Leonardo da Vinci once observed, "An arch consists of two weaknesses

which, leaning one against the other, make a strength." I was reminded of
this last month when I attended a press briefing on arches throughout
history at the AAAS meeting in St. Louis. (Yes, I am only now getting around
to blogging about it. It's been a busy few weeks, and the following required
a great deal of rigorous thought.)
St. Louis is known for its Gateway Arch, a landmark structure that opened in
October 1965 to commemorate Thomas Jefferson's 1803 Louisiana Purchase.
The Finnish architect Eero Saarinen designed the enormous steel parabola to
symbolize the gateway to the American West. There's a very specific
geometric term for the arch's shape: it's essentially an inverted model of a
flexible chain or rope suspended from two points. The non-inverted model's
shape is known as a catenary. Its name is courtesy of the Dutch
mathematician Christian Huygens, who dubbed the curve catenarius, from
the Latin word for "chain."
Saarinen didn't copy the classic inverted catenary shape perfectly; he
elongated it, thinning it out a bit towards the top to produce what one
encyclopedia entry describes as "a subtle soaring effect." Maybe not subtle
enough. In 1980, a man named Kenneth Swyers took the whole "soaring
effect" a bit too literally. He tried to parachute onto the arch's span and
died in the attempt, garnering a post-humous Darwin Award for his efforts.
Okay, so parachuting onto the arch is a bad idea. You can still ride a little
egg-shaped tram to the top if you're so inclined, but it was bitterly cold out
-- and Jen-Luc Piquant gets claustrophobic -- so we took a pass on that
particular tourist attraction. The brave souls with fire in their hearts and
appropriate winter outerwear who did ascend reported that the spectacular
view was marred somewhat by the disconcerting sensation of swaying
whenever the wind picked up. In fact, the arch is designed to sway up to 18
inches in the wind.
There are very good physics-based reasons why Saarinen chose an inverted
catenary shape to build the Gateway Arch. Leonardo's codependent "leaning
weaknesses" describes a delicate balance of opposing forces that gives rise
to a certain degree of structural stability. A chain suspended from two points
will always try to form a catenary. This happens because the chain wants to
hang in a state known as "pure tension," so it will always adjust itself to find
this balanced state. Only tension forces can exist in the hanging chain;

inverting the shape into an arch reverses those into pure compression
forces. All that compression force acts along the curve and never at right
angles to it. This makes the inverted catenary very stable, particularly for
spanning a horizontal distance. The 17th-century English scientist Robert
Hooke phrased it best: "As hangs the flexible chain, so but inverted will
stand the rigid arch."
Saarinen developed his variation on a catenary theme in consultation with
an architectural engineer named Hannskarl Bandel; the slight elongation is
not only pretty, but it transfers more of the structure's weight downward,
rather than outward at the base. This extra stability is important because,
although the inverted catenary is very stable horizontally, it is less so in the
vertical direction. The higher the arch goes, the less stable it becomes
vertically. The St. Louis arch rises to some 630 feet, so Saarinen had to
incorporate a lot of extra material in the so-called "cross-section" to get the
arch to stand up and stay up. (I'll take an uneducated stab in the dark here
and surmise that it has something to do with needing more mass to reinforce
the "pull" between the arch's two "leaning weaknesses" at that particular
juncture.) That's also why the little tram cars to the top are so small,
they're almost like five-person coffins, and why the arch is closed on very
windy days.
Legend has it that in ancient Rome, whenever an arch was constructed, the
architect who designed it was forced to stand underneath as the wooden
supports were removed as a means of quality control. It was a terrific
motivational tool: design it right, or the arch falls and crushes you. Today,
architects can rely on people like MIT's John Ochsendorf, who has developed
a new method for 3D modeling of the forces in a building design,

using a computer graphics technique

called particle spring modeling. Remember the scene in Revenge of the
Sith where Yoda fights while wrapped in a cloak? That's a particle spring
model. Computer animation graphics designers use it to model fabrics,
because they need to understand how forces flow in different directions, in
real time, in 3D, and in an interactive format -- designers need to be able to

tweak the parameters and view the effect of doing so immediately. The
virtual masses are connected by virtual springs that bounce around until
they find an equilibrium to support the requisite loads.
Ochsendorf is the first to apply this method to the study of architectural
design; he's currently modeling the physical forces at work in the complex
structures of historic Gothic cathedrals. The eventual goal is to uncover
more efficient ways of building modern structures. For instance, Frank
Gehry's trademark leaning columns are visually striking from an aesthetic
standpoint, but practically speaking, roughly 40% more material is needed to
make such structures stable. Ochsendorf's 3D models can determine where
the lines of force naturally want to fall, so architects like Gehry can better
align columns with those lines of force.
Ochsendorf also reached beyond Hollywood and drew on the lessons of the
past for his computer modeling technique, specifically a similar design tool
-- the hanging model -- used by the Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi to
calculate structural balance for the arches incorporated into his building
designs. Gaudi devised an elaborate system of threads that he used to
represent columns, arches, walls and vaults, augmented with little sachets
filled with lead shot to mimic the weight of small building components. He
used the model to design the Colonia Guelli Church between 1889 and 1908,
as well as the Casa Mila in Barcelona, Spain, completed in 1910.
All of this discussion proved fascinating, but frankly -- and hell is freezing
over as I type these words -- I wanted to know more about the math. The St.
Louis Gateway Arch is unique because it has an actual mathematical
equation displayed at its base that describes -- what else? -- a catenary.
Because it makes me look like I know what I'm talking about, I reproduce the
relevant equation here: y = 68.8(cosh0.01-1). (Jen-Luc Piquant claims this
makes perfect sense to her, but I suspect she's prevaricating just a little.) On
hand to offer his expertise in this area was Paul Calter, a retired math
professor from Vermont who is also a painter, sculptor and author of a
mystery novel, not to mention a forthcoming book entitled Squaring the
Circle: Geometry in Art and Architecture.
According to Calter, small stone arches were typically built around a curved
wooden form, around which the builder would lay stones or bricks, tracing
the shape with pegs and string. But modern construction materials include
steel, which must be fabricated in a steelyard and then assembled onsite. As
every engineer knows all too well, math can be a big help in making sure

everything is sized and shaped just right to achieve the critical balance of
forces. Equations for geometric figures like circles and arches weren't even
available until Rene Descartes devised analytic geometry in the 17th
century, thereby ensuring that millions of high schoolers would be required
to take up compass and straightedge and learn about interior and exterior
angle sum conjectures and the properties of trapezoids. (Personally, I
enjoyed high school geometry; I would have enjoyed it even more if Michael
Serra had been teaching the class. Among other pedagogical methods, Serra
teaches his students how to build arches out of Chinese take-out cartons.)
Not surprisingly, there are different equations for the various arch shapes:
circular, pointed, parabolic, or elliptical. I'll spare you most of the technical
details of the St. Louis arch equation, because they make my innumerate
little head ache --something about giving the height y of any point on the
arch at a given horizontal distance x? And what the heck is a cosh, anyway?
-- but even my befuddled brain was fascinated by a little-known connection.
It turns out that the equation is related to both exponential growth curves
and exponential decay curves.
This is one of those strange convergences -- in this case, between math,
physics, engineering, architecture, and art -- that we here at Cocktail Party
Physics love so much, because it provides so many different contexts in
which to discuss highly intimidating math and physics concepts. Some of us
need all the context we can get.
Let's start with the exponential growth curve, which describes, among other
phenomena, population growth. It turns out that the greater the population,
the faster it grows. Calter used the analogy of computing compound
interest. Say you invest a certain number of dollars (P) at a fixed interest
rate (n); after x number of years, the interest would compound for a grand
total of y. So if Jen-Luc Piquant took $500 of our hard-earned wages and
invested that money at 6.5% interest for eight years, at the end of that
period we would have $827.50. That's a pretty decent return; no wonder
Jen-Luc handles the finances.
If I understood Calter correctly, there's nothing jaw-droppingly exponential
(yet) about this example, because the interest is only compounded once a
year. In fact, things don't move into the truly mind-boggling realm as long as
the interest is computed in discrete intervals. Jen-Luc and I don't get a
substantially greater return on our investment if the interest is compounded
monthly instead of annually. The difference is something like $12.33, which

barely covers the cost of a movie and one-way Metro fare to the cinema. But
if we compute the interest continuously rather than discretely -- in physics
terms, this would be akin to using Maxwell's wave equations for light versus
the Planckian approach of quanta -- the resulting value first becomes very
large, and then hits a sort of threshold, such that the value stabilizes (to
something on the order of 2.7183, per Calter).
The reverse happens in exponential decay. Let's say that Jen-Luc invests our
hard-earned wages unwisely, at a negative interest rate, so that we lose
money instead of earning it. (Since Jen-Luc would never be so foolish,
perhaps another possible example might be the interest incurred on a debt,
say, our mortgage interest rate, which amounts to losing money, judging by
how slowly the principal balance decreases.) The minus sign in the equation
is the only thing that differentiates exponential growth from exponential
decay; everything else remains the same. The value grows larger and larger,
then hits a threshold and stabilizes. Calter likened it to how a cup of coffee
cools in a cold room. It is the temperature difference between the two that
drives the heat out of the coffee. As the coffee cools, that temperature
difference decreases, and the rate at which the temperature drops
decreases along with it. So the rate of change in temperature is proportional
to the temperature of the coffee.
So the exponential decay curve contains the essence of entropy, a.k.a., the
second law of thermodynamics -- which brings us to a bit of critical physics
history. A certain well-known 19th century equation related the temperature
of an object to the total amount of radiation it emits: if the temperature is
doubled, the emitted radiation will increase 16-fold. In 1900, German
scientists conducted experiments to verify this by measuring how much
radiation came off objects at various temperatures, expecting -- per the
equation -- that as the temperature rose, so would the amount of emitted
radiation. Alas, that's not what happened. The equation held until the
temperature rose into the ultraviolet range of the electromagnetic
spectrum. Then it leveled off and began getting smaller and smaller again.
This became known as the "ultraviolet catastrophe," which might strike nonscientists as over-reacting. But any time theory doesn't agree with
experiment, it constitutes a scientific disaster of sorts. And in this instance,
the disaster led to a revolution: in an attempt to devise a theory to explain
these experimental results, Planck came up with the notion of discrete
quanta, inadvertently giving birth to the field of quantum mechanics.

"Okay, fine," Jen-Luc sighs impatiently. "But what the hell does any of this
have to do with catenaries and arches?" Well, in the case of entropy and
black-body radiation, I'm a little fuzzy on the connection myself. I think it
has something to do with how calculating interest in discrete (quantum)
intervals doesn't give us a (catastrophic?) exponential curve, while
calculating the value continuously (like a wave) does. But Calter pointed out
that if you put the exponential decay curve together with the exponential
growth curve, you get something that looks like the figure at left.

Stripped of all the technical jargon, what Calter was saying is that in the
classic catenary shape, the descending portion of the curve behaves like
exponential decay, while the rising portion of the curve exhibits the
characteristics of exponential growth. Combined, they form a classic
catenary which, when inverted, in turn forms an arch.
I am, as I made clear in a prior post, functionally innumerate. The above
represents my own rambling thoughts as I try to grope my way towards a
better understanding of the complex web of underlying interconnections at
work in something as gloriously simple (on its surface) as an architectural
arch. I'm particularly intrigued by the unexpected cameo appearance of the
second law of thermodynamics, perhaps because I struggle so much with the
entropy of my own ignorance on a daily basis. (For anyone who cares to
weigh in with corrections, clarifications, or further insights to help me
combat this intellectual entropy, feel free to post your comments.)
In medieval Europe, arches weren't just structural, but were also a spiritual
device, intended to evoke a transcendental quality in the building. We've
lost that symbolic view to some extent, embracing a far more pragmatic
approach to architectural design. But even in the midst of pragmatism, I
discovered that it's possible to derive inspiration from the arch, and not just
from its aesthetics. Even the underlying math and physics inspires.

Guastavino Thin-Tile Vaults

A master craftsman takes us through the steps of building a Guastavino vault.

By Ken Follett
Under the heading of esoteric masonry, there are a few items that stand out: columns, lintels, arches, bridges, aqueducts, serpentine brick walls, corbels, carved stone, flying
buttresses, fireplaces and in the far exotic end of the spectrum, Guastavino tile vaults. Guastavino tile is a masonry construction using thin tile built up in multiple-layers to form a
composite of thin shells in various configurations of self-supporting masonry arches and vaults. The building technique was brought to the United States by Rafael Guastavino from
Catalonia, Spain, in the late 19th century. The construction company that he formed, along with his son to follow in his footsteps, remained in the business of building Guastavino vaults
up into the early 1960s. A most notable example of Guastavino tile is the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal in New York City.

Prior to and in coordination with the Association for Preservation Technology International conference in October 2013 in New York City, a two-day hands-on workshop at the A.
Ottavino stone yard in Ozone Park, Queens, NY, gathered a number of craftspeople to build two Guastavino structures. One was an intersection of two barrel vaults and the other a
barrel vault with intersecting lunettes (little moons).

At a two-day workshop held at A. Ottavino stone yard during the APTI conference in October 2013 in NYC, a team of craftspeople built two Guastavino vaults. Here they are working on vault #1. All photos: Ken Follett unless otherwise

noted

The workshop leaders were Kent Diebolt (Vertical Access, NYC), Berta de Miguel (Vertical Access), Mallory Taub (Arup, San Francisco), David Lpez Lpez (Catalonia), Benjamin Ibarra
Sevilla (University of Texas, Austin), Marta Domnech Rodriguez (Catalonia), Ken and David Follett (Follett-PCLS), and Kevin Dalton (Vertical Access). Sponsors included Orchard Park,
NY-based Boston Valley Terra Cotta, which supplied the tile; APT (Association of Preservation Technology) and Vertical Access. TheNational Center for Preservation Technology and
Training (NCPTT) provided a grant.

Top: The team starts work on vault #2, a barrel vault with two lunettes.

Bottom: Benjamin Ibarra Sevilla photographs vault #2 after completion. Note the lunettes.

Heres the process for building a Guastavino vault:

You take a tile in one hand, left or right as needed, and in the loose hand take a trowel, which you

then dip into wet, white plaster. Butter two edges of the tile and then briskly, or at least without too much

hesitation, lift up and set the thin piece of baked-clay masonry sort-of flat up in the air and squeezed
against the other tiles you have already set. The tiles set over the last few minutes hang out into the air. You
gently wiggle and prod the tile with your fingers and your palms to where it needs to be, and then you hold
it there for a bit.
o

Hold the thin tile there just long enough for it to stay in place as it reaches out along where you

imagine and desire the vault surface to be. As best as you are able, that is, as this is a workshop for nonmasons to gain an inherent appreciation of the craftsmanship of this masonry technique. As you stand and
hold the tile, you look around and talk to your neighbor. You get to know each other as you build together.
On the wet saw, tiles are being cut in halves, slivers and triangles. You feel the weight of the tile and the
plaster on your hands as it changes from wet and squishy to hard. Timing is important; the materials can be
impatient.

Top: Vault #1 nears completion.

Bottom: A father and son team, Brian VanNostrand (father, a potter) and Bryson VanNostrand of VanNostrand Architects, work on vault #1. Mallory Taub is in the background with his camera.Photos: Berta de Miguel

Listen to the tap-tap of the trowel against the drum of the vault. There is no formwork. You have to

feel through the structure of the masonry as it sets and cures. At this stage there is no support, only the
magic of adhesion of the plaster as it sets hold to suck in and grasp the tiles that freely reach out into space.
That is, until you get to the last tile, which, as in a picture puzzle, fits in and completes the whole reality of
the vault.

Another layer of tile is offset over the first layer, set in a cementitious mortar, with a whole lot less

dramatic flair. Slick it with the mortar and plop it down, wet, squiggle it into place and move on. There are,
for this workshop, only two layers of tile. The last tiles are set in place. Then everyone adjourns to an
interior room for lunch and a talk about the history, mystery and tradition of this architectural form.
But hold on! There are many mysteries when it comes to Guastavino vaults and one of the first is their remarkable strength and durability in form when everyone has almost left the
work area, and only minutes since the last tile has been set, a really big guy in an impish stir of impatience jumps up and runs from corner to corner across the top of one of the freshly
built vaults.

Top: Lisa Howe of Consigli works on the almost completed vault #2.

Bottom: As in a picture puzzle, the last tile fits in and completes the vault. Here a member of the team holds the tile in place on vault #2. Photos: Berta de Miguel

For more information, the definitive book on the subject is Guastavino Vaulting, The Art of Structural Tile, by John Ochsendorf (New York, Princeton Architectural Press, 2010).See Clem
Labines review in the April 2011 issue of Traditional Building.

TB

Ken Follett has been involved with heritage masonry restoration for several decades. He is a founding member and was the first president of the Preservation Trades
Network. He currently resides in Brewster, NY, and primarily works with his son-partner, David Follett. They are hands-on consultants for architects, engineers and
conservators during the design phases in their investigation of historic structures, wood, masonry, metal or otherwise. He can be reached
atken.follett.pcls@gmail.com.