steiner, while different in a number of respects, share fundamental features and histories. One, founders of each approach articulated an explicit vision and corresponding curriculum which is still followed in contemporary schools. Two, each of the approaches were developed in Europe in direct response to violence, with the goal of creating citizens motivated by peace and civility. And three, teachers involved with these approaches recognize children as intelligent, creative, and complex beings. ( 32 ) And Rudolf Steiner—like Mary Rose O’Reilley—felt most of society’s problems were rooted in its architecture. ( 33 ) Steiner, the enigmatic Austrian-born philosopher, architect, playwright, and scholar, once said it would be impossible to eliminate crime and wrongdoing without changes in the architecture around us. What if Steiner was right? And Steiner isn’t the only one who has asked this question. One of the guiding questions at a 2006 conference held at the Faculty of Architecture of the University of Sydney—a conference with delegates from every continent and corner of the earth—was whether better design of the physical environment could reduce crime. ( 34 )

To this day, throughout Europe, and especially in Germany, Italy and Spain, high priority is placed on pre-school education. ( 35 ) It is in Italy, Denmark, Germany and Spain where the contribution of architecture to education is most likely to be acknowledged by architects, educators, and the general public. ( 36 ) In contrast, reports on school effectiveness in England and the United States rarely mention the quality of the built environment. ( 37 ) Correspondingly, there are few architectural casebooks on schools. ( 38 ) In the casebooks that do exist, most of the examples come from Europe. Those examples are often featured in more than one collection, probably because there are so few innovative examples to describe. Predictably, all of the books on school architecture include a sample or two of Steiner, Montessori, and Reggio Emilia schools.

In all three of these approaches, students are seen as being influenced by natural and dynamic forces that open pathways for learning. Teachers depend on carefully prepared environments. These environments are aesthetically pleasing and support the students in their growth - and don’t look anything like brick boxes. In later chapters, I will talk about each of these approaches in detail. For we have much to learn from these movements, and their voices should be heard in contemporary philosophical debates -debates about curriculum, debates about architecture, and debates about learning for a lifetime, not just learning during the early years. At the heart of many of these debates is the tension between what have been called traditional and progressivist views of education, which find their parallels in the architectural movements of modernism and organic expressionism. ( 39 )

Thus far, I have spoken about school architecture and educational ideologies. But schools of all types—brick rectilinear boxes, imitation Greek temples, warm and inviting hobbit-like Kindergarten spaces—can be beautifully maintained and respected or rundown and unsafe. And far too many schools, especially the common brick and concrete boxes, are made worse by poor maintenance.

What cultural values and expectations are reflected in school buildings that look like prisons? Or have been allowed to fall into neglect? Anne Taylor, Director of the Institute for Environmental Education at the University of New Mexico points out, “we expect schools to prepare children for living in a democratic society, yet we provide learning environments that resemble police states—hard, overly durable architecture, giant chain-link fences, locked gates, guards, and even guard dogs. Such architecture fails to encourage the sense of ownership, participation, or responsibility required for a democracy”. ( 40 ) Taylor writes about how architects—for years—were commanded to design classrooms without windows in order to save energy and reduce vandalism, and to allow students to concentrate without being distracted by views from the outside. ( 41 )

Such architecture carries an even more insidious message. Overly durable and hard architecture tells children this is what they have to look forward to—life in cold and deadly buildings that will repress their bodies, minds, and spirits. And that argument can be made whether they will spend their days in factories, office buildings, university lecture halls, or prisons. Some criminologists argue that there are far fewer “genuine criminals” in prisons than there are people who have simply become victims of the social production of crime. The cycle of becoming assimilated into prison culture begins early, and becomes a self-perpetuating system. ( 42 ) In these “schools of crime”, a now classic term coined by Donald Clemmer in the middle of the 20th century, most of the inhabitants are from the least affluent segments of societies, and are imprisoned primarily for minor crimes. The first school I taught in was very much like what Taylor describes. I wonder, now, how much the school itself had to do with the social production of crime for the young children I taught.

I have a colleague at The Australian National University in Canberra who is a musician and composer, as well as a professor of musicology. She believes it is only the healing and sublime qualities of music that make working in university music buildings tolerable. David Orr is Chair of the Environmental Studies Program at Oberlin College, and he has written about how university campuses directly affect what students learn. In an article titled Reassembling the Pieces: Architecture as Pedagogy ( 43 ) he describes the typical university building as one full of straight lines with nothing in it to reflect the site on which it is located. With only minor modifications, university buildings could easily be converted for use as factories or prisons.

The converse is equally true. The Glen Innes High School in northern New South Wales was opened in 1927, but was erected as a prison in 1884. All of the original buildings - the cellblock, a governor’s residence, and a workshop - are still used for teaching or storage spaces. Although a high brick wall originally surrounded the prison, in the 43 years between the time it was built and the time it was re-opened as a school, the wall had crumbled. The building never operated as a jail, because in the same year it was built a new rail line opened, making it more convenient to send Glen Innes prisoners to a larger prison 100 kilometers further south. According to a former teacher of English and History, who taught at the Glen Innes High School for over twenty years, this is not the only school in New South Wales based on a converted 19th century prison. ( 44 )

But back to my music colleague. This professor - like many others, I was discovering - had not thought deeply, if at all, about school architecture until we began to converse regularly on the subject. She had long-held concerns about the state of the lecture theatre and could often be heard bemoaning the inadequacy of the technology or complaining there wasn’t even a lectern available. But beyond that, she thought little more about the building in which she spent her working days.

Continued on page 6.

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