The language of architecture.

We devote much of this issue to the architectural diagram, that sometimes mysterious representation of the designer's inner thoughts, which rarely attracts much attention unless it is the delightful back-of-the-envelope sketch so beloved of a certain type of client--that is to say one who doesn't worry too much about how carefully the sketch may have been rehearsed (or re-used). The examples published come from architects of different countries and ages, and relate to very different projects. Some also describe diagrams they admire by other architects, whether or not they resemble their own; inspiration does not imply replication. Whatever form they take, however, these diagrams have one thing in common: an attempt to find the essence or even soul of the building which is to be created, and not merely the building as structure and envelope, but the building in its many contexts, located and rooted in site, culture, climate, history and politics. What can one say about the building which apparently is devoid of a diagram? Not much, other than that it is unlikely to be worth discussing as architecture.

What makes the diagram so intriguing is that it often conveys something which cannot easily be put into words--that is the point; it is the coded language of creative design intelligence which does not automatically operate successfully in the world of bureaucratic tick boxes or cultures in which verbal or literary skills are too dominant. Denys Lasdun used to tell a story about Schubert, who was asked by a host to play something after dinner for the assembled company. He did so, and was applauded. On returning to the table, the host enquired: 'But Herr Schubert, what does it mean?' Schubert returned to the piano, and played the piece all over again. In much the same spirit, James Stirling would often frustrate lecture audiences by describing his buildings in the most straightforward terms ('This is a lintel ...') when they wanted him to philosophise verbally. He didn't need to, since the drawings spoke for themselves. You just had to look.

On the other hand, there are architects who are happy to discuss almost every aspect of their designs. At the University of Westminster, recently Bernard Tschumi gave a brilliant talk about the gestation of his Parc de La Villette competition entry and subsequent design. He had come to London in the '60s, not least because he wanted to work for Cedric Price, a brilliant producer of diagrams himself (for example the Fun Palace project, or his drawn analysis of the medieval, industrial and contemporary city: poached egg, fried egg and scrambled egg). For La Villette, Tschumi used 'ideograms' to represent various aspects of a highly complex project; the hand-drawn sketches are both revealing of the way the designs-as-ideas evolved, and powerful examples of the magical relationship between hand, brain and eye. His description of the diagram, or rather the creation of the diagram, could scarcely be bettered: 'It is the moment when, instead of you driving the project, the project starts to drive you'. The exhilaration, both intellectual and physical, which grips the architect at such a moment is one consolation for the inevitable merry-go-round of prosaic matters which accompany the creation of a building itself. If only the diagram were enough.