Contemporary architecture's approach to space is fairly linear: enveloping a specified volume within some form of material construct. But if we take a look at humanity's first intentional dwellings, it becomes clear that they were much less premeditated.
Rather than manmade areas to be furnished with pride, our earliest homes were naturally occurring cave lairs that offered hunter-gatherers temporary protection from the elements and potential predators. It wasn't until the appearance of agriculture that our ancestors took permanent, built residences. To this day, troglodytism — or cave living — continues to be connected to ideas of societal disassociation and a hermetic desire to exist outside of orthodox architectural norms. And yet, from Northern China to Western France and Central Turkey, hundreds of millions of people still choose to spend their lives at least partially underground.
We take a look at examples of troglodyte architecture from around the globe and explore what this vernacular way of life can teach us about sustainably designing our future.
According to recent archaeological discoveries, humanity first started making use of caves as long as 1.8 million years ago. Primarily occupied during winter or other adverse weather conditions, these initial dwellings were short-term shelters that offered natural protection and a safe environment that minimized the risk of wildfires. They were also sites of artistry. As Bernard Rudofsky observes in The Prodigious Builders:
The creature whom we label, carelessly, a caveman (a vulgarism that usually stands for upper paleolithic man), was actually an outdoor type, hyperbolically husky, sweaty in an artistic way... his painterly vision was Michelangelesque — a preference for the entanglement of supple, albeit brutish, bodies. Indeed, there is nothing facetious about calling Lascaux the Sistine Chapel of prehistory; the famous caves, it has been inferred, were shrines rather than ordinary dwellings.
The wall paintings of the French cave in question, Lascaux, though predated by its arguably more well-known Spanish counterpart, are indeed early signs of a trend that would take hold throughout the history of troglodyte architecture: the idea of caves as sacred spaces and areas for quiet, solitary reflection. This is as true for Greek mythology as it is for the Indian Bhaja Caves, a group of 22 rock-cut Buddhist prayer rooms located in Maharashtra's Pune District. Though wildly different in terms of architectural finesse and forethought, the more primitive crypts and grottos of Ancient Greece still enclose their visitors with the same sense of otherworldly calm inspired by Bhaja's chaitya hall.
What both have in common with other manmade cave structures around the world is that they are often transformed through what we now recognize as vernacular means of design. By employing an area's local topography and materials to their advantage, early builders would adapt preexisting cavities to suit their specific needs or dig holes into the ground to create examples of troglodyte living — increasing individual well-being and establishing a symbiotic relationship with the environment.
Even today, there are several advantages to this type of architecture: the earth's thermal masses are natural insulators and make heating as well as cooling almost completely unnecessary in temperate climates. Taking advantage of naturally occurring structures is much more efficient than the modern building process of creating them from scratch, and upkeep is minimal in comparison. In a 2006 study that dealt with the Chinese cave dwellings in the country's Shaanxi province (which, to this day, houses over 30 million people), researcher Jiang Lu found that the underground habitats were in line with much of contemporary sustainable design principles that urge for a minimal impact on the environment.
There are, of course, downsides to cavernous living: the lack of ventilation and natural light can have disastrous impacts on individual and collective health, as exemplified by the Italian village of Matera. The area’s Sassi caves were used as a natural shelter from the harsh climate as early as 10,000 BC, but led to collective illness and poverty down the line — causing the 16,000-strong population to be evicted in a 1950s government program.
And yet, there are urban planning lessons to be taken from a look at our ancestral abodes. A recent exhibition at New York City's Noguchi Museum entitled In Praise of Caves resurrects examples of Mexican Organic architecture that argue for a return to the cave as a sustainable, safe, and low-cost alternative to contemporary buildings.
Most notable among them is the work of Mexican architect and public official Carlos Lazo, who oversaw Mexican state infrastructure projects from 1952–55. His Cuevas Civilizadas project dug 110 low-income homes into a canyon wall in the Belénde las Flores neighborhood of Mexico City. Though unfinished due to the architect's untimely death at 41, the project is a prime example of a kind of hybrid troglodyte architecture that could help solve many of our contemporary and future housing issues.
As explained by the museum's Senior Curator Dakin Hart:
(It) was essentially a public housing project idea... to build very efficient, but very modern homes that didn't require a lot of maintenance, and didn't require a lot of expense in upkeep for working people.
Along with contemporary examples like Spain's Granada cave homes, China's sunken courtyard residences, or Tunisia's troglodyte structures, Lazo's revived work proposes an alternative to global architectural trends that, in addition to its vernacular design principles, underlines the importance of connecting with nature as a source of lasting comfort. "It's about happiness in the end", Hart elaborates. "Putting space into boxes hasn't made us content — so what if the answer lies in the ground itself?" Despite the prejudice tied to the idea of living surrounded by naked rock, a reevaluation of troglodyte architecture may thus be well overdue. Rather than looking to the skies for the designs of our future — whether it'd be in the shape of a flying car or dizzying high-rise — gazing down (and inward) may create architectural solutions much better suited to a world threatened by climate change and war.
Editor's note: This article was originally published on February 08, 2023.
