Bridging an imagined divide: Vernacular architecture in a digital world

Introduction

The architecture that we commonly refer to as ‘vernacular’ has historically been defined in terms of tradition, place and community. Today, in the main, vernacular landscapes and buildings continue to be understood as enduring, stable and culturally distinct traditions, rooted in well-defined localities, and distinct from institutionalised or international forms of place-making. Even if the concept of vernacularity has become the subject of debate in recent decades, with questions about what the terms means and implies increasingly asked [1; 2; 3], words like honesty, authenticity, craft, tradition, people, identity, place, natural, handmade, community and unchanging continue to be commonly used when vernacular architecture is discussed in academia, the architectural profession or more popular media discourse [for some recent examples, see 4, 5]. To many, Google AI’s definition of vernacular architecture as referring to ‘building styles that are indigenous to a specific region or culture, characterized by the use of local materials, traditional construction methods, and design elements reflecting the local environment and cultural practices’, would sound about right.

Another word that is implied in such definitions, even if it is not actually used that often in vernacular architecture discourse, if at all, is analogue – defined here in its colloquial sense as ‘not involving or relating to the use of computer technology.’ Vernacular architecture, most scholars writing on the subject would probably agree, is not made with or by computers (or, for that matter, any machines), but is rather the result of the interplay between the human mind, the hand, hand tools and materials – the latter preferably natural. It is ‘built by hand,’ using knowledge, skills and technologies that have been passed down through the generations, from crafts(wo)man to crafts(wo)man, through demonstration, trial and error [6; 7]. The vernacular, it is commonly said, is manmade. ‘Vernacular technologies involve local materials and the touch of the hand,’ Henry Glassie wrote at the turn of the twenty-first century: ‘local materials are their [vernacular builders’] resources, their technologies are powered by their own muscles’ [8: p. 31]. Equally, Bill Steen et al noted how ‘quietly and almost without notice, they [vernacular buildings] outwit the might of modern machinery with simple tools and materials that welcome, encourage, and amplify use of the human hand’ [6: p. 9] (Figure 1).

Figure 1

This perspective on the vernacular, with its romantic undertones and emphasis on elements of architectural making in the form of materials, technologies and forms, dates back to the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries, when authors in Europe and North America began to identify the architectural traditions of what they saw as the common people (the ‘folk’) as a distinct category in opposition to mainstream architecture. This architecture was particularly valued because it was everything that the mainstream architecture of the industrial age was not [1; 9]. What came to be known as the vernacular were local, traditional, functional, manmade and slowly changing building traditions; all traits that the mainstream industrial architecture of the time (with its emphasis on speed, machines and manufactured materials) did not or no longer possessed. The vernacular was seen as a survival of a time before industrialisation and mechanisation; an authentic, natural form of architecture, superior because of its honesty, its rootedness in local culture and identity, and its embodiment of craft practices and skills that were more often than not seen to be manual and timeless. Architectural movements like the Arts and Crafts and Modernism took up this perspective in the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, explicitly drawing on vernacular precedents and emphasising in their own way notions such as locality, honesty, function and craftsmanship [10; 11].

The notion that vernacular architecture is manmade rather than industrial remained dominant throughout the twentieth century and is still very much with us today. The beginning of the twenty-first century, however, saw the addition of another opposition to the long list of dichotomies that already characterised the vernacular’s relationship to mainstream architecture, such as local-global, traditional-modern and static-dynamic. At ‘the threshold between the mechanical and digital age’ [12: p.13], the vernacular appears to have become analogue as opposed to digital too. To be fair, publications that say this in so many words are hard to find and few and far between. The statement is mainly based on the so-called ‘evidence of absence’ principle: there is very little literature on vernacular architecture and its relationship to the digital realm, which suggests that the former is mainly seen to be non-digital. Indeed, a Google search results in only a handful of publications that combine both terms in their titles [for example, 13; 14; 15], which is surprising given the vibrant nature of both the field of vernacular architecture studies and that of the digital in relation to architecture more generally. Most of these works focus on the digitisation and virtual representation of vernacular heritage or, to a lesser extent, on the application of digital fabrication tools to vernacular (that is, natural) materials like wood, stone, bamboo or earth. The vernacular and digital, it would seem, do not really go together, at least not in the perception of those writing about either cultural realm.

In this essay I will try to show that this perception is misguided and that throughout the world, vernacular architecture and digital culture do in fact come together, in various and sometimes unexpected ways. That this should be so is of course not surprising given the global presence of the digital realm in the twenty-first century and the still widespread existence of what we call vernacular architecture in many parts of the world. Nonetheless, as noted, the general absence of publications on the subject suggests that it is not that commonly recognised or understood. I will start by arguing that the perception that vernacular architecture is analogue is in essence not different from earlier representations of the vernacular as fundamentally different from mainstream architecture. Indeed, it is a logical, if flawed and problematic continuation of it. Based on a review of the limited publications that are available, I will then show that the majority of studies that have engaged with the subject have narrowly focused on the way in which digital tools and media can help document vernacular architecture. As useful as these contributions have been, I will argue that there are in fact a number of other ways in which the vernacular and digital converge, creatively and dynamically, in many, if not all parts of the world – and that these also deserve urgent attention. Drawing on the limited data available, I will discuss some (but by no means all) of these ways, providing more questions than answers in doing so. I will conclude by arguing that the ways in which the vernacular and digital converge should be high on the agenda of not just the field of vernacular architecture studies, but of the study of architecture and digital culture in general. By now, the digital touches on all aspects of life of all people in the world. Understanding how it impacts on the ways in which they design, make and use architecture (regardless of whether we label it vernacular or not) is imperative in a world that is increasingly more interconnected, challenging, unpredictable and ‘overheated’ [16].

The backward vernacular 2.0

In 2023, a brief article appeared in ArchDaily, a digital platform that proclaims itself to be ‘the world’s most visited architecture website.’ Entitled ‘The digital divide: Can technology support vernacular architecture?,’ its author, Ankitha Gattupalli, argued that the vernacular, traditional and Indigenous communities of the world have little to no access to the ‘effectively streamlined operations, enhanced efficiency, and elevated design quality’ that apparently comes with the integration of digital tools into the architectural design process [17]. Not only is there a lack of access to tools and software such as drones, AutoCAD and BIM libraries; the non-standardised nature of both vernacular materials and vernacular knowledge (often not documented in plans or drawings) is a serious challenge to digital software and digital tools that rely on data-driven precision to function. In addition, she noted, increasingly prevalent building codes and regulations in many parts of the world enforce a dependency on architects and other external consultants that undermines the autonomy of vernacular designers and builders. The result is a digital divide that ‘leaves Indigenous construction practices and vernacular techniques lagging behind in the march toward a digital future.’ What is needed, Gattupalli argued, is ‘a careful blend of tradition and modernity.’ Ironically, given her concerns about the problematic reliance on external consultants, architects should engage with vernacular communities and integrate the latter’s ‘wisdom’ into digital design processes. This requires a participatory approach and an understanding of cultural context.

To anyone working in the field of vernacular architecture studies, this narrative is a familiar one, albeit one with a small twist in its emphasis on the digital. All the usual tropes of vernacular discourse are here: the notion of some sort of universal progress driven by technological advancement of which the vernacular is not a part; the supposed environmental wisdom embodied in vernacular practices; the perceived ‘Otherness’ of a huge diversity of peoples and cultures generalised into one category; and the lessons to be learned for enlightened architects [1; 18]. Once more, vernacular architectural traditions are not just essentially distinct from mainstream contemporary architecture; they are also, because of their essential ‘Otherness’, missing out on the latter’s perceived beneficial and apparently irresistible qualities. The digital world, of which mainstream architectural practice is an integral part, is defined as dynamic, fast, global – and as part of the future. It is characterised by rapid technological development, social-cultural and economic transformation, and an unprecedented interconnectedness of people and places all around the world. Vernacular architecture is none of this but is rooted in place, community and tradition and unable to catch up with the rapidly changing world. Having already missed the boat during the industrial revolution, it is now quickly losing sight of that same boat and unable to ever catch up with it without the external help of architects and other experts (Figure 2).

Figure 2

No doubt well-intentioned, the perspective on the relationship between the vernacular and the digital put forward by Gattupalli perceives the two as inhabiting separate worlds. It reconfirms persistent stereotypes, present in architectural discourse since at least the early nineteenth century, that vernacular architecture is stuck in the past and that it cannot, without outside help of those who defined the traditions as ‘vernacular’ in the first place, be a meaningful part of the future – whether this is an industrial, modern, global or digital one. It also generalises and essentialises to the extent that all vernacular traditions are perceived to be in the same position and on the wrong side of the supposed digital divide; the backward vernacular 2.0, missing out, once again and without fail, on the rich pickings of the modern world. This perspective will undoubtedly resonate with many in the field of mainstream architecture, interested in the possibilities of the new digital toolkits at their disposal and the radically modern and different built environments of the future, real or imaginary, that it may allow them to design [19; 20]. But it will also ring true to those working in the field of vernacular architecture studies who discuss the expertise, skills and knowledge embodied in traditional vernacular crafts(wo)manship [4; 21] or who romanticise about the environmental wisdom embodied in the work produced [22]. To them too, the vernacular and digital will appear as two distinct cultural realms; enough so that the latter has thus far hardly appeared in their writings on the former.

How real, though, is this supposed divide?

Digital divides

The subject of digital divides is a complex and multifaceted one [23; 24]. In a matter of two to three decades, digital information and communication technologies have become ubiquitous and familiar in most, if not all, parts of the world. There are few societies where the digital has not in one form or other made an entrance, be it through the internet, mobile phones, email, social media, gaming or e-commerce [16; 25]. The numbers are staggering and well-known: whereas few people in the world had computers in the early-1990s, by 2001 more than half of the population in the US and large parts of Europe owned a personal computer and had access to the internet [24: p. 8]. Although uptake was slower in other parts of the world, by 2014 some 45 percent of the world’s population were using the internet (which had been invented only 30 years earlier, in 1983), facilitated largely by the development of mobile devices that became ever smaller, faster and cheaper [24: p. 13]. In 2022, this number had risen to about two-thirds of the world’s population. The rise of social media was even more spectacular, with about 2 billion people signing up to Facebook in a period of ten years. The latest figures by DataReportal suggest that, as of the end of 2024, a total of 5.78 billion people in the world use mobile phones; 5.56 billion use the internet; and 5.24 billion are active social media users [26]. Other sources mention similar numbers, give or take a few hundred million people. All agree that the uptake of the digital continues to increase, ensuring an ever more profound global exchange and transformation of cultural practices ranging from communication to commerce, from governance to entertainment, and from defence to friendship and intimacy. Considering the relatively short time period in which all this has taken place, it is no surprise that the term ‘digital revolution’ has been frequently coined to identify the rise of the digital.

While the numbers are impressive and confirm the global nature and reach of the digital, they do not mean that access to this digital realm is universal. Already during the 1990s, a digital divide between ‘those who have access and use of digital media and those who have not’ was identified [24: p. 1]. Initially this divide was framed in terms of physical access. There were those who had a computer and internet access, and those who did not. Later on, the emphasis changed to skills and usage: having access to a computer was seen to be less important than having the skills and knowledge to actually use them. Most recently, talk about digital divides has focused on the outcomes of computer, internet and mobile phone use, as some people (for instance the young or highly educated) benefit more from the internet or social media – in political, economic or personal terms – than others (such as the elderly or lower educated) [24]. So, even if 5.78 billion people use mobile phones, 2.42 billion do not; and even if 5.24 billion use social media, 2.96 billion do not. Clearly, not everyone in the world is part of the digital revolution [27]. At the same time, even if the uptake of internet and social media continues to grow, that growth has been slowing down in the last few years, meaning that universal access and use of the digital (a United Nations goal for 2030) is far from here at the moment. While in some parts of the world more than 90 percent of the population is connected, in others – especially in rural areas of Sub-Saharan Africa, the Indian subcontinent and China – significant numbers (for instance up to 45 percent in India and 55 percent in Bangladesh) remain offline [26].

However, while those numbers are once more telling and indicate that the global reach of the digital is far from equal, the validity of the concept of a digital divide has been debated since it was first coined, and consensus on how to define it, what it means and to what extent it is useful has been hard to find. One of the major problems with the term is that it suggests a single, absolute and fixed division between two clearly separated social categories, whereas in actual fact the differences in access, skills, usage and benefits are much more relative, complex and dynamic, and dependent on a range of contextual factors, including economic and social divisions in society more generally, as well as personal motivations and abilities. Gender, age and class can play a part in dividing access between countries and parts of the world as much as they can do so within countries and communities. At the same time, regardless of opportunity or skills level, the individual desire to engage with the digital realm can vary. As Jan van Dijk has noted, some people are ‘have-nots’, while others are ‘want-nots’ [24: p. 14]. As such, some individuals in remote parts of rural India or China (which have the largest unconnected populations in the world in real numbers) may well be more involved in the digital realm than others in urban Ireland or Norway (which both have an internet adoption rate of 99 percent). Furthermore, and importantly, digital divides are not structural and fixed but can be bridged and overcome.

Generalisations as put forward by Gattupalli [17] about the lagging behind of ‘vernacular, traditional or Indigenous communities’ in terms of digital access and use should thus be approached with care because they are likely to simplify what is in actual fact a complex and evolving reality. Regardless of the important question what makes a community vernacular, traditional or Indigenous in the first place, the access to and use of digital media is likely to vary both between and within such communities depending on age, gender, status, skills and motivation, just as much as it will between and within any community. It would appear that the digital divide that Gattupalli talks about is, to quote Milad Doueihi, ‘little more than an extension of a set of assumptions and inherited notions from the politics or the economics of an earlier era’ [23: p. 13] That is, it is a repeat of the well-rehearsed distinction between the vernacular (and its recurring connotations of tradition, place, community, endurance, authenticity and so on) on the one hand and the modern, global or institutional (associated with development, universality, progress, machines, speed) on the other. Persistent and difficult, if not seemingly impossible to break down, it is a distinction that is generalising, essentialising, simplistic and unhelpful [1]. The reality, of course, is much more complex than what it suggests, as indeed it was in relation to its earlier iterations (for instance during the industrial revolution or the rise of the Modernist movement). For in many if not all parts of the world, the vernacular and digital do come together, sometimes in innovative ways, to an extent that means they can and should not be separated.

Digital documentation

One route via which vernacular architecture and the digital world meet is through the ways in which the former is studied. The use of digital tools to record vernacular buildings has been by far the main focus of the limited amount of work that has looked at the relationship between the vernacular and the digital. Relatively modest in number, those publications began to appear surprisingly recently, mainly from the early-2010s onwards. In their Invitation to Vernacular Architecture: A Guide to the Study of Ordinary Buildings and Landscapes, Thomas Carter and Elizabeth Cromley could still outline a completely analogue list of field equipment (comprising, among other things, a drawing board, pencils and erasers, a measuring tape, a ladder, a hand level and sunscreen), even if at that time, the use of digital cameras, audio and video recorders, databases, drawing software and measuring tools was about to become the norm – and had been well-established in related fields like archaeology [28]. Since then, digital tools such as photogrammetry, drones, LiDAR scanning and cloud-based storage platforms have been added to the options available (Figure 3). Altogether, this rapid development has invited reflections on the use and value of digital methodologies and their relationship to earlier, analogue ones. Interestingly, many of those reflections display a level of unease about the new technologies and are almost apologetic about their interest in them, revealing a need to explain why they are worthy of interest.

Figure 3

One of the earliest publications to look at the value of digital documentation tools for the study of vernacular architecture was by the architectural historian Jeffrey E. Klee. Noting ‘a collective blindness to the potential of digital technologies’ among scholars and students of vernacular architecture [29: p. 4], he put forward a case for their inclusion in the fieldwork toolkit, focusing in particular on the possibilities offered by digital databases for the sharing of historical field records in the form of drawings, photographs, surveys and maps. Provided they are well-curated and contextualised, he noted, such databases will increase the accessibility of fieldwork data and allow for the creation of large networks of information that stimulate comparison and collaboration. In so doing they will allow the field to ‘slough off the provincialism that continues to characterize much work’ [29: p. 2]. Klee discussed a number of such databases, such as eWilliamsburg, the Falmouth Project and the Chaco Archive. Many others have since been developed, including the Paul Oliver Vernacular Architecture Library Images (POVALi) database, the Amos Rapoport Image Archive, the SAHARA Image archive of the Society of Architectural Historians, and the African Vernacular Architecture Database.

Reflecting on the digitisation process, Klee has however warned that we should not mistake the availability of information for understanding. Human input is still required to make sense of the information collated digitally, to select it, interpret it and give meaning to it. ‘Even the most powerful computers’, he noted, ‘cannot correctly describe the contents of a photograph or interpret a plan, much less parse the physical history of a building’ [29: p. 9]. The same goes for the use of digital recording tools in the field, such as digital cameras, laser tape measures or LiDAR scanners: ‘we must still decide what to record and how to describe it’ [29: p. 2]. Mike Christenson, writing around the same time, made a similar point in his discussion of image sharing platforms like Flickr and Google Street View, which depend on photographic contributions from people who still have to engage with buildings ‘in the field’ [30: p. 9] Similarly, the editors of the issue of Buildings and Landscapes that contains Christenson’s contribution reminded readers that ‘lived experiences count in architectural analysis’, noting that other scholars were also ‘assessing the effect of the digital revolution on scholarship’ [31: p. vi].

All these early publications called for an engagement with the digital, but they did so rather tentatively, focusing on the implications of the tools for the ways in which the vernacular can or cannot be known and understood, and expressing concerns about a possible overreliance on them. More recent publications still tend to do this but appear a little more accepting of the fact that digital tools are out there and unlikely to go away any time soon, and that they can add real value to the interpretive process. Discussing walking as a methodology for studying vernacular landscapes, William Littmann noted how his essay ‘can be considered, at its heart, a call to stop relying only on evidence accessed digitally’ but also went on to state that the new virtual mapping technologies had in fact made his walks possible, helping him to record them through texts, photographs and video [32: p. 4–5]. Brent Fortenberry provided a comprehensive overview of the advantages of digital tools in terms of recording, sharing and disseminating data, noting that ‘it is a means to push forward and expand, not replace, our methodological toolkit’ [33: p. 111]. Danielle Willkens has made a similar point, noting that ‘digital documentation is a valuable, reliable, and exploratory practice that can combine information about the physical aspects of the built environment with additional archival, experiential, and technical layers’ [34: p. 2] ‘All students and professionals pursuing fieldwork should be familiar with digital methods,’ she concluded [34: p. 12].

Meanwhile, the available digital methodologies continue to develop rapidly, as do the ways in which they are used. For example, back in 2015, Jeremy Treadwell discussed the digital reconstruction of a Maori whare (house), something that up to that point in time was still quite rare in relation to vernacular architecture [35]. Ten years later, digital models, sometimes animated, have become quite common in the field and are used for documentation, analysis and public engagement in many parts of the world. Examples include the Tapestry platform developed by CyARK and the 3D models in the Endangered Wooden Architecture Programme (EWAP) archive hosted at Oxford Brookes University (Figure 4). In a separate development, initiatives that allow everyday users to upload images or scans of buildings or information about them to digital platforms continue to evolve [36], while the use of digital methods to study the environmental performance of vernacular buildings has become well-established [22] (Figure 5). Meanwhile, the general use of digital tools such as tablets, cloud storage and generative AI to collect, store, analyse, represent and disseminate information about vernacular buildings continues unabated.

Figure 4

Figure 5

Still, as noted by Willkens [34: p. 2], the early misgivings about the value of digital methodologies persist among many scholars in the field. Indeed, some authors passionately extol the virtues of non-digital methods like hand-drawing in response to the prevalence of digital tools [15]. Their concerns tend to focus on the perceived lack of experiential and material engagement with buildings in the field that was already identified by Klee and others more than ten years ago: ‘our persistent digital problem ... lies, in part ... in an antiquarian habit of mind that tends to regard with disfavor, or at least suspicion, things that cannot be perceived and understood by the senses’ [29: p. 3]. This persistent suspicion and worry reflects the wider notion that the vernacular and digital make up two different realms that cannot (and for some, perhaps, should not) meet. As mentioned, this notion is problematic as there are in fact many other ways in which the two come together, more directly and arguably much more impactful as they are intimately entangled with the actual processes of designing, making and dwelling that make up the vernacular, rather than with the ways in which scholars interpret or represent them. Those entanglements, however, are thus far much less studied and understood.

Digital design and fabrication

One such other way through which the vernacular and digital converge, or indeed merge, is through the integration of digital design and fabrication methods like CAD, mixed reality technology, CNC (computer numerical control) milling, or 3D-printing in traditional vernacular building practices. In these instances, the digital and vernacular become entangled elements of the same designing and making processes. The use of digital design and fabrication methods has of course been part and parcel of the architectural field since the early-1990s [37]. The digital turn, which saw the emergence of buildings that could not have been designed or built without the use of digital tools [38], has well and truly changed architectural practice – to the extent that these days, few to no works of architecture (with a capital ‘A’, that is) will have been designed or built without the involvement of at least some digital tools like CAD or BIM. The ever-increasing integration of AI-based software to process complex site information, control robotic fabrication technologies, or monitor the performance of buildings means that this digital involvement is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future. Indeed, some think the contemporary practice of architectural design and making may well be completely overhauled by the impact of AI during the next decade or so [39].

In this context of an ever-increasing prominence of digital architectural design and making, a number of studies have looked at the potential integration of what may be called vernacular materials such as bamboo, earth, wood and stone into mainstream architectural design practices through the application of new digital technologies. Once more, those studies began to emerge from the early-2010s onwards. In most instances, the aim of this work has been to learn about the merits and limits of the vernacular materials involved, many of which are irregular and non-standardised, and to explore to what extent they can be transformed into buildings that it would not have been possible to design or make without digital tools. The motivation behind this work, much of which sits at the periphery of what may be called mainstream vernacular discourse, has been varied. For many, the investigation of the relationship between the digital and the material as well as between the processes of design and making is at the core of the research. Their main aim has been to explore, in the words of Jan Willmann et al, the ‘borders between the real and that which is conceivable’ [12: p. 9]. For others, the goal has been more pragmatic and philanthropic, such as the reduction of the material impact on the planet by attempting to integrate natural building materials in mainstream design [40] or the empowerment of marginalised communities with intermediate digital technologies that combine traditional and modern craft principles and expertise [41].

Unlike the vernacular scholars who write about digital documentation technologies (many of whom are architectural historians), those working on issues related to digital design and fabrication (most of whom are architects) show no concerns or hesitations about linking the vernacular realm to the digital one. Indeed, their aim is to show how, as Daniel Miller and Heather Horst have argued, the digital is an inseparable part of the material world [25]. The theoretical foundation of much of this work is the concept of digital materiality as defined, in relation to architecture, by Fabio Gramazio and Matthias Kohler, who use the term to describe a process that ‘evolves through the interplay between digital and material processes in design and construction’ [42: p. 7]. Closely related to new conceptions of the material world as active, fluid and open-ended [43; 44], digital materiality sees the emergence of architectural form as ‘driven from within by immanent patterns of being and becoming’ [45: p. 12]. In line with writings on ‘traditional,’ predigital forms of making, the concept of digital materiality proposes a morphogenic approach in which design and making are not seen as separate activities [46]. Rather than perceiving the former as conceived in the mind and the latter as its simple material implementation, both are part of one and the same ‘dynamic, improvisational, contingent and situated’ process of ‘design-in-making’ [47: p. 3–4]. As Achim Menges (45: p.9) has noted, this perspective ‘represents a significant perceptual shift in which the materiality of architecture is no longer seen as a fixed property and passive receptor of digitally derived form but is transformed into an active generator of design and an adaptive agent of architectural performance.’

One example of this kind of work is the doctoral research of Ricardo Assis Rosa, which focused on computational design and digital fabrication in relation to bamboo (Guadua angusifolia) in Colombia [41]. Bamboo is a material that has long been used in vernacular architecture in various parts of the world [48]. It has its benefits: it grows very fast, sometimes reaching maturity in three to four years, is easily harvested and worked, and possesses great tensile strength. However, it also has its shortcomings: cutting it, normally done with hand tools, is difficult because of the structure of the bamboo, and means of joining pieces together are limited and traditionally restricted to lashing. It is also often seen as a poor man’s material. Assis Rosa explored the ways in which digital technology allowed for different uses of bamboo; uses that explored the structural and architectural possibilities of the material and that could potentially free it of its association with backwardness and poverty. The development of a digital fabrication tool that incorporated a CNC saw allowed for bamboo culms to be cut in different and more accurate ways, and as such for new forms, computed by digital design processes, to emerge (Figure 6). The process allowed for the creation of innovative bamboo structures that could not have been made using traditional methods but required digital input.

Figure 6

Similar work has been done by others. Guan Lee, for example, used mixed fabrication methods that combined traditional craftsmanship with parametric modelling tools to create a prototype Bothy (a Scottish mountain refuge) out of fired brick in a way that would be challenging, if not impossible for a typical skilled bricklayer to do [49]. Avoiding the need to cut any bricks, the Bothy was designed in such a way that each brick overlapped with its neighbours by at least 50 percent and was set at a unique angle to itself and each other, resulting in a highly complex structure. This structure was then built by hand by an experienced bricklayer using an AR (Augmented Reality) headset that showed the design and helped the craftsman to position the individual bricks (Figure 7). In this mixed reality fabrication process, ‘the real and virtual worlds come together to create a hybrid environment where physical and digital objects are visualised simultaneously and interact with one another in real time’ [49: p.689]. In a similar vein, Varela, Paio and Rato explored various ways to integrate CNC milling machines into vernacular earth construction processes, emphasising the importance of process over that of form [40].

Figure 7

Taking a somewhat different approach, Hiroki Takabayashi, Keita Kado and Gakuhito Hirasawa looked at the extent to which robots could be used to create the intricate wooden parts of traditional Japanese roofs that traditionally required the advanced labour of skilled craftsmen. Using a CAM (computer-aided-manufacturing) programme, a 1/5 scale 3D model was produced, which was then sawn and chiselled from cypress wood by a robot, ‘resulting in parts that were equivalent to a carpenter’s handwork’ [50: p. 229]. Human input (such as changing the chisels or rearranging pieces) was still required, reinforcing the notion that the coming together of both realms (that of the vernacular and the digital, of the human and the machine) in a hybrid approach creates exciting opportunities for creativity, adaptation and innovation that build and expand on vernacular tradition. James Stevens and Ralph Nelson have called for a similar hybrid approach. Defining ‘digital vernacular’ design as ‘engaging both fingers and numbers, the human hand and electronic tools working together’, they advocate an approach in which local designers and makers embrace both traditional and digital technologies [13: p. 9].

Each in their own way, these examples invite us to look beyond the innovative use of materials, technologies and forms at the relationship between design and making, as well as that between the architect and the builder. Authors like the anthropologist Tim Ingold have shown the importance of the role of making and its relationship to design, revealing the processual and fluid nature of both, and the interrelatedness of mind, matter and hand that it implies [46]. Designs are not imposed on a static material world through processes of making; they emerge through the correspondence of makers with their materials. Digital tools that, like human beings, can design and make in the same way challenge us to investigate this interrelationship in more detail. By extension, they also provoke us to rethink the conventional distinction between architect and builder that lies at the heart of how the vernacular (and indeed, architecture in general) is often defined, certainly in architectural circles, as well as how skill and knowledge are learned, embodied and passed on. Even if most of the examples noted have so far taken place mostly in institutional studios and laboratories, as an extension to the human body and human intelligence, the digital looks set to soon have an ever-increasing impact on the vernacular design and making traditions of peoples in the ‘real world,’ all around the world.

Digital technology and media

Together, digital documentation and digital design and fabrication have been researched to at least some extent. There are other ways in which the vernacular and digital combine, however, equally impactful and fascinating but thus far, surprisingly, much less studied. Interestingly, these ways are more immediate in that they touch more directly on the lives of those who design, make and dwell in the architecture concerned. Digital documentation and digital fabrication are largely concerned with the outside interpretation and engagement of the vernacular by scholars. While linking the vernacular and the digital, they arguably have little to do with the lived experiences of those dwelling in or around the architecture, unless they are involved as participants in the documentation projects (say, as interviewees) or as crafts(wo)men in the digital fabrication projects (as in the case of Assis Rosa’s project, where local bamboo craftsmen tried out the CNC machine). Intriguingly, the more directly the digital impacts on the actual lives of those whose architecture we call vernacular, the less this impact has been studied; another indication, perhaps, that to many working in the field of vernacular architecture studies, the vernacular and digital remain separate realms that should not be combined.

One obvious way through which the digital has an unmediated impact on the design, making and use of vernacular architecture is through mobile technology and social media. As noted above, as of the end of 2024, well over 5 billion people in the world are now using mobile phones, the internet and social media [26]. This digital prominence cuts across countries, cultures, classes, income groups, ages and genders. Although there is substantial regional variation, it is most likely, as anecdotal evidence suggests, that in most parts of the world, designers, builders and users of vernacular architecture will be using mobile technologies on a daily basis. The presence of phones, tablets, gaming consoles, social media and so on can – and in fact most probably will – have a profound impact on the ways in which architecture and the everyday ways of life associated with it may be imagined, build, used and represented. Indeed, it would seem to be the prime way in which the vernacular and digital converge in the situated lived experiences of the members of so-called vernacular communities around the world.

One publication that looked at this issue is that by Sarah Pink and colleagues [51]. Written from a design anthropology perspective (and thus once more situated on the periphery of the field of vernacular architecture studies), it documents in detail how in a relatively short period of time the digital realm, in the form of wi-fi connections, gaming consoles, mobile phones, PCs, tablets and so on, has had a clear impact on how people perceive and use their homes in the United Kingdom. Various activities can now be performed at the same time and in the same place, for instance, when in the past they had to be done in different parts of the house, or at different or specific times. People have become more flexible in how they move through the houses, and to an extent even rely on digital infrastructures to inform them when to warm their houses, wake up in the morning or do their shopping. Leisure, work and domestic chores increasingly overlap in terms of when they are carried out, a development only facilitated further by the increased tendency to work from home since the Covid-19 epidemic, something that in itself is enabled by the increased digital presence [52]. Similar developments are likely to have taken place elsewhere in the world, even if they have not been documented as such in relation to vernacular architecture (Figure 8).

Figure 8

Digital media are likely to have an impact on vernacular design and making processes too. Once again, published work on this is hard to find, however. Natalia Rey Cuellar studied craftsmen working on Mexican vaults in the region of El Bajio, using a technique for building brick vaults and domes that does not require scaffolding or additional reinforcements [53] (Figure 9). She noted how the vault builders (bovederos) traditionally passed down knowledge and skills related to this unique tradition via apprenticeships, with a son or other family member learning in practice by working directly with the master builder. However, in the last decade or so, the builders have begun to use social media like YouTube, not only to promote their trade, but also to share knowledge of the tradition as the numbers of local people interested in taking up apprenticeships is dwindling. They acknowledge that sharing the information online is not enough to learn how to build; practical engagement with the materials and technologies is still needed, but it does help with raising the profile of the tradition and thus the interest in it – and consequently boosts their employability and trade.

Figure 9

Elsewhere, in Tonga, Charmaine ‘Ilaiū Talei has documented how Tongans have used the internet and e-commerce platforms like Amazon to purchase new materials to build their contemporary vernacular houses (fale) [54]. The introduction of a cash and remittance economy, whereby migrant Tongans living in New Zealand or Australia send back money, ideas, materials and tools, introduced the use of materials such as concrete block and metal sheets, which quickly replaced traditional resources like wood and thatch. New social media and internet purchasing options have not only widened the architectural influences that the Tongans are exposed too, but also enabled the transfer and availability of new materials and tools, thus playing an increasingly important role in the development of Tongan vernacular traditions, which are nonetheless still distinctively Tongan. As in the United Kingdom and Mexico, the digital plays a direct part in the dynamic and creative adaptation of tradition, enabling different domestic routines, new ways of working and innovative building forms to take shape.

This impact of the digital on the way buildings are imagined, designed, made and used is likely to be similar, albeit in varying degrees and in different ways, in other parts of the world. Another way in which it manifests itself is in the way social media are used to represent vernacular architecture in the digital realm. This takes many forms. In some instances, as in the village of Abai Sangir in Indonesia, local communities use social media like Instagram and Facebook to speak about their vernacular architecture, proudly promoting specific buildings by means of photographs and information videos (Figure 10). In other instances, outsiders in the form of social media influencers do the same, using traditional forms of architecture to increase their number of followers. For example, one German influencer has bought an abandoned traditional Japanese house (akiya) and has been renovating it and posting about it on Tiktok, going viral and starting what has been dubbed a social media trend [55] (Figure 11). Similarly, a Dutch influencer posts videos of himself renovating abandoned vernacular farm buildings in the Italian Alps. In yet other ways, digital tools like Live Home 3D provide advice on how to design a traditional Chinese courtyard house (siheyuan). Interestingly, all these representations invite reflections, in a new, unique and unexpected way, on a range of subjects that have long been studied in the field, such as the process of making, the representation of heritage, the conservation and regeneration of vernacular buildings, or the appreciation of traditional aesthetics.

Figure 10

Figure 11

The online representation of vernacular architecture of course goes beyond the use of social media. A closer consideration of the images that come up after a keyword search using the words ‘vernacular’ and ‘architecture’ in search engines like Google or Bing will reveal ways in which the vernacular is identified and represented that are worthy of consideration in relation to more long-standing academic representations. Similarly, the definitions that Google AI Overview or Bing’s Copilot come up with will reveal attitudes towards the subject that are interesting to study. The increased prevalence of AI chatbots like ChatGPT equally deserves our attention, as algorithms present us with representations of what they regard as vernacular that may be revealing and surprising, yet reflect (at the moment, at least) hidden human perceptions, ideas and preferences (Figure 12). At a time when discussion about the notion of vernacularity is increasing, those interpretations of what vernacular architecture is (which, though similar, differ in detail between the various search engines and chatbots) deserve much more urgent attention than we have thus far given it.

Figure 12

Conclusions

As Sarah Pink has recently noted, ‘the new automated technologies that are entering our lives are inseparable from the environments, circumstances and spatialities in which everyday life will continue to shift and change’ [56: p. 251]. The digital is here to stay, in one form or other, at least for the foreseeable future, in most if not all social and architectural contexts – including those we continue to define as vernacular. As we have seen, research into the ways in which the digital comes together with the vernacular is still limited, but it is clear that the entanglement of both realms provides a fruitful and important arena for future research. Many pertinent questions can be asked. How are vernacular notions of privacy, hierarchy or gender reconfigured in response to the exposure to alternatives on social media? How does digital technology influence the social relationships between and among vernacular builders and the ways in which they share and transmit their knowledge? To what extent do digital platforms allow vernacular builders to tap into new markets and increase their incomes? In what ways and to what extent do e-commerce platforms change the way materials are selected, sourced and used? How can digital technologies advance the ways in which vernacular materials and technologies are integrated into mainstream architectural design? What opportunities does the digital offer in terms of the documentation, conservation or revitalisation of vernacular heritage? How is the vernacular represented in digital media and what does this tell us about the meaning of the concept in contemporary culture? And, importantly, what does it mean to speak about vernacularity in a digital age when the boundaries of culture and locality are increasingly difficult to draw?

Other questions can be asked too: about data protection, ethics and intellectual property rights in relation to the digitisation of vernacular heritage by external stakeholders; the incorporation of vernacular ‘lessons’ into mainstream, commercial architectural design; about the encroachment of building codes, insurance requirements and health and safety regulations that can come with the arrival of digital infrastructures and technologies; about the environmental impacts in the form of waste, pollution and contamination that the digital brings with it and the social and architectural impacts in the form of forced dispossessions that result from the mining of rare earth and other minerals to sustain the digital; and about what the lack of access and use of digital technologies means to those vernacular communities or individuals in them who are not ‘online’ at the moment. Yet another question that may be asked is why the field of vernacular architecture studies has thus far not really engaged with any of these questions in much detail, even if other closely related disciplines (especially architecture and anthropology) have done so for quite a long time now? Could it be the fact that the digital is not seen to be as ‘real’ as the traditional craft practices, with all their nostalgic associations of honesty, authenticity, identity, place and function, that have been assumed to make up the vernacular for the last two hundred years or so? As Klee noted, to many vernacular scholars ‘matters unmoored from the material world seem both less lovable and less trustworthy’ [29: p. 4]. If so, this is a misguided notion, as digital relationships and practices are as much part of the material and cultural environment we are part of as are analogue, predigital ones. As Miller and Horst have observed, there is no reason to privilege offline worlds over online ones; people are equally ‘human’ in either of them [25].

The ways in which the vernacular and digital interrelate are complex and ever-changing. In the twenty-first century, the digital has become an integral part in the continuous process of becoming that is architecture in most, if not all parts of the world – whether we call them vernacular or not. Rather than reinforcing long-established and essentialist binaries, and lamenting, once again, the supposed way in which the vernacular is left behind on the modern road to progress, we should recognise that the reality of the relationship between both realms will be much more complex and fluid and ever evolving. We should not, like our predecessors did in relation to the industrial realm, ignore the existence of the digital but engage the subject and try to understand the ways in which the vernacular and digital amalgamate in complex, dynamic, creative, messy and unpredictable ways. It may well be, as Ingold has warned us, that the ‘much-vaunted “digital revolution” will almost certainly self-destruct, probably within this century’ [57: p. 4]. For now, however, the digital is here and an essential part of the living environments of a vast and still growing amount of people, all around the world. Understanding what this means in terms of the ways in which people dwell in the world, how they design, make and use architecture, is especially important since, unlike most other technologies, the digital touches on all aspects of life – from the domestic to governance, and from education to economy. It will allow us to focus the direction of vernacular studies forwards, into futures that will be no doubt be different, diverse, challenging and unpredictable – but for sure no less real or everyday. It will also allow for a fresh perspective on what we actually mean by vernacularity and how relevant the concept still is in an increasingly digital material world.

Competing Interests

The authors have no competing interests to declare.