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The architectural landscape of the Jersey Shore changed significantly after Hurricane Sandy tore through the area in 2012. In shore towns from Sandy Hook to Cape May, thousands of homes were “lifted,” or raised onto pilotis, to avoid future flood damage. The State of New Jersey and FEMA provided grants to fund these transformations, and new building regulations ensured that pilotis would remain an important part of the Jersey Shore going forward.
“For those living in some flood-prone areas, those elevations must be on wood or cylindrical concrete pilings, while in less vulnerable coastal areas, masonry blocks can be used,” summarized New York Times writer Jill P. Capuzzo in a 2017 article. “Piling foundations require open sides or breakaway walls so that if another flood occurred, the water would wash right through the base of the house. Wiring and utilities must also be placed above the elevation levels. Such measures will be protection from storms and may help prevent rising flood insurance costs.”
What Capuzzo does not mention is that raising a house on pilotis creates a new kind of threshold space. Underneath these raised houses are little shaded alcoves that can be used for different purposes. Some people use this space for parking cars, bikes and boats, but others are more inventive, using the space as a seating area, exercise room or even a putting green. The shadiness of these spaces makes them very attractive, for there is very little reprieve from the sun at the Jersey Shore, especially on the narrow peninsulas and barrier islands, which are almost treeless. Strolling through a block of these raised houses, one feels a sense of neighborly openness. Instead of closed doors, there are now little breezeways everywhere you look.
Houses elevated on pilotis have become a common sight at the Jersey Shore. In places like Grand Isle, Louisiana, where this home is located, that has been the case for many decades. Image: Louisiana Sea Grant College Program, Louisiana State University, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Le Corbusier would not be surprised that New Jersey’s decision to mandate the use of pilotis would have beneficial second-order effects. In his 1927 manifesto, “Five Points of a New Architecture,” the cantankerous modernist put pilotis as the very first point, writing that “the replacement of ground floor supporting walls with a grid of reinforced concrete columns that bear the structural load is the basis of the new aesthetic.” (The basis!) Point two explains one reason that the pilotis are so important: they allow for the “free design of the ground plan.” Corbu explains that “raised on free-standing columns with the absence of supporting walls, the ground floor is unrestrained in its internal use.” In short, the absence of load-bearing walls allows the architect to design the floor plan “freely,” or without compromise.
Using pilotis instead of internal structural columns also allows for points three and four in Le Corbusier’s manifesto: “the free design of the façade” and “horizontal (ribbon) windows.” The idea is that pilotis free architects from having to design around structural elements, allowing them to design the facade in ways that maximize light, which was a major concern for Le Corbusier, who believed modern architecture would free people from the dark, cramped living spaces associated with urban squalor. The fifth point, “the roof garden” on a flat roof, is not technically dependent on pilotis, but it accomplishes a similar function of providing easy access to fresh air.
Le Corbusier’s manifesto is embodied in the design for Villa Savoye, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in the village of Poissy, France, that is open to the public. It’s worth a visit. While it has become fashionable to deride Le Corbusier’s modernist works (like Villa Savoye) as overly programmatic and champion the late-period expressionist works like Notre-Dame du Haut, seeing Villa Savoye in person disrupts this easy binary. In person, Le Corbusier’s utopian vision is both clear and inspiring. Much more than just a “box in the air,” Villa Savoye is a house that takes full advantage of the “freedom” allowed by structural supports. The upper bedroom, or “solarium,” is not a rectangle at all; it is a curved space that rests atop the building like a penthouse. And the roof garden isn’t really a roof garden, but a central courtyard that articulates the space and is visible from almost every room. The masterstroke of it all is the ramp that fluidly connects all areas of the home from ground to rooftop.
Just imagine how this house must have appeared to people in the 1920s, who were unfamiliar with curtain wall systems and the notion of a truly “open” floor plan. Villa Savoye must have seemed like a revelation, and it all rested on pilotis.
Ironically, the one thing Villa Savoye does not take advantage of is the space opened up under the building by the use of pilotis — the very aspect of pilotis that intrigued me when visiting the Jersey Shore. But this isn’t true of many contemporary projects that feature slender support columns. Consider Tree Snake Houses in Pedras Salgadas Park in Lisbon, Portugal. The architect, Rebelo de Andrade, worked with The Modular System Company to develop a housing prototype that would “recreate the fantasy of tree houses.”
Like Villa Savoye, this house is situated in a picturesque rural setting. It is not hemmed in by other structures. What Le Corbusier called the “free” forms enabled by pilotis are taken advantage of much more amply here than in his own structure. Rather than a box, we have a series of unique elevations and protuberances that express the idea of a “wild animal in its natural habitat.” Visitors can freely walk underneath the structure, which emanates a sense of lightness, appearing to float in the middle of the forest.
East River Residence by Omar Gandhi Architects, East River, Canada
Pilotis also enables buildings to occupy landscapes that would not be amenable to traditional foundations. A great example of this is East River Residence in East River, Canada, a private residence designed by Omar Gandhi Architects. The house crosses a shallow valley on a grid of slender steel pilotis, touching the ground as lightly as possible. By lifting the structure above the terrain, the architects preserve the site’s natural contours and drainage patterns while framing expansive views of the Atlantic. There is an elegance and a gentleness to this house, which makes a point of working with the landscape rather than dominating it.
Nothing compares, however, to the effective use of pilotis in large buildings, especially skyscrapers. I am thinking especially of a building I saw in Singapore fourteen years ago: Paul Rudolph’s 574-foot (175-meter) commercial and residential complex “The Concourse,” also known as Hong Fok Centre, which was completed in 1994 and features a magnificent stepped facade reminiscent of pagodas. Rudolph elevated The Concourse on twelve enormous pilotis, pulling the tower away from the ground and opening a dramatic public plaza beneath. The strategy transforms the skyscraper from a sealed object into a permeable urban space, while exaggerating its verticality. Hovering above a five-story lobby, the octagonal tower appears less anchored to the city than suspended above it. The effect is one of space and light — virtues that Le Corbusier would absolutely appreciate. It is fitting that The Concourse was commissioned as part of a massive urban redevelopment program, transforming an area that in years past had been associated with crime. Visually, pilotis symbolize Le Corbusier’s dream for modern architecture to rise above the past.
The jury and the public have had their say — discover the remarkable winners of Architizer's 14th Annual A+Awards. Subscribe to our Awards Newsletter to receive future program updates.
Cover Image: Tree Snake Houses by RA , Lisbon, Portugal
