Mutation House: Research through practice and vice versa

Introduction

This essay explores the significance, value, and relevance of the traditional Dong House – called Ganlan (干欄) in Chinese – within the context of the ongoing transformation of rural villages in that country. The advent of rapid urbanization is China is impacting upon the daily life of rural Dong people in its southeast region; as one example, the arrival of new construction materials such as concrete, together with the villagers’ aspiration and desire for a modern lifestyle, has resulted in the brisk eradication of Dong built culture. The traditional Dong House thus represents the last vestiges of a ‘living heritage’ as well as an opportunity to connect contemporary living with the vernacular.

The study is founded on a research-by-design project in which knowledge is acquired through direct application: i.e. praxis. By designing and building experimental prototypes we can gain multiple dimensions of knowledge and assimilate encoded information that surfaces through direct engagement with the local community. The importance of reinforced concrete in rural traditional Chinese villages today cannot be denied or reversed: however, we argue that there can be innovative ways to mutate traditional systems so that old and new can fuse into a hybrid construct, one which retains and reinforces the relevance of Dong built heritage.

For centuries the Dong communities had been self-sufficient, with their environment being a measure of their standard of living. The Ganlan timber house, built on slopes and supported by pillars, embodies the connection between architecture and nature and was connected to the core values of Dong culture: family and land – the archetype of a sustainable house. Although the house constitutes the basic unit of community life, given that Dong villages are rendered devoid of working-age young people as the latter have migrated to Chinese towns and cities, traditional Dong architecture has lost its meaning. The unfortunate ramifications include the traditional house being rapidly being replaced by self-built concrete framed structures that are disconnected from any traditional language.

Each of our prototypes constitutes a design proposal based on an iterative calibration process implemented through direct engagement with the local community, from households to carpenters, who participate in the creation and realization of the new ‘Mutation House’. At the heart of the proposal lies the premise that the Galan timber frame house offers a structural system of possibilities, an antecedent to Le Corbusier’s paradigmatic ’Maison Domino’ (1914–15), yet at the same time unequivocally connected with the social configuration of Dong society. Designing through a generative process establishes a framework for a new architectural practice which grounded in research, teaching and design, reinforcing Giancarlo De Carlo’s statement: ‘In reality, architecture is too important by now to be left to architects’ [1: p. 26].

Dong cultural conditions

In the same manner as Georges Perec’s description above of a jigsaw puzzle, seen in isolation the puzzle pieces of a Dong minority village in southeast China offer little insight into its complex social structure. Dwellings, drum towers, and ‘wind-and-rain’ bridges constitute more than the sum of their parts, the Gestalt in this case becomes the morphology of a settlement designed in synthesis with its environment. To portray a sense of poetic everyday life, their architecture’s sophisticated sense of belonging, together with the Dong people’s radical commitment to community, we present three conditions. Each condition integrates a component that decodes the hidden significance (both metaphysical and existential) that underpins Dong culture.

Figure 1

Imagine a language in which the word ‘waste’ does not exist. The implication would be a living cycle where every product and by-product of human life is part of a sequence that replenishes itself. Eat dinner in a Dong house, and the leftovers are collected, finely chopped, and served as food for the fish that live within the rice fields, the pigs in their pigsties, or the countless chickens that populate the village alleyways. Various oral insights were gathered by speaking to locals during our fieldwork conducted in the Dong minority village we had selected as our testing ground, Gaobu (高步; Figure 1). We discovered that the Chinese Dong minority language does not have a word to define ‘waste’ in its vocabulary; for centuries they have lived in a state of perpetual balance with nature, the concept of ‘waste’ being alien to their way of life. Food, building materials, clothes, and artefacts are conceived as elements that sit symbiotically within nature. The absence of the word propagates an attitude towards dwelling that is different from other cultures.

Dong language is a phonetic dialect, transmitted to successive generations through oral traditions. Within this context, architecture takes on a semiotic dimension whereby buildings become the embodiment of a sign, vessels that record and translate dimensions of collective living into an architectural language. In the absence of written histories, ‘material culture has served as a greater mnemonic role for Dong people, in carrying the order of things at every level’ [3: p. 216]. Villages developed according to geographic and spiritual readings of the topography derived from a combination of ancient Daoist philosophy and Feng Shui practices. Every Dong building is therefore associated with a ritual – structured around patriarchal social systems – from the private domestic dwelling to the public political drum tower.

As such, the identity of their built spaces is linked to important social ceremonies such as birth, marriage and death.

Gaobu is a traditional Dong minority village that works. As well as their deep connection to land, and their embedded rituals, Dong life also exists in harmony with the beauty of polyphonic music. Central to the village’s vitality is the role of the family unit and its social customs. Dong society is organized around the concept of Kuan (款), a form of hierarchical social organization, linking blood-related households to form a larger family unit. The cornerstone of this cultural and spiritual family is the drum tower, a symbol of the family’s wealth and status (Figure 2).

Figure 2

Figure 3

Visit Gaobu today, and you will be struck by its sense of poetry; river, topography, morphology, and architecture reawaken a sense of wonder about rural village life (Figure 3). Dong communities congregate outside of the home, collective living is an outdoor activity, that gyrates around a specific place: the ‘wind-and-rain’ bridge. If the drum tower vertically dominates the Dong village vertically, the ‘wind-and-rain’ bridge offers a powerful horizontal balance, an open public structure where people meet and share their stories, gamble, smoke and simply relax together.

The ‘wind-and-rain’ bridge hence represents the soul of the village, an animated centre of gravity that connects, socially and physically, the diverse fractions of the community. As a structure it is strategically located according to geomancy principles, articulated via a sophisticated structural language of cantilevered timber beams. Beyond serving as a form of social infrastructure, the bridge carries encoded allegorical messages linked to mythical entities such as dragons, serving as protectors against ominous foreign spirits. In the context of Dong society, and inspirational to our design approach, the ‘wind-and-rain’ bridge is a building typology where habitation takes precedence over architectural form (Figure 4).

Figure 4

When it comes to Dong buildings, they are constructed based on a modular prefabricated matrix – a kit of parts designed according to a measuring system inherited by the master carpenter. This tectonic language relates to human proportions and is based on the ‘Lu Ban foot rules’ (魯班尺) that Dong society believes influence the wealth and fertility of the inhabitants of the building. This construction ecosystem pivots around the notion of jian (間), a post and beam construction system articulated through the mortise-and-tenon joint, a joinery connection between the timber column and beam that allows the framework to be structurally stable.

As the Chinese-Australian academic Xing Ruan notes, ‘Mistakes are not allowed in the measurement of Dong joints’ [4: p. 133]. Every element of this primordial architecture is generated by the knowledge and skill of the master carpenter, with the omission of two critical components. Firstly, counterintuitively there are no drawings or two-dimensional diagrams to aid the process; all of the setting out is performed using bespoke bamboo rulers. Secondly, and perhaps more remarkably, there is a complete absence of nails throughout the entire construction process, attesting to the intricate three-dimensionally coded language being mapped out inside the carpenter’s mind.

Beyond a structural connection, the hidden joint embodies the core concept behind Dong architecture. It exposes a system that is both complex and simple, allows for expansion and contraction, is tangible but not visible, and generates a framework that admits calibration to multiple circumstances such as site and demographic conditions. The joint here becomes the metaphorical chromosome that determines the Dong ecosystem, an element that is considered from the outset – from the moment when the carpenter fells the local China fir, right down to the instant the Feng Shui master determines the erection day for the framework.

The Dong House

As the above quote from Ai Weiwei points out, the design and construction of traditional Chinese dwellings follows a different logic to western conceptions of architecture. The reasons behind the research for this essay relate to the unique way of life that the Dong house enables. Its design directly affects the behaviour of its residents, it establishes a comprehensible social organization. The Dong house is thus, as Ruan observes, ‘more than merely a shelter against the elements, a house plays a vital role in enshrining the hopes and fears of its inhabitants when they are able to symbolically engage with it’ [4: p. 9].

Furthermore, to understand its relevance and potential, Ruan argues that the Dong House must be situated within the context of that group’s domination by the Chinese Han majority: ‘Dong allegorical architecture does not merely represent, or symbolize something else; rather, it is a story about its makers and inhabitants’ [4: p. 10]. Due to its systemic properties, the frame acts as a generator of multiple forms of habitation, creating a mode of dwelling divergent from other Chinese rural dwellings, such as Han and Hakka houses, which rely upon load-bearing walls.

As the traditional Dong residential building, Ganlan as a rule typically has three bays and is three storeys high. The elevated timber frame structure offers flexibility to adapt to nature: reacting to steep topographical conditions, protecting against insects and animals, flooding and dampness. As Klaus Zwerger observes, ‘it allows adequate passive ventilation, a vital factor given the level of heat and humidity in the region’ [6: p. 57]. The traditional Dong house is thus an environmentally aware and engaged dwelling, different from other Chinese Han residential buildings that centre around courtyards and protective walls – i.e. closed off to the outside world. The Dong House is more open, following a structural frame in which panels can then be slotted in to delineate rooms.

Conceived following Feng Shui principles, the design of the house establishes a natural relationship between inside and outside. Dong dwellings are not built from bottom to top: rather, they are erected as a naked frame which the community helps to assemble. All houses are built from a single material, China fir – left in its natural state – which contributes to the creation of a consistent architectural language. At first, it appears counterintuitive that the majority of the houses are built along steep topographical contours. However, as is often the case with Dong architecture, there exists a practical explanation. Flat land needs to be dedicated to rice cultivation, and, as a result, the foothills are the sites which are inhabited so as to maximise the harvesting area. The dimensions of the standard Dong House can vary between 3–5 bays: each bay is approximately 3.5m wide, giving rise to houses with floor plates of roughly 100 m² in size.

Dong houses can therefore expand and contract depending on the evolving social conditions of the family. The ground floor is traditionally designated for livestock animals, and it also accommodates a communal cooking hearth. On the first floor is the main living area, which is where you find the kitchen, veranda, and often a small altar located adjacent to the fireplace. The topmost storey is used for bedrooms and storage. Domestic living areas are, as a rule barren, free from the accumulation of objects because the Dong people associate possessions with having unfavourable effects on their wealth and offspring. The Dong House hence has no provision for storage, with most objects within a domestic setting being simply stored on the floor. Their way of thinking is: ‘If you don’t need it now, it should not be in the house.’

Speak of a carpenter within the context of Dong architecture, and the western sense of the word does not convey his importance within the community. There are several categories of carpenters with different degrees of skills – the highest status being the ink master, who has the roles of leading the construction team, controlling the design and construction process, as well as being responsible for overseeing rituals and ceremonies. Ink masters hold a quasi-religious status within Dong society, endowed with powers to safeguard the Dong House from demons and to ensure the well-being of the residing family.

To qualify as an ink master, carpenters must meet specific criteria. They need to be at least 36 years old, married with children, and have undergone an apprenticeship with a serving master. The trade is learnt through observation, endless repetition, refinement, and direct imitation of the master’s methods. There are two forms of knowledge that the ink master must acquire: technical and ritual. The technical aspect focuses on mastering the ‘ink codes’, a unique set of characters and symbols that mark the spatial orientation and naming of each component: e.g. pillar, beam, and purling. The ‘ink codes’ recall tattoos inscribed onto the modular timber pieces to aid with assembly. Ritual knowledge, on the other hand, consists of orchestrating ceremonies aimed at invoking the favor of deities like Lu Ban (魯班), showing reverence to past masters, and coordinating communal singing and feasting events along with fellow community members.

All the timber components of the Dong House are prefabricated and conceived in the mind of the ink master. In the absence of working drawings, the master must mentally envisage the height, depth and width of the house, as well as coordinate the number of rooms, windows and stairs locations in the abstract. This compound array of tasks is achieved by utilizing a set of modest tools, including an inkpot (containing ink and string), a square ruler, bevel gauges, levelling plumb lines, and crafting tools such as an axe, chisel, plane, hammer, along with bamboo measuring rulers, which between them converge to facilitate an intricate and sophisticated construction process.

Concrete by osmosis

Dong village trends are passed on by a process of osmosis. Social practices are observed, absorbed, and mimicked in quick succession. This is therefore how their domestic houses mutate: they are influenced by patterns of building and building materials that other houses employ. For centuries, this level of DIY calibration was minimal, and so Dong villages existed as virtual autonomous entities cut off from the wider community, surviving as self-sustainable environments. During this period buildings were all made from the same material, China fir, following a standard structural framework. With the advent of rapid urbanization implemented as Chinese state policy towards the end of the twentieth century, this type of social osmosis became the prevalent means of propagation of concrete as a construction material from urban to rural areas. According to Gaobu villagers the first manifestations of reinforced concrete were visible in the village in the late-1990’s when Hunan province improved the local transportation network to connect the remote mountainous village to the nearby town of Tongdao.

The widespread use of reinforced concrete became prevalent as Dong households sought to enhance their living standards. Concrete, an alien material to the Dong environment, has allowed for greater structural spans, more flexibility in house layouts, safer fire resistance and facilitated the introduction of modern domestic infrastructure such as showers, toilets and washing machines; but most of all, it represented a quicker way of building. The impact of reinforced concrete on the Dong community has been vast: concrete has transformed the Dong landscape environmentally, culturally, and socially. Suddenly, vernacular architecture, which had remained unchanged for centuries, risks becoming redundant, confined to a veneer status, a form of heritage maquillage in which Dong villagers now erect reinforced-concrete framed houses and add on a timber roof ‘hat’ as a token gesture.

Concrete has transformed the Dong way of life; it has unsettled the local ecosystem and generated a domestic dwelling typology that is conceived as a hermetic box rather than a breathable ‘living’ organism. Carpenters have become surplus within the community, such that there is hardly any work for them. Local carpenters are today confined to find work in faraway ‘folk’ heritage resorts where they work as interior decorators for themed restaurants keen to recreate the Dong timber style and atmosphere. Together with other building detritus, concrete is a material responsible for serious local environmental problems which are having observable and tangible effects on the entire Dong community. The most blatant example of this is the near-complete depletion of fish in the local rivers. The villagers of Gaobu informed us that they can no longer fish in the Pingtan River because the number of fish is so low and they are also concerned about the levels of visible contamination. Yet, the primary challenge that is impacting the local Dong habitat stems from concrete’s non-adaptable nature, transforming Dong houses from dynamic, flexible structures into static and rigid frameworks.

Lens of our inquiry

At root, the example of Rural Studio in rural Alabama is of real relevance for our design approach. Andrew Freear and his colleagues have noted of Samuel Mockbee, the figure who inaugurated that programme as an ongoing ‘live project’ for architectural students at Auburn University:

In analyzing the investigations of our design research team for a new model for the Dong House, this essay focuses on three interconnected questions. The first relates to the idea of ‘living heritage’ by seeking a way for traditional Dong houses to adapt to integrate reinforced concrete without losing their DNA. The second seeks to uncover a hybrid timber/concrete design through direct engagement with the community and the building of a prototype house. The third question explores how such a prototype could then be the stimulus for an alternative form of architectural practice that challenges conventional paradigms.

Starting with the issue of ‘living heritage’, if one removes the patterns of daily life from a Dong village, then their heritage becomes insignificant. Dong villages in China today are seen as cultural assets, examples of heritage settlements manifesting a perfect integration of humanity and nature, rich in cultural traditions, and possessing a unique architectural style. Yet the Hunan provincial government’s preservation strategy awkwardly attempts to freeze many villages by turning them into elevated versions of folk museums. We believe that policy is potentially dangerous because ordinary social and physical structures can be lost, isolating Dong villages and making them eventually meaningless.

Instead, by sustaining the vitality of Dong villages, local heritage can maintain its purpose as an organisational framework of social, economic, geographic, and historical interrelations. As mentioned, Gaobu is a successful example of a Dong village in which the built heritage is still alive, and where the morphology of the village breeds a profound mark upon its environment. Through our fieldwork, we observed that the Dong House acts as the generative element which creates the fabric of the overall village, becoming the foundational component that shapes alleys, squares, and the roads of the settlement. The houses in Gaobu function as a texture that defines the structure of the village, offering insights into the intricate relationship between nature and the built environment.

From a ‘living heritage’ perspective, therefore, the Dong House allows our design research to be able to recognize how houses and communities evolve considering the state of constant flux that rural Chinese villages are undergoing [8]. Houses becomes an organism that adapts to environmental conditions and is calibrated to social patterns: in other words, a tool that enables a symbiotic relationship between past and present. The Dong House embodies inherited knowledge that is passed from one generation to the next, and which enables communities to keep a sense of identity, as a place where vulnerable crafts can coexist with new materials and technologies. In this respect, the concept of ‘living heritage’ represents an approach to learning about the significance of how the Dong House is built, the skills and expertise involved, and how these can be kept alive for future generations.

Moving onto our second design research question, ‘prototype’ is a term that has multiple meanings and associations within the architectural realm. In the context of this essay, two different aspects of the prototype will be explored: a) the ‘conceptual’ version consisting of a design proposition that is developed in abstract and hence is based on an analytical interpretation of the Dong House’s timber matrix; and b) the full-scale ‘realised’ prototype house that was built in Gaobu to gain insights into a new type of hybrid timber/concrete construction. At its core, any design prototype embodies the concept of extracting insights from errors, a development process marked and indeed helped by ‘design failures’ – i.e. setbacks from which the team gains valuable knowledge.

In this sense, the prototype operates as a platform for experimentation. Building a 1:1 artefact not only allowed us to nurture a relationship with the Gaobu community but also generated an exchange of knowledge, tools, and finances. The prototype assists the design research team by keeping it in direct contact with the reality of the Dong household, aligning design solutions with inhabitants’ needs. The prototype also empowers the designer to actively listen to craftspeople, learning from the implementation of practical design solutions rooted in local knowledge. Concurrently, the prototype also facilitates communication, and through this collaborative work, a stronger connection is formed between the team, builders, and the household. The prototype acts as a vehicle that promotes the reception of alternative design solutions.

There is therefore a fundamental difference between prototype and building within the context of this essay. The primary ‘abstract’ prototype may seem like a typical building proposal to readers, yet the qualities that we valued the most were related to experimental insights that interpreted, deviated, and reconfigured conventional customs into our design approach. Our reading of the ‘realised’ prototype defined it as a necessary part of the design process, a system from inception to occupancy. Through direct interaction with local stakeholders, a methodology was established that could translate and reshape our design ideas via observation, consultation, participation, adjustment, execution, inhabitation, and readjustment.

The modes of production employed to create our prototype aimed to establish an alternative form of architectural practice, a collaborative approach centered on direct engagement between teaching, research and practice. By blurring these distinctions, the prototype serves as a medium of translation, enabling researchers to directly engage with the community. Rather than creating divides, the prototype becomes a tool that promotes creativity, cultivates connections, and forges relationships. Through this purposeful framework, our prototype could address specific issues aimed at improving living conditions for the inhabitants.

The social dimension of architecture plays a pivotal role in the implementation of the prototype. Projects need to be firmly rooted in their local context, actively addressing and listening to people while responding to a clear objective. In this manner, the development process diverges here from traditional design methods, involving a gradual practice of extended workshops among students, researchers and community members. Through the passage of time and shared experiences, trust is established. Rural communities in China are often sceptical about visits from urban universities as the latter perceive the village communities as exotic subjects for study and proposing uninformed designs that do not properly consider rural life. Our approach tries to be different. Having visited the village of Gaobu regularly since 2015 and conducted multiple workshops with residents, and having previously constructed various public amenities such as the Gaobu Book House [9], it means that we have progressively earned the trust of the community.

How we achieve this objective is critical. The practice operates internally within the university, functioning as a research lab whereby we conduct annual design studios, elective courses, and have a team of PhD students researching into related matters. Simultaneously, we seek research grants to fund assistants for our investigative studies and design proposals. As a non-profit social enterprise, we aim to raise funds through product retail, donations, and other means to finance the construction of the prototypes. This alternative mode of architectural practice is dedicated to enhancing living conditions for rural communities through practical, thorough, and purposeful projects. Its establishment should not be read as a critique of the current state of architecture: rather, it seeks to explore unmapped opportunities related to the potential for initiating an architectural practice from within an academic institution.

‘Abstract’ prototype

Christian Norberg-Schulz has written of the basic needs of the homes in which we live our lives:

From this basis, we started upon our design research by converting observational findings into a conceptual design via an analytical lens: i.e. observe, digest, and propose. Through a heuristic understanding of how a specific family inhabit their home, a series of ideas arose relating to the inherent potential of the timber grid, focusing on three components: morphology (the formal articulation between outside and inside), topology (spatial order and organisation), and typology (manifestations of modes of dwelling). As mentioned above, two prototypes were developed, the first being the ‘abstract’ version from this initial stage (Figure 5), intended as the precursor to the final iteration, the ‘realised’ prototype. Key to our explorations at this point was how the Dong House’s structural matrix could be designed in cross-section to create a series of interconnected spaces arranged around a single central staircase.

Figure 5

As a case study for a contemporary domestic Dong dwelling, we took the Yang family residence in Gaobu village, a three-storey multi-family timber framed home erected in the 1960s. The household accommodates the families headed by two brothers, totalling 10 family members who span four generations. The dwelling has undergone numerous alterations over the decades, such as incorporating masonry walls and basic amenities on its ground floor. As a family residence, it contains a diverse set of programmes including guest lodgings, a workshop, storage for materials and animals, a wine fermentation laboratory, and a small commercial shop. The absence of a central living area results in a dynamic network of rooms that can change based upon each family’s needs. Vertical circulation is kept to a minimum, with stairs resembling ladders, optimizing the efficiency of the dwelling’s layout.

Through inhabitation, the Dong House has to adapt. Living as guests in the Yang family house, we witnessed ourselves the temporal variations of domestic spaces. As an illustration, the main living space remains intentionally bare until mealtime, when a foldable circular table emerges for communal dining. At the other extreme, the fragmentation of the house’s property line is testament to the family’s acquired prosperity over time, with their domestic spaces expanding beyond the confines of the initial structural grid, even encroaching onto the neighbour’s property to accommodate new business endeavours. Excluding the kitchen and the toilet, every room in the house is kept empty, devoid of furniture, ornamentation or memorabilia, highlighting the value of the latent potential for these spaces to be transformed for multiple functions. Similarly, the bedrooms undergo regular changes too, exemplified by the alternating responsibility of care towards the paternal grandmother who is shared between the two families, spending one year at a time in different rooms. Also, as the autumn harvest approaches, the ground floor undergoes yet another alteration, being converted into a drying barn for the rice crop.

The floors, walls and ceilings of the Yang household are all made from treated Chinese fir, structurally compatible with the primary timber frame and creating a patinated, timeworn surface reminiscent of being inside a cocoon. The atmosphere of the domestic interiors is dark because of the deep floor plan and only one side of the house being exposed to natural daylight. Rooms are devoid of ornamentation, except for the temple space, in which the Sama deity represents the Dong female goddess – whose name translates as ‘the great mother’, possibly a relic from an earlier matriarchal Dong society. This icon sits above an altar in the main living room, curiously adjacent to a portrait of the former Chinese leader, Mao Zedong (毛澤東). Prominent in both sections of this twin-family house is however a large 50-inch LED screen that is switched on to entertain children. Food is cooked on a wood stove, except for rice, as that is cooked in an electrical rice cooker.

Dong people consider stairs to be a pragmatic necessity rather than a place of spatial potential. Viewed in plan, the stairs become an awkward element, hard to integrate and incongruous with the functionality of the timber structural grid. In our first prototype, we aimed to reverse the role of the stairs, converting them into the design generator, a space of exchange, a counterpoint to the rationality of the grid, and a form of semi-public domestic space where encounters are possible. If the traditional Dong House follows a ‘centrifugal’ system in which the circulation is pushed to the exterior, our design aimed to create a ‘centripetal’ model where the circulation becomes the spine of the house – a combination of service core and theatrical stage compressed into one. Hence the stairs were to act as the centre of gravity for the building, initiating an implicit rotation, a movement where rooms spin around a central axis. Through this transformation, the dwelling evolves into a dynamic arrangement of spatial relationships, a topology visible only in cross-section, turning the house into a series of interconnected levels.

During our iterative design process, the typical nine-square Dong House started to metamorphose in the manner envisioned by the so-called ‘Texas Rangers’ in the USA in the late-1950s, whereby the inhabitation of a matrix form was seen as giving rise to a world of possibilities. Rooms were thus seen as simultaneously independent as well as a ‘parcours architectural’, a compelling process of movement; residents are thus compressed and released as they move through the house. At any instance, it means that one is confronted with two realities: the straightforward, efficient path contrasted with the indirect ceremonial procession from public to private spaces (Figure 6).

Figure 6

We therefore embarked on an exercise to break down the Dong House’s structural grid through a sequence of design iterations:

1. The primary 3m x 3m grid was identified, reflecting the traditional timber frame system in which the 9m x 9m floor plan is subdivided by sixteen columns.

2. We then introduced a secondary offset double-grid to generate a service space around the central staircase.

3. The double-grid created a matrix of eight interconnected perimeter rooms that could function either independently or in unison.

4. A knuckle space, cross-shaped, was created with thick versatile walls that work within the network of columns.

5. Once this planimetric configuration was established, the spaces were arranged in section to create a cascade of levels that spiralled around the central stairwell.

6. The result was a house whose rooms rotate three-dimensionally, and whose façades hang from the roof.

7. The complete omission of corner columns gave rise to a ground floor that becomes a diaphanous space able to be open to the public as for example a workshop or retail space.

Following the Dong tradition of constructional rationality, the ‘abstract’ prototype was conceived as being built using prefabricated timber components. In this respect, it represented a partially conceptualised mutation of the Dong House. As a theoretical exercise, this prototype was submitted to the Architectural Review’s Future Projects of the Year Award in 2021, and indeed won the category of ‘Future Residential Building of the Year’.

Figure 7

Having identified this way to develop the latent design potential of the traditional Dong House, we set about finding a family in Gaobu who were willing to collaborate with us on building a new structure. However, when listening to local families talking about their living conditions and the state of their houses, a common thread became apparent. Many of the villagers expressed a desire for a ‘hybrid’ dwelling that could integrate timber with reinforced concrete. Their argument centred around several key points: they were definitely seeking a home that could be both ‘modern’ in terms of amenities and ‘traditional’ in terms of ambience. The ‘modern’ elements related to domestic facilities such as toilets, showers, noise insulation and washing machines. Another critical issue, considering the village’s recent history of fatal fires in it timber dwellings, was provision for a fire-resistant house. In terms of ‘tradition’, on the other hand, the vernacular dwelling was seen as offering a more hospitable environment, greater versatility and comfort due to better ventilation, and a direct engagement with the local community and Dong cultural identity.

‘Realised’ prototype

Another of the key principles of Rural Studio, with which we concur, is the willingness to take on construction as an experimental design process:

The origin of the word ‘hybrid’ holds major significance in the context of this essay. Initially derived from the Greek word ‘hybris’, denoting violation and outrage, the subsequent definitions have shifted away from a transgressive interpretation to a more scientific reading, referring to the offspring resulting from the crossbreeding of two species or two elements.

It had become evident, through conversations with the local community, that our ‘Abstract’ prototype did not effectively address all of their urgent concerns. To tackle the crucial issue of integrating timber with reinforced concrete to design a contemporary version of Dong House, we initiated a conscious process of cross-breeding. Driven by the goal of creating a typology that could improve and challenge their current domestic conditions, we embarked on a redesign of or prototype. Yet while the final design does differ significantly from the initial prototype, we felt that the fundamental characteristics remained pertinent.

The design evolution of our prototype was also intricately connected to the changing morphological condition of Gaobu. In recent years, the village has expanded for a multitude of reasons and this necessitated efforts to counter the prevailing problems: e.g. residents living in unsafe dwellings, families aspiring to live in better conditions, and more houses required to accommodate relatives returning from urban settings. In light of this situation, the local government in 2017 implemented the creation of a new Gaobu settlement which now comprises more than 30 contemporary dwellings. Therefore, following discussions with the village committee, government officials, and several local families, we reached an agreement to design and build a new house for the adult children of the aforementioned Yang family, who possessed land rights to build within the new settlement.

Our proposal now changed to that of the ‘Half House’, as the final version of our design research investigations into the ‘Mutation House’. Now the building was intended to serve a dual purpose by functioning as both a residential space and a research house open to the public. Through this arrangement, the Yang family would reside and manage the property, converting the house into a research centre where local craftspeople could showcase their artefacts. In tandem, the house would also host an educational programme involving students from the Chinese University of Hong Kong, who for the next ten years would actively contribute to assisting the local community by participating in the renovation and modernization of local dwellings. Architecturally, the basic design principles of the ‘Half House’ were inherited from our ‘Abstract’ prototype, with a central stair acting as a generator for communal living, fused by adapting the standard nine-square grid of the Dong House. The name of our revised design served to denote two distinct yet compatible programmes that came together under one roof as a domestic space that was also a venue for sharing knowledge through design and craft.

Figure 8

Scale models had now become our modus operandi, a tool that allowed us to incrementally refine the construction details and also to capture insights as to how to enhance the house’s liveability (Figure 8). Beyond aiding the design evolution, these models were pivotal in connecting stakeholders and enabling communication with the Yang family. Local builders and carpenters also found connection and relevance through the models. As the scale increased, the models provided a human dimension, aiding the team in understanding proportions and material explorations, as well as visualizing and assessing the prototype’s structural stability.

In this new phase of the design, a reinforced concrete frame replaced the traditional timber structure of the Dong House’s matrix, making the plan a direct by-product of the grid system. The nine squares delineated by the typical framework gave rise to a grid of nine equal cubes that, when multiplied by three stories, generated a mechanism of interconnected spaces. The arrangement of interiors within the house still however revolved around a single central staircase that served as the connecting element between public spaces and domestic living areas, producing a condition that – to quote from the most detailed account of the 1950s ‘Texas Rangers’ – could be described as ‘sparsity and density, tension and compression, the kinetics of geometric configuration’ [11: p. 190].

Only in section does the spatial composition of our ‘Half House’ come alive. Programmes are woven into the frame, thereby blurring distinctions between public and private, research and domestic. In this respect, the house has no corridors, with circulation elements acting as threads woven into the structural matrix. Double-height spaces interconnect with the vertical circulation, forming a timber bridge that extends into a balcony encircling the building’s perimeter. The reinforced-concrete frame eliminates the necessity for loadbearing walls, enabling the ground floor to transform into a permeable membrane bridging the gap between the interior and exterior. All services are consolidated into shafts on either side of the main staircase, providing a flexible open plan interior.

The façade of a Dong House, traditionally pragmatic, mirrors its structural logic and method of construction through its exposed primary elements and minimal external openings. Our design however departs from this convention by introducing depth to the façades. By projecting an additional layer, the façades now evolved into multifunctional spaces – an inhabited façade which serves as a portico on the ground floor and a balcony on the upper levels. This operation yields two distinct elevations: a spatial outer layer crafted from reconstituted timber and an inner structural concrete frame. The result is an uncanny typology that is simultaneously fitting and incongruent to its surrounding context.

Our aim in our projects is always to build using local builders. It helps to promote local employment, reduces embodied energy, and keeps financial gains within the community. The translation of the ‘Half House’ design into a built edifice must be seen through this lens. It requires negotiating all the uncertainties involved, as voiced by the anthropologist Tim Ingold:

It was evident to us that Gaobu has no skilled concrete builders. Instead, over the years a pattern has emerged whereby carpenters have learnt the trade on the road, as best they could, and then helped families self-build their homes. During several shared dinners, we introduced the project to a builder who was associated with the Yang family. The design of the prototype transformed due to this discussion, and a new language emerged – in effect, a localized design dialect. This dialect interpreted our project’s constructability in terms of local considerations such as cost, technical skills, material availability, labour resources, and seasonal climatic patterns.

Construction started in March 2023 (Figure 9). The foundations were laid and within months a team of local builders, men and women, had erected the concrete framework. The construction of the roof however became complicated. The first problems that arose were related to the interface between the timber and the concrete. Whenever these two materials meet the design needed to be calibrated, and solutions were developed directly on site. By working together, a relationship was built with the construction team, creating trust and understanding, and enabling progress. Mistakes were never blamed on anyone but rather dealt with through design alterations. As the project evolved, issues of cost surfaced, with the price of timber becoming a pressing issue. We were confronted with the decision as to whether to continue using a local supplier or else switch to engineered timber from a remote Cross-Laminated Timber (CLT) factory that could cut the price by a third. After careful consideration, we chose the latter option. Surprisingly, local carpenters in Gaobu were not annoyed, but instead saw this as an opportunity to learn and potentially establish a similar local factory within their valley. The prototype was hence now fulfilling our vision of generating opportunities to produce new financial models for the Dong community.

Figure 9

Thankfully the ‘Half House’, which we regard as our ‘realised’ prototype for the ‘Mutation House’ concept, will eventually be completed in October 2025 (Figure 10). Towards the end, our design focus transitioned to an ever-closer interest in shaping the programme for the community research center. In collaboration with local groups, we have since formed a team of skilled individuals, offering a space for community members to gather and explore Dong crafts that include weaving, textiles, jewellery, food, carpentry, and harvesting techniques.

Figure 10

Knowing from the inside

In conclusion, we would like to discuss the role of the prototype by referring to a book by Tim Ingold, typified by the above quote, which in many ways has acted as the theoretical foundation for this essay. In Making: Anthropology, Archaeology, Art and Architecture, he deliberates on the importance of ‘making’ in relation to the acquisition of knowledge. According to Ingold, only through protracted engagement – ‘doing things ourselves’ – can one understand the reality behind the appearance. The process of inquiry, he contends, encourages thinking through observations rather than after them, emphasizing understanding gained through practical experience rather than a more passive cultural acquisition. Prototypes as design tools can hence act as a means of transmission of knowledge, exposing in Ingold’s terms ‘a new way of learning’. As an empirical vehicle, the prototype clearly helps to avoid formulaic design solutions based on preconceived ideas. Importantly in our case, it changed the way we interact with the Gaobu community, and in that process, architecture ceases to be an act ‘for’ people and becomes an undertaking ‘with’ people.

Dong dwellings are constantly changing, and this means that soon there will be very few examples left of totally timber vernacular houses in the region. While this inevitability looms, our focus in this design research study was on achieving the sensible integration of the ‘new’ material of concrete into this traditional context. Through research, study and innovation, there exists the potential to establish a new design language that merges modern elements within a vernacular framework – or in our case, vice-versa, since we were finding a way to fit timber into a reinforced concrete frame. In this regard, the self-built Dong House serves as an exemplary paradigm, illustrating the ways in which heritage, sustainability and critically contemporary rural dwelling can coexist.

This has undoubtedly been a long and testing process. The project extended over three years, spanning the challenging times of the Covid-19 pandemic that made our access to the village of Gaobu impossible for over 18 months. At its core, this design research project is about social interaction and how architecture can play a role in improving people’s lives. Through designing and constructing the ‘abstract’ and then the ‘realised’ prototypes we have established relationships and acquired knowledge that would have otherwise been inconceivable. However, in another sense, the project is only on the verge of commencing. By observing the patterns of residence and inhabitation in the ‘Half House’ we will begin to understand how individuals respond to these new living conditions. And on a different plane, the research centre in Gaobu will initiate a process wherein the insights gained can benefit other Dong villagers and potentially disseminate further down the valley through osmosis.

Competing Interests

The research for this essay was made possible through funding from the Research Grants Council of Hong Kong: General Research Fund 14615819 – ‘House Mutations: Prototype Solutions for a Prefabricated Self-build Timber House in Rural China’.