I've wanted this book for years, forgot about it, and was reminded recently when I thought I might like to study architectural drafting. I realized I wasn't interested in learning Autodesk Revit, apparently the new industry standard, which seemed too automated, and artless, but that I am still interested in architecture. In building my cabin, I loved the little design questions -- the ratios of rectangles, the rise and run of ladder steps, the dimensions most suited to using stock materials with little waste. They were puzzles, requiring aesthetic consideration, three-dimensional problem solving, and simple math. How high should a counter be? Go try some out.
I read something the other day by the big-thinking architect Christopher Alexander about how "a form should reflect all the known facts relevant to its design." He was arguing, in 1964, that increasingly complex design challenges were making this harder. My sense is that new design software allows one to bypass some of the design challenges, that the software contains the knowledge that's needed. I like the old school way, and I think that's why I built the way I did, with the most complex system in my cabin being the lock in my doorknob. I like to think I know all the facts relevant to, for instance, metal roofing: adequate sheathing and air flow underneath, enough eave to shed rain but not so much overhang that the metal could crumple under heavy snow.
If solving design problems appeals to me, maybe it's odd that I'm so excited about a book with all the answers. It tells you -- a counter should be 34-36 inches high, a doorway 80, a threshold no more than one. With tiny font and detailed drawings, over 785 pages, the book attempts to answer any question one might have: the proper depth of a swimming pool or reverberation timing of an auditorium. The possible uses of a Chinaberry tree, the design of a chimney, the size of a sousaphone, the installation of metal roofing. I can imagine a similarly encyclopedic book of anatomy, taxonomy, history, or law, but I think this is the one that most interests me. Maybe it's knowing the rules first so you can bend them later. Or that the book answers questions I never would have thought to ask.
It's also a beautiful work of design in itself. I chose the seventh edition, from 1981, out of a certain nostalgia and imagining -- correctly -- that the drawings would be nice. Since I am not an architect, I don't care about it being current, which it is not. It gives the height of typewriter tables, and it assumes the heel of a woman's shoe will be, on average, a half-inch higher than a man's. It includes new sections on energy-efficiency and solar power (ah yes, the first big oil crisis) and on accommodations for the handicapped. Its language has life, calling tall people "giants" and justifying its use of the metric system as "the most practical system of measurement ever devised."
Here then, are some things I've learned from the first eight pages.
3.5 percent of men and 0.2 percent of women are colorblind; 4.5 percent of adults are hard of hearing; over 30 percent wear glasses; 15 to 20 percent are handicapped, and 1 percent are illiterate. Left-handed people have increased in number to more than 10 percent.
The maximum temperature for warm air hand dryers is 140 degrees; non-metal handles can safely be much hotter than metal handles; water above 115 degrees will hurt you.
A man can push a heavier cart than a woman at first, but unless it's a typo, a woman can push more in the long run. I am smaller than 97 percent of men, and my arms are disproportionately short.
It's acceptable to design for 95 percent of the bell curve -- some outside it will adapt, others are excluded "to keep designs for the majority from becoming too complex and expensive."
A person's center of gravity is within the pelvic link, and a man's hips are almost an inch wider when he's sitting. It's best to work sitting straight up, but you can be alert at 5-20 degrees back; beyond that you're relaxing, reclining, or getting your teeth cleaned.
A manhole should be 22.8 inches, 36 if you're wearing a space suit. A hole to stick your finger through should be 1.3 inches; if you want to keep fingers out, it should be 0.3 inches. Four people marching single file will take up 138 inches. If they're singing in a choir, it's only 80 inches.
The sum of two risers and a tread on indoor stairs should be 25 inches; within a flight of stairs, it's OK if individual steps differ by up to 3/16ths of an inch.
Don't ask how I will ever use any of this.