Exploring the emotional and sensory dimensions of vernacular dwellings in southwestern Iran, and their fostering of mental comfort.

Introduction

Background

Historically, the home has been understood as more than a physical shelter. As Gaston Bachelard writes, “The house shelters daydreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”[1]

The home, in this sense, becomes a vessel for memory, imagination, and emotional grounding — qualities that shape one’s sense of belonging and inner stability. It is not merely the walls or roof that draw a person back, but the feeling of safety, intimacy, and continuity that anchors the mind.

In much of contemporary residential design—especially within the context of Iranian cities—the pressure for mass housing, the speed of construction, and the lifestyle shifts associated with modern urban life have de-prioritized the sensory and emotional qualities of domestic architecture. Apartment living, as the dominant housing typology in Iran, has contributed to a condition where homes are often seen as functional containers rather than spaces of emotional refuge. While these modern dwellings provide efficiency and convenience, they tend to lack the sensory depth and psychological resonance that characterized traditional houses. As Juhani Pallasmaa reminds us, “Every touching experience of architecture is multi-sensory; qualities of space, matter and scale are measured equally by the eye, ear, nose, skin, tongue, skeleton and muscle.”[2]

The erosion of such multi-sensory engagement in contemporary housing has contributed to a growing sense of detachment and mental fatigue.

Vernacular and traditional Iranian architecture, by contrast, embodies an intelligent dialogue between humans, cultures, and climate. It created spaces that responded not only to environmental conditions but also to the emotional and mental needs of their inhabitants. Through passive climatic strategies, tactile materials, and an intimate spatial hierarchy, such homes achieved a unique balance between body, mind, and environment.

This study does not seek to revive vernacular architecture nostalgically. Rather, it views it as a living body of knowledge rooted in local wisdom and lived experience — a set of spatial, material, and emotional relationships that can still inform the present. My intention is to explore the sensory and emotional experiences embedded in these traditional spaces — not to promote their physical forms, but to understand the feelings they evoke and the psychological comfort they foster as architectures of refuge.

During my undergraduate years, I lived and studied for four years in Dezful– a city in southern Iran, known for its climate-responsive vernacular architecture. Since my hometown is only three hours away from Dezful, I was familiar with the region’s climate. However, living there gave me a much deeper appreciation for how its architecture responds to environmental conditions – which informs one of my motivations for this closer study, alongside their sensorial qualities, as new contributions to a broader discourse of, and in, contemporary architecture.

 One of my most memorable experiences in Dezful was visiting the notable historic residence, known as the Soozangar House, together with a group of students and professors. Like many of my peers, I had always admired modern and international architecture. However, the moment I stepped into the courtyard of this old house, something shifted inside of me. When running my fingers over its bricks, mud-based stone surfaces and old wood, I felt a certain sensation – almost like traveling back in time. It was as if each material had a story to tell, and with every touch, a part of the past came to life in my mind. The narrow alleys outside the traditional houses, which at first felt suffocating, soon revealed a different meaning. Compared to the wide, sunlit modern streets we had come from, it was noticeably cooler. I realized that what I was experiencing was not only traditional architecture — it was also an emotional, sensory, and deeply psychological resonance. That moment sparked a lasting curiosity in me:
How do the spatial qualities of vernacular architecture offer not only physical comfort, but also a mental refuge for its inhabitants?

Why vernacular architecture matters now

The central reason this research focuses on vernacular architecture lies in my belief that it offers far more than only physical comfort. Vernacular dwellings have long nurtured a kind of wellbeing that extends beyond bodily ease—an embodied sense of care, emotional security, and cultural belonging. This emotional depth does not emerge solely from architectural features such as enclosure, natural materials, or spatial intimacy, but also through the daily rituals that take place within, their design mentality surrounding familiar gestures, and the ways in which they offer inhabitants a sense of control over their immediate environment. This much broader encompassing notion of comfort within these dwellings arises from a more direct and multi-sensory relationship with space—where light, texture, temperature, and memory weave together to create a unified experience of being at home.

In earlier centuries, when cities grew organically around locally rooted architectural traditions, people often shared a stronger emotional bond with their living environments. This connection, I believe, was shaped by the integration of natural elements within the spatial logic of vernacular homes. In traditional Iranian architecture, for instance, the central courtyard offered both privacy and a moderated microclimate that enhanced thermal balance. At its centre[3], the howz[4] played a dual role: it regulated humidity and temperature while serving as a visual and sensory anchor for the domestic atmosphere. Studies have shown that natural elements such as greenery and water significantly contribute to calmness and mental restoration[5]. Viewing trees, gardens, or natural landscapes has been linked to reduced stress levels, while the presence of water—whether as ponds or fountains—creates tranquillity and supports emotional balance[6].

Beyond environmental intelligence, vernacular design is interwoven with subtle social gestures that shape how people entered and shared space. Oral accounts in Iran speak of a common custom: before entering the enclosed parts of the house, one would wash their hands and face with water from the courtyard basin. This simple act was not merely about cleanliness—it marked a mental transition, a quiet reset before stepping into the shared heart of the home. Such spatial and sensory gestures—places for vegetation, water, tactility, and calm enclosure—reflect the forgotten sensitivity of traditional domestic life. These houses did not simply host their inhabitants; they prepared them to live with ease, to feel centred, and to share space with awareness.

My understanding of such spatial and emotional richness deepened after studying interior architecture in the Netherlands. Living and learning in a culture where design often prioritizes clarity, material honesty, and atmosphere reshaped my own perception of what it means to inhabit space. I came to realize that architecture, at its most meaningful, is not about the perfection of form but about how spaces engage the senses, evoke memory, and sustain an inner sense of calm. This awareness, rooted in both personal experience and observation, continues to guide how I interpret the timeless intelligence of vernacular design within the context of contemporary life.

AIMS AND INTENTIONS

The main motivation behind this research arises from a growing concern about the gradual decline of comfort in contemporary Iranian housing—both physically and mentally. This issue has also been noted in architectural theory, where scholars such as Rapoport and Pallasmaa emphasise the diminishing connection between the body, space, and sensory experience in modern architecture[7]. My personal experience of migrating to the Netherlands and studying interior architecture has deepened this concern, allowing me to see housing design within a context that differs both culturally and climatically from my own.

The primary aim of this research is to investigate the sensory and emotional responses evoked by spatial elements in vernacular and traditional architecture of southwestern Iran—particularly in cities such as Ahvaz, Dezful, and Shushtar—that were once common – and in some regions, dominant – design mentalities supporting feelings of comfort and calm, as well as environmental awareness.

This study seeks to understand how these elements stimulated inner responses in inhabitants, historically, and how such qualities might again be highly relevant to a contemporary perspective in design—not through the direct reproduction of such structural forms, but through the revival of their sensory and perceptual effects.

For instance, in certain traditional houses, the irregular height of stairs was intentionally designed to increase one’s awareness while ascending to the upper floor—typically leading to more private rooms. This subtle spatial decision enhanced bodily alertness and environmental consciousness, fostering a psychological readiness to enter a new domestic zone. Such examples reveal that traditional design practices intentionally shaped mental and sensory engagement—an aspect largely lost in contemporary housing.

This research analyses both well-known architect-designed and lesser-known vernacular houses built by local craftsmen during the Qajar to Pahlavi period (1789–1979), aiming to trace how climatic and perceptual intelligence manifested differently in these two categories of dwellings, and how these qualities might inform contemporary practice.

Ultimately, this study proposes a qualitative framework for rethinking the concept of comfort—both physical and mental—in contemporary housing through the lens of vernacular architecture. The goal is to develop a human-centred design approach that redefines future architecture not only in relation to energy efficiency and climate, but also in connection with sensory experience, emotional depth, and inner calm.

Problem Statement – Between Memory and Modernity

Vernacular residential architecture is the product of centuries of lived experience and gradual adaptation to local climates, materials, and cultural traditions. It represents one of the most human-cantered modes of dwelling, addressing not only physical and functional needs but also the deeper dimensions of emotion, perception, and memory. Such dwellings—rooted in the lived culture of place—offered inhabitants a form of mental and sensory refuge. Their spatial logic often included elements such as central courtyards, natural ventilation, textured materials, and a sense of protected openness, all of which nurtured feelings of calm, security, and belonging. As Paul Oliver writes, “The dwelling is more than the structure, as the soul is more than the body that envelops it. For countless millions of people, the bond between themselves and the place where they live transcends the physical frame of their habitation.”[8] However, with the accelerating forces of urbanization, industrialized construction, and the spread of globalized architectural approaches, many of the principles that once linked everyday life to climate and sensory experience have gradually faded. In this process, the multi-sensory intelligence embedded in vernacular design has often been overlooked, resulting in spaces that, while functionally efficient, create a sense of emotional detachment and perceptual alienation. As Christian Norberg-Schulz reminds us, “places are not just physical locations, but environments with character that we identify with.” [9]

In this context, Shushtar Nou[10] in Iran—designed by Kamran Diba in the 1970s—stands as a notable example of a conscious attempt to integrate climatic and social values within a modern architectural framework. The project demonstrates how revisiting vernacular principles can lead to the creation of environments that simultaneously respond to ecological, social, and perceptual needs. This approach is not a nostalgic return to the past, but rather a continuation of human-cantered wisdom in a contemporary form. As Juhani Pallasmaa writes, “architecture is the art of reconciliation between ourselves and the world.”[11]

This research, by approaching vernacular houses as dynamic spatial systems, seeks to identify architectural qualities that address fundamental human needs—such as mental calmness, emotional security, and sensory richness. These qualities cannot be separated from their cultural and climatic contexts; they emerge through a continuous dialogue between body, place, and memory. Revisiting such qualities may form the foundation for redefining future housing design—one that unites emotional experience and environmental responsibility within a single, coherent framework.

Sub Questions

• Which specific architectural elements in traditional houses of southwestern Iran contribute to a sense of mental comfort, and how do they function spatially and sensorially?
• How have modern Iranian projects — such as Shushtar Nou — engaged with vernacular principles to support emotional and mental wellbeing within the context of modern development in Iran?
• How can the emotional and sensory intelligence embedded in vernacular architecture contribute to a deeper understanding of mental comfort within contemporary living conditions?

Research Methodologies

To explore how vernacular architecture responds to mental, sensory, and climatic needs in domestic spaces, I adopted a qualitative research methodology. This approach was structured around three main components: literature review, field and comparative analysis, and practice-based interpretation. The integration of these methods allowed me to address the theoretical, experiential, and sensory dimensions of the study simultaneously.

Survey of Literature

In the first phase, I conducted an analytical review of scholarly works related to vernacular architecture, mental comfort, sensory experience, and climate-responsive spatial design. This stage aimed to identify spatial elements—such as courtyards, thresholds, natural materials, light, and ventilation—that historically contributed to physical and mental comfort. I examined theoretical perspectives from authors such as Pallasmaa, Norberg-Schulz, and Oliver alongside contemporary studies on the relationship between space and the human mind. This stage provided the theoretical foundation for analysing vernacular houses and comparing them with contemporary examples.

Field and Comparative Analysis

In the second phase, I conducted field analyses of vernacular houses located in the cities of Dezful, Shushtar, and Ahvaz. During these visits, I experienced and analysed the spaces from the perspective of an architect and interior designer. My analysis focused not only on visual aspects but also on bodily and mental responses to spatial qualities such as temperature, light, sound, smell, material texture, and spatial rhythm. My lived experience as an architect allowed me to reinterpret sensory and mental dimensions often overlooked in conventional architectural studies.

In parallel, I conducted a comparative analysis between these field observations and the contemporary project of Shushtar Nou designed by Kamran Diba in the 1970s. This comparison examined how human-cantered and climate-responsive principles have evolved from traditional to modern contexts. The findings revealed that key qualities—such as the balance between openness and enclosure, the integration of water and vegetation, and rhythmic spatial organization—remain adaptable and meaningful within contemporary architecture.

Practice-Based Interpretation

In the final stage, I documented my field experiences through analytical sketches, photographs, and written annotations. During this process, I identified and examined spatial features such as transitions between light and shadow, material textures, the presence of vegetation, and shaded thresholds as sensory and perceptual triggers. These records served not only as visual documentation but also as interpretive tools for analysing the spatial logic and emotional atmosphere of each environment. The integration of these insights with theoretical and field data enabled me to construct a conceptual framework in which mental comfort, sensory experience, and climatic responsibility are considered complementary components in contemporary spatial design.

In this research, I approached vernacular architecture not as a nostalgic heritage but as a living source of spatial and perceptual intelligence. By integrating bodily experience, cultural memory, and climatic analysis, I identified and redefined the multifaceted nature of comfort within the context of contemporary architecture.

Chapter 1
Reclaiming the Senses: Theorising Comfort in Vernacular Design

Key Terms and Definitions

Vernacular Home

In this research, the term vernacular home refers to a type of dwelling that has emerged through gradual adaptation to climate, materials, and local culture—whether built collectively by local inhabitants or designed by professional architects who worked in harmony with those same climatic and cultural principles. In this sense, the vernacular is defined not by the identity of its builder, but by its attunement to environment, culture, and the human mind.Such homes embody a form of environmental intelligence and emotional intuition, maintaining a natural balance between privacy, openness, and mental comfort.As Paul Oliver notes, vernacular architecture grows from a deep understanding between people, place, and available resources[12]. From this perspective, the vernacular home represents an empathetic process of making and inhabiting—whether by the community or by the architect—born out of continuous dialogue between lived experience, climate, and the mental and sensory needs of its inhabitants.

Psychological Experience of Space

The psychological experience of space reveals that architecture is not merely a composition of physical elements but an active medium that shapes the human mind through sensation, emotion, and memory. Space becomes meaningful only when the mind and senses engage with it. As Juhani Pallasmaa observes, “Architecture is not only seen but felt,” [13]emphasizing that the perception of space is a multi-sensory experience rooted in the body and the imagination. Similarly, Gaston Bachelard describes the house as “a space for daydreaming,” where memory, imagination, and dwelling intertwine to create a psychological refuge[14]. Christian Norberg-Schulz further explains that space transforms into a place when humans establish a sense of identity and belonging within it[15]. In vernacular dwellings, this intimate dialogue between space and mind becomes tangible. Elements such as courtyards, natural ventilation, locally sourced materials, and filtered light foster harmony between body, climate, and psyche. Here, architecture transcends its physical boundaries to become a vessel of lived memory — one that revives warmth, stillness, and continuity in the inhabitant’s inner world. In these homes, architecture converses not only with climate but also with emotion, memory, and the dwelling mind.

Dwelling

In my research, dwelling does not merely mean residing in a place, but consciously living within and through space — forming a sensory and mental relationship between the human being and their environment. Through dwelling, space transforms into an inner and existential experience where the body, memory, and imagination are in silent dialogue. As Christian Norberg-Schulz explains, “Man dwells when he can orient himself within and identify himself with an environment — when he experiences the environment as meaningful.” [16]
Clare Cooper Marcus writes, “Our homes are mirrors of ourselves — reflections of our inner life,” emphasizing that the dwelling mirrors one’s psychological state and supports emotional security.[17]
Juhani Pallasmaa reminds us that every profound experience of architecture is multi-sensory — qualities of matter, space, and scale are perceived not only by the eyes but equally by the ear, skin, and body.[18]
In the vernacular houses of southern Iran, particularly in spaces such as shavadoons[19] and central courtyards, this coexistence becomes tangible. These spaces, while climatically responsive, cultivate an atmosphere of mental calm, stillness, and belonging. In this research, dwelling is understood as a sensory, mental, and relational experience between human, space, and climate — a quality that has gradually faded in much of contemporary housing.

Contemporary Reinterpretation

In contemporary practice, architects reinterpret and reactivate the sensory and psychological principles of vernacular architecture within the language of modern design. Rather than replicating traditional forms, this approach seeks to evoke comfort, belonging, and mental well-being through the creative use of materials, technologies, and spatial strategies. As Juhani Pallasmaa writes, “The task of architecture is to strengthen our sense of the real and of self; architecture must address all the senses simultaneously and fuse our image of self with our experience of the world,”[20] reminding us that architecture reconnects the human mind to the world through multi-sensory experience. While acknowledging the limitations of contemporary architecture — including technological dependence, industrial materials, and spatial compression — this approach strives to restore the emotional depth and environmental harmony once embedded in vernacular spaces.
In this research, I examine how such reinterpretations can inform design approaches that reconnect spatial experience with sensory and mental presence, creating environments that nurture both mental comfort and ecological balance.

Discussion of literature

Spatial experience in architecture is not the act of seeing but the act of dwelling.
Space acquires meaning only when it engages the senses, awakens the mind, and invites the body to participate in perception. In a world where architecture is often reduced to image and function, revisiting the writings of Juhani Pallasmaa, Gaston Bachelard, and Christian Norberg-Schulz reveals the forgotten essence of architecture, an essence that still breathes within the vernacular houses of southern Iran: in the coolness of brick, the damp scent of the shavadoon, and the soft sound of water in the central howz. In The Eyes of the Skin, Pallasmaa argues that architecture not only shapes our bodies but also gives meaning to our experience of being in the world. He writes: “The task of architecture is to strengthen our sense of the real and of self; architecture must address all the senses simultaneously and fuse our image of self with our experience of the world.”[21]
For him, the five senses serve not the visual form, but mental comfort and existential presence. Elsewhere, he remarks that “the door handle is the handshake of the building,” [22] emphasizing that material contact initiates an emotional dialogue between person and space. In vernacular houses of southern Iran, this tactile relationship is everywhere—the roughness of old wood beneath the hand, the chill of mudbrick under the fingertips. Here, space is not only seen but felt; it becomes a vessel for calmness and mental grounding.
Gaston Bachelard, in The Poetics of Space, describes the house as “a repository of daydreams” and writes: “Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home, and by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams.”[23]
For Bachelard, the house is a psychological landscape where imagination, memory, and feeling intertwine. Corners, filtered light, and the scent of natural materials invite the mind inward, creating a sense of psychological safety and intimacy. Such qualities resonate deeply with the traditional houses of Khuzestan[24]—the stillness of the shavadoon that shelters the mind from the heat, or the faint smell of clay and plaster that anchors memory in place.
While Pallasmaa and Bachelard emphasize the inner experience of space, Christian Norberg-Schulz extends the discussion outward through his phenomenology of place. In Genius Loci he writes: “To dwell means to belong to a place, and through this belonging, the world becomes meaningful.”[25] He further observes that “the character of a place is determined by the concrete things that constitute its totality—the materials, the light, the vegetation, the topography.”[26] Meaning, therefore, arises from the encounter between the human being and the environment.
In vernacular houses of southern Iran, such belonging emerges through the orchestration of natural elements: light descending from the skylight, water glimmering in the courtyard basin, and vegetation softening the brick walls. In these spaces, humans do not simply live in the world—they live within meaning.
Complementing these phenomenological ideas, Clare Cooper Marcus in House as a Mirror of the Self defines the home as a reflection of the inner psyche—a place that nurtures emotional security and continuity of self.[27] The home, in this sense, becomes an extension of identity; its stillness and simplicity restore mental order amidst the noise of the external world.
Amos Rapoport, in House Form and Culture, broadens this discussion to the collective dimension of dwelling. He contends that vernacular dwellings are products of communal intelligence, not individual design, shaped through generations of lived experience.[28] Spatial proportions, material choices, and ventilation strategies embody accumulated knowledge about comfort—both physical and mental. Even irregular stair heights or semi-dark thresholds are not constructional flaws but subtle devices that awaken spatial awareness, keeping the mind alert and engaged while moving through the house.
Empirical research by Roger Ulrich and Rachel and Stephen Kaplan extends these ideas into the realm of environmental psychology. Their studies reveal that exposure to natural elements—daylight, vegetation, and water—reduces stress, restores attention, and fosters emotional calm.[29] Such findings scientifically affirm what is intuitively present in Iranian vernacular design: the sensory system of the house—the courtyard, the pool, the shade, and the whisper of wind—constitutes a psychological ecology of dwelling.

Taken together, these theorists converge on a shared insight:
architecture gains meaning only when it forges a reciprocal relationship between body, mind, and environment. The vernacular houses of southern Iran exemplify this equilibrium—spaces that protect against climate while sustaining mental composure, reviving memory, and transforming shelter into an inner experience. In contrast, much of contemporary housing, focused on speed, efficiency, and image, has lost this sensory intelligence.
Re-engaging with these theoretical foundations is therefore essential—not to idealize the past, but to recover the human depth of dwelling, where architecture once again becomes a medium through which we feel, remember, and belong.

Personal Observations

A personal observation from the city of Shushtar — through repeated visits over many years — reveals a crucial distinction between traditional and modern notions of comfort in domestic architecture. In the extremely hot climate of southern Iran, where summer temperatures can reach up to 55°C, many modern houses, though structurally advanced, rely heavily on energy-intensive mechanical cooling systems.
In contrast, traditional dwellings such as the Mostowfi House in Shushtar, which will be discussed in detail later, achieve physical comfort through climate-responsive strategies: central courtyards, natural materials, passive shading, and carefully directed ventilation. The Mostowfi House, built entirely from local brick and designed with natural airflow principles, remained pleasantly cool throughout the day with minimal use of air conditioning.
Meanwhile, a similarly sized modern apartment required continuous mechanical cooling to maintain comfort. This contrast reveals more than an issue of energy efficiency — it demonstrates how vernacular design embodies both climatic intelligence and an intuitive understanding of comfort as a holistic experience, where physical ease becomes the foundation for diverse forms of mental and emotional well-being, cultivating a deeper sense of everyday ease and connection to place.

Spatial Qualities of Vernacular Dwellings in Southern Iran

The vernacular dwellings of southern Iran—particularly in the cities of Shushtar, Dezful, and Ahvaz—embody an intimate dialogue between climate, material, and emotion. These homes evolved through centuries of adaptation to the region’s extreme heat and humidity, revealing how architecture can nurture both physical and mental comfort simultaneously.
In cities like Dezful, houses were built with thick walls made of locally fired white clay bricks, which preserved cool air indoors and absorbed the afternoon heat. The narrow alleys created shaded corridors that reduced glare and temperature, while the echo of footsteps on brick and the soft diffusion of light between walls produced a calm rhythm — a sensory equilibrium between body and environment. Many houses contain a central courtyard, often with a howz (water basin) surrounded by plants, which not only moderated the microclimate but also introduced moments of mental stillness. The reflection of light on water, the scent of damp earth, and the soft murmur of fountains became tools of emotional regulation, easing the mind after the day’s heat.
In Shushtar, the presence of shavadoons — underground spaces carved beneath the main living areas — demonstrates a remarkable integration of environmental intelligence with psychological awareness. Entering these subterranean rooms brings an immediate drop in temperature and sound, producing a feeling of retreat and protection. During the intense heat of summer, families would move their daily life into these lower spaces, where the cool air and acoustic calm offered both physical relief and mental ease. The act of descending into the shavadoon mirrored an inward emotional journey — a passage from exposure to introspection, from external intensity to inner stillness. These spaces, therefore, were not only environmental responses but also psychological sanctuaries, linking the body’s comfort to the mind’s serenity.
In Ahvaz, where urban expansion has largely replaced vernacular housing, the remnants of older dwellings still reveal how architecture once shaped collective and individual well-being. Courtyards, patterned brick ventilations such as wind catchers[30] and brick lattice openings[31], and semi-open verandas provided natural airflow while maintaining privacy. These features fostered both thermal regulation and psychological openness — maintaining a balance between shelter and connection, between privacy and participation in the surrounding life.

Across all three cities, vernacular architecture does more than respond to climate; it creates an atmosphere of belonging rooted in sensory experience. The interplay of shadow and texture, the tactility of brick and plaster, and the slow transitions between interior and exterior cultivate awareness and attentiveness. Such environments, through their material honesty and measured rhythm, foster an emotional state of equilibrium — where physical comfort becomes the foundation for mental calm.

Chapter 2
Memory in Brick and Breeze: Spatial Narratives of Southern Iran

This chapter draws from field notes collected during my visits to traditional houses in southwestern Iran. The following observations were written on site, while moving through the spaces, in order to capture their sensory and emotional effects as they were experienced in real time. These lived experiences are presented in italic to distinguish them from analytical narration. They are read alongside theoretical perspectives introduced in Chapter 1, allowing the concepts to appear in practice.

House no. 212

Case overview

During my trip to Dezful this summer, I found myself thinking about the importance of observing how residents interact with the architectural elements of their homes. I asked myself why I should not begin with traditional houses located in the old urban fabric — places where life is still actively unfolding — instead of visiting historic houses that have now become museums and have already been extensively studied in academic writing. I knew that these lived-in houses were likely not designed by notable architects, but rather built by local master builders who had learned through experience rather than formal education.
For this reason, without searching online or relying on digital sources, I began asking people in the bazaar of Dezful about the oldest neighborhoods in the city. I deliberately avoided online information, fearing that it might impose preconceptions or bias my understanding of the place. Through these conversations, I arrived in a historic residential district. I knocked on the door of one of the oldest houses I encountered, spoke with the owner — an elderly woman — and eventually received her permission to enter and study the house.

I entered through a heavy iron door — clearly not original, but a replacement where a wooden one must have once stood. It was rusting at the edges, dented in places, and bore the wear of time. And yet, like peeling paint, it still held layers of memory. Inside, the air was still, thick with time — and with something else: a sharp scent of humidity. The smell of dampness clung to the walls, embedded in rugs, plaster, and silence. This wasn’t just a space I saw — it was one I breathed. As Pallasmaa writes, “architecture is not experienced by the eyes alone, but through the entire body,” a notion strongly felt here where air and scent became part of perception.[32]

Even before seeing anyone, I sensed that this house belonged to a mother and daughter. It was as though their presence had become inseparable from the architecture. Later, the mother told me she came from a large family — yet the space now felt so deeply specific, so intimate, that it seemed unimaginable for anyone else to live there. The house had become them. The vaulted ceilings curved above like a protective shell — stained, cracked, aged, but unyielding. A single fan rotated slowly, as if reluctant to disturb the calm. This was no museum, no restored monument. It was a living house, carrying the weight of years, and yet full of presence. Poverty had left its fingerprints everywhere: exposed bricks, broken plaster, patched wiring. But these weren’t signs of neglect — they were signs of persistence. As Rapoport asserts, vernacular dwellings evolve from patterns of living rather than aesthetic ambition, and this resilience was embodied in every surface of the house.[33]

The architecture mirrored the spirit of its inhabitants: silent, dignified, enduring. What moved me most was how space continued to serve. The courtyard — partially crumbling — still gathered shade and cooled the air. Niches still held everyday objects. There was no design intention visible, but everything still worked — an example of what Rapoport describes as architecture shaped by culture and use rather than design ideology.[34] This house had no luxury, but it had something rarer: memory, pattern, stillness. It was not just surviving — it was continuing, in its own quiet rhythm.

There was a kind of personality in the space, shaped not by aesthetic ambition but by long-term presence. It wasn’t just a shelter — it was a companion. No other family could have lived here now. The house had chosen them, just as they had chosen it.

In its walls, time had not been erased — it had been absorbed. And in return, the house had grown more human. In that house, time had not been erased. It had settled into the walls, crept into the textures, softened the sounds. And in return, the space had grown more human. That is the kind of architecture that does not fight against age — it
absorbs it, and offers it back as memory. aligning with Pallasmaa’s belief that architecture gains depth through the accumulation of lived experience.[35]

The scent of dampness as memory

I sensed the smell of dampness the moment I entered. It was not simply the odor of decay — it was proof of life still being lived in this place. The scent carried a strange familiarity, one that immediately connected me to past experiences. As Bachelard writes, “the house shelters daydreaming and protects the dreamer,” and intimate spaces are inhabited by memory [36] It reminded me of my grandmother’s house, where time had also soaked into the walls and fabrics. The smell did not alienate me; rather, it invited me in. It was as if the house itself whispered: this is a lived home, not a ruin. In that moment, I no longer felt like a visitor. I felt a quiet belonging, as though the space recognized me. A feeling that resonates with Clare Cooper Marcus’s argument that home can become “an extension of the self and a place where identity is formed.”[37]

This sensory encounter demonstrates how vernacular dwellings do not only communicate through form or sight but through multi-sensory cues. Smell, often overlooked in architectural studies, becomes a trigger for memory and emotional comfort. In contemporary housing, where sterile materials and sealed environments often erase such layers, this dimension is lost. Recognizing the psychological role of scent opens new possibilities for designing homes that resonate not only visually but also emotionally.

The vaulted ceiling as an embrace

When I stood beneath the vaulted ceiling, I felt something no flat or neutral ceiling could ever create. This curved form did not merely cover me — it embraced me, it held me. It gave me a profound sense of protection, as if the house itself had taken responsibility for my safety. To me, the experience was deeply maternal: like a child resting in the arms of their mother. The vault was not just a structure; it conveyed a psychological message, one of care, intimacy, and refuge. As Gaston Bachelard writes, “the house is our corner of the world, our first universe… it shelters daydreaming and protects the dreamer,”[38] In that moment, I felt as if the space was protecting me, as though an unseen hand as watching over me and would not let any harm reach me.

This illustrates how vernacular architecture addresses emotional needs through form. The vaulted ceiling was not only a climatic response — moderating temperature and acoustics — but also a spatial gesture of reassurance. Modern housing, in its pursuit of efficiency and flat ceilings, often neglects this capacity of form to generate feelings of security. Recognizing the emotive power of architectural geometry could inspire contemporary reinterpretations that
restore this lost layer of comfort.

The Exposed wall as honest imperfection

The peeling plaster and the exposure of naked bricks beneath the walls affected me with two opposing forces. On one hand, they were a sign of poverty — a bitter reminder of a house that could not be repaired, of lives carried on with only the bare minimum. I felt sorrow for the inhabitants, as though deprivation had been inscribed onto the walls, each crack and scar telling the story of hardships endured. Yet, on the other hand, these very traces of decay possessed a strange beauty. The house revealed its age, its truth, its slow erosion — and within this honesty lay a certain dignity. These half-bare walls reminded me of a body that no longer needs adornment; its nakedness is its authenticity. It became a lesson for me, things need not always be new, polished, or luxurious to bring comfort. Incompletion itself can be a refuge of peace. Just as in nature a withered tree or a cracked stone still holds its own beauty, these walls were valuable in their erosion. This experience reminded me that perfection sometimes lies not in constant covering or restoration, but in accepting decay and allowing the hidden layers of history and time to show through. As Amos Rapoport notes, “Vernacular houses are shaped primarily by use, not by image,”[39]

This element embodies the psychological duality of vernacular homes: they carry the scars of time, yet those scars themselves become part of the atmosphere of belonging. Modern housing, in contrast, often erases such traces in the pursuit of a sterile perfection. By acknowledging the aesthetic and emotional resonance of imperfection, contemporary design might rediscover how incompleteness can nurture a deeper sense of calm and authenticity.

Materials as memory and honesty of dwelling

The unpainted materials spoke with a raw voice. They carried no decoration, no cosmetic finish — only their true selves. In their plainness, they reflected the unadorned life of the inhabitants. It was as if the walls were declaring: I am of them, I am part of them; there is no difference between us. The house, like its residents, lived in simplicity, showing only what it was. Even where repairs had been made, the traces were left visible: rough cement patches stood unapologetically, without plaster or paint to disguise them. Instead of hiding, the house seemed to say: Yes, I was mended here years ago — and I am proud of it. The lower parts of the walls, marked by dampness, were likewise left untreated. No paint, no covering, no effort to mask the truth. This honesty gave the house a voice: not of shame, but of belonging. It embraced its imperfection as part of its biography.
Looking at the walls and surfaces, I realized they were not simply deteriorating — they were continuing. They carried traces of time, and strangely, they offered me a sense of support. As Juhani Pallasmaa reminds us, “raw materials carry sensory memory, and contact with them creates an emotional experience,”.[40] The raw materials seemed to hold their own memories. They felt almost alive, as though they had eyes that had seen decades of life. Some of the black stains looked like the residue of a small fire, while others seemed to tell of years of cooking, the smoke of meals seeping into the fabric of the house. These weren’t just marks of damage — they were records. They were the archives of everyday life. What struck me most was the resilience of these materials. Despite the cracks, stains, and scars, they still functioned, still stood, still sheltered. They were not ruins. They were continuations. As Gaston Bachelard writes, “intimate spaces carry the scars and traces of time within them,”.[41]
This endurance, etched into every surface, reminded me that vernacular architecture is not
only about building — it is about recording, carrying, and transmitting life itself.

These observations reveal how vernacular dwellings embody a philosophy of authenticity. Materials are not forced to appear other than they are. This authenticity strengthens the psychological bond between inhabitant and space: the house does not pretend, and in doing so, it becomes trustworthy. At the same time, the materials serve as carriers of memory. They absorb and transmit traces of lived experience, turning walls into archives. In contrast, contemporary housing, with its polished finishes and sterile surfaces, often erases this honesty and forgets this memory. Reinterpreting unpainted or minimally treated materials today could restore a sense of grounded simplicity and emotional resonance, allowing homes to become both honest and mnemonic — places that hold life rather than conceal it.

The wall niches as fingerprints of place

The wall niches struck me as something profoundly different from modern shelves. Unlike detachable furniture fixed to a wall at arbitrary heights, these niches were carved directly into the structure, inseparable from it. Their presence suggested that the builder had, for once, imagined himself in the position of the inhabitant — anticipating needs and embedding them in the architecture itself. They felt unique, unrepeatable. Just as fingerprints belong to one individual and cannot be transferred, these niches belonged to this house alone. Their immobility was what gave them meaning.

They could not be dismantled or relocated, nor could they be replicated elsewhere without losing their authenticity. They were not generic; they were situated. As Norberg-Schulz writes, “architecture must be rooted in place; nothing can have meaning apart from where it belongs,”[42]. They compelled the resident to use them, as if the house itself was gently guiding daily life: to store, to display, to remember. Leaving them empty felt like denying the wall its potential.

These niches exemplify how vernacular architecture creates intimate bonds between inhabitant and dwelling. They are not decorative, but existential — an architectural insistence that life and design belong together. In contrast, contemporary interiors, with their replaceable furniture and standardized fittings, often erase this embedded intimacy. To reinterpret such elements today is not to copy their form, but to recover their spirit: the inseparability of architecture and life.

The rough cement floor as alert and assurance

The rough cement floor, coarse beneath my feet, announced each step I took. It was as if the house itself was declaring: pay attention, someone is here. In the silence of the interior, the sound of footsteps carried sharply, reducing my sense of privacy. Every movement felt exposed, audible to others, as though the floor betrayed not only my presence but also my direction. There was an unease in this awareness, a reminder that privacy in such spaces was never absolute. And yet, paradoxically, the same quality also generated a sense of security. When another person moved, I too was alerted. The sound became a shared signal — a subtle form of communication through space. It was not physical protection that comforted me, but a psychological assurance: I was never completely unseen or unheard. The floor, in its simplicity, created both vulnerability and belonging.

This experience demonstrates how vernacular architecture engages the senses beyond vision, shaping emotional comfort through sound and tactility. As Juhani Pallasmaa writes, “A meaningful architectural experience is not simply a series of retinal images. The ‘elements’ of architecture are not visual units or Gestalt; they are encounters, confrontations that interact with memory.”[43]
 The cement floor was not merely material economy; it orchestrated social awareness and subtle interdependence among inhabitants. Contemporary housing often isolates individuals with acoustic insulation, prioritizing privacy but neglecting the emotional reassurance of shared presence. Reconsidering sound as an architectural medium could inspire designs that balance solitude with subtle awareness of others.

Brick as structure, ornament, and identity

If there was any ornamentation in this house, it belonged to the outer walls. Inside, there was nothing to display, nothing to boast of. Even the exterior, however, was not decorated with foreign materials or artificial finishes. It was brick — the same material that had carried the house for generations. No paint, no superficial coating, only the honesty of construction. The bricks were arranged in such a way that strength and beauty became inseparable: structure itself was ornament. This simplicity revealed a deeper philosophy: we can be durable and still be beautiful. The house did not rely on fragile decoration but on the endurance of its material. Brick was everywhere — brick as vault, brick as stair, brick as parapet, brick as wall, brick as ornament, brick as roof. It was the skeleton and the skin, the bone and the face. It was not only a building material; it was a cultural symbol, a vessel of memory, the identity of the dwelling itself.

This observation highlights how vernacular design transforms necessity into identity. By allowing brick to serve simultaneously as structure and decoration, these houses collapse the division between function and beauty. As Christian Norberg-Schulz writes, “Obviously we mean something more than abstract location. We mean a totality made up of concrete things having material substance, shape, texture and colour.” [44]
Contemporary architecture, often caught between surface aesthetics and hidden structure, could learn from this integration: that material honesty itself can be the highest form of ornamentation, and that identity can grow directly from what holds us up.

Compression and hierarchy of space

In this house, everything felt compressed, entangled, layered. There was no trace of minimalism, no gestures of contemporary intellectual aesthetics. Instead, life and architecture intertwined in dense proximity, as if nothing could exist in isolation. Even the kitchen cabinets — additions made long after the house was built — had been cut short to respect the vaulted ceiling above them. This small adjustment spoke volumes: the vault was not just structure, it was hierarchy. It stood higher in rank than any later intervention, asserting its precedence in the spatial order of the home.

This illustrates how vernacular dwellings embody a spatial logic where elements negotiate rather than dominate. Priorities are clear: the architecture itself holds authority, while later additions must yield. Unlike contemporary interiors that often impose sleek uniformity, these homes preserve a layered complexity that expresses belonging and respect for inherited form. For contemporary reinterpretation, this suggests that design should not erase or flatten such hierarchies, but instead embrace them as sources of meaning and continuity.

Mapar House

Case overview

Mapar House, built around 1926 during the early Pahlavi period, is one of the most significant residential structures in the historic fabric of Ahvaz. The building is distinguished by its stone basements, two courtyards each with a pond, wooden doors, brick ornamentation, and elegant archways. While the exterior façade is extroverted, facing the public realm, the interior spatial arrangement is more traditional and inward-looking. Its spaces include a blend of traditional rooms—such as the central hall and three-door rooms—alongside later-added modern rooms.
Due to the high groundwater level and the sandy-clay soil of Ahvaz, it was structurally impossible to excavate deep subterranean spaces as seen in Dezful and Shushtar, where basements reach depths of 15 to 20 meters below ground. Instead, Mapar House uses only shallow stone basements, functioning primarily for thermal moderation.

The climatic conditions of Ahvaz significantly shaped the architectural strategies of the house. Tall, plain exterior walls were constructed to minimize sun exposure and control extreme heat. The roof was covered with mud–straw plaster, and residents traditionally sprinkled water on the rooftop at sunset, allowing them to sleep on the roof at night during the intense summer heat.

Over time, the functional meaning of the porch diminished, and in the early 2000s (2004–2005), the building underwent restoration and was later repurposed as a center for training and producing traditional arts. Today, Mapar House remains a cultural reference point in Ahvaz and is registered as a national heritage site (November 26, 2001, registration number 4226).

Because of its accessibility and living presence within the city, I have visited Mapar House multiple times across different years, allowing me to experience the evolving character of the building and its atmosphere at various moments in time.

Before the Threshold: The First Encounter with the Mapar House

When I approach the house, it immediately distinguishes itself from the surrounding buildings. It stands like an old man—aged and weathered, yet dignified—who has not surrendered his identity to time. The texture of its brickwork feels singular; each brick seems to belong only to this place, as if removing it would erase part of the house’s memory. Together, they compose a body that breathes authenticity—an architecture whose material decay does not signal decline, but continuity. The house resists replacement; it endures as a living archive of its own making, embodying what Norberg-Schulz might call the genius loci—the spirit of place that binds material, time, and identity into one presence.

This observation reflects how material integrity preserves the emotional identity of a place. In the Mapar House, the aged bricks are not mere construction units; they act as vessels of memory. Their weathered texture and irregularity communicate the passage of time, giving the house a living presence. As Christian Norberg-Schulz writes, “Place is a totality made up of concrete things having material substance, shape, texture, and colour,”[45]
This tactile continuity between material and memory forms an emotional dialogue with the observer—a reminder that authenticity in architecture lies not in perfection, but in the visible traces of life embedded within its walls.

Crossing the Threshold

As you step inside, the house seems to speak: “I will support you from here.” The entrance embraces you firmly yet gently, as if it has long awaited your return. Its narrow proportions and the slight inward pull of the walls create a sense of being held — not confined, but protected. It is an embrace of space, one that acknowledges your presence and invites you to belong.
The entrance sequence of the Mapar House demonstrates how spatial proportion and enclosure can evoke psychological comfort. The gentle constriction of the entry corridor slows one’s movement and induces awareness of the body, transforming transition into a tactile experience. This calibrated narrowness creates an immediate sense of protection and orientation—an architectural gesture that transforms entry from a physical threshold into an emotional one.

The Central Courtyard

As you pass through the entrance, it feels as though you have stepped into the heart of the old man himself. Nothing surrounds you but beauty and familiarity, as if you have known him long before. In the courtyard, an old palm leans heavily toward the ground, its trunk curved under years of heat and wind, yet still alive. The wall of the house supports it quietly, refusing to let it fall. The two have grown inseparable—the wall lending strength, the tree lending life. The house seems to whisper: You belong here; I will not let you break.

At the centre, the small pool continues its humble task. Though modest in size, it holds the courtyard together. The gentle sound of water rippling against its edges fills the air — not loud, but constant, like steady breathing. It cools the courtyard and seems to speak even before you enter: preparing your senses, calming your thoughts, welcoming you into the living heart of the house.

In the Mapar House, architecture and nature form a complete sensory ecology. The leaning palm, supported by the wall, and the central pool, sustained by sound, act together as the emotional core of the courtyard. As Gaston Bachelard writes, “A house that has been experienced is not an inert box. Inhabited space transcends geometrical space,” [46]
The continuous sound of water establishes a rhythm that stabilizes perception — a subtle reminder of time and life within stillness. The house thus achieves balance through multi-sensory design: the wall provides physical strength, the tree symbolizes endurance, and the pool adds aural calm. This integration illustrates how vernacular architecture aligns climatic intelligence with emotional resonance, turning the courtyard into both a refuge and a breathing organism.

The Inner Courtyard

The private courtyard holds its own small pool — a quiet centre that softens the air and light around it. This is the very essence of spatial gentleness — the quiet capacity of architecture to reconcile itself with a harsh environment. In the dry heat of Ahvaz, the pool is far from decorative; it breathes coolness into the courtyard, tempering both the climate and the mind. As Gaston Bachelard writes, “Water is the most faithful of all mirrors,” [47] Its still surface reflects the walls and the sky, while the subtle sound of water rippling against its edges carries through the air like steady breathing. Around it, the trees share this quiet responsibility — casting shade, cooling the walls, releasing moisture, and weaving together air, scent, and shadow. Together, these elements embody a living equilibrium where architecture and nature cooperate in the making of comfort. The courtyard thus becomes more than an open void; it turns into a climatic and emotional refuge — what Bachelard calls “intimate space,” a space in which we can breathe[48], where environmental intelligence and human wellbeing meet in
balance.

The Rooms

Each room in the house seems to possess its own sense of privacy, separated gently from its paired neighbours. The distances between them feel deliberate — especially those on the upper floor, where the gaps become more pronounced. It seems to me that these spatial separations respond to the climate itself. In the past, when people often slept on rooftops to escape the heat and there were no mechanical cooling systems, these upper rooms offered an alternative kind of comfort. By being slightly detached from the main structure, they allow air to circulate freely around their walls, creating a stable and pleasant temperature suitable for rest. The architecture thus achieves intimacy without enclosure, turning privacy into a form of climatic care.

The Stairs

The staircase leading to the upper floor reveals an intriguing irregularity: each step has a slightly different height. At first, I assumed this was the result of limited construction precision at the time the house was built. But after observing it closely and speaking with the site’s caretakers, I learned that the variation was intentional. The uneven rhythm of the steps demands awareness; it slows the body, compelling the person to pay attention while ascending. This physical alertness, in turn, awakens a deeper environmental awareness — a subtle dialogue between movement and space. The staircase thus becomes more than a means of circulation; it becomes a moment of transition where body and mind are both invited to be present.

This encounter reminded me of Juhani Pallasmaa’s reflection on the embodied dimension of architectural experience, when he states:
“My body remembers who I am and where I am located in the world. My body is truly the navel of my world … the very locus of reference, memory, imagination and integration.”[49]

In this moment, the staircase transformed into a sensory threshold — a place where architecture demands presence through the intelligence of the body rather than through visual perception alone.

The act of entering demanded a physical bowing of my body. I had to bend my head and shoulders to pass through the narrow doorway, and in that instant, the space transformed my posture. It was impossible to enter carelessly. The architecture required humility — a small gesture of respect before crossing the threshold. My body was no longer neutral or detached from space; it became fully engaged, awake, and aware. This moment of physical contraction heightened my perception, making the transition from outside to inside not only spatial but psychological. As Juhani Pallasmaa writes, “Architecture becomes meaningful when the body and space enter into a reciprocal dialogue.”[50]  In that moment of bowing, I felt that dialogue vividly — a silent negotiation between body and environment.

This experience reminded me that vernacular architecture teaches presence through the body. The doorway choreographs movement intentionally — slowing the pace, sharpening attention, and marking the threshold as a meaningful boundary. In contemporary buildings, doors are often passed without awareness, but here, space demanded participation.

Mostowfi House

Case Overview

Mostofi House in Shushtar is one of the most valuable historical monuments of this remarkable city in Khuzestan Province. Due to its distinctive architectural character and significant age, it has become an important cultural and tourist destination in Iran. Registered as a national heritage site, the house forms the central part of the Mostofi Historical Complex, which dates back to the late 19th century (approximately 1890–1900).

According to historical accounts and scholarly research, the most distinguished section of the complex — the Mostofi House — originally belonged to a respected merchant named Mohammad Ali Mostofi. He commissioned its construction to the renowned master builder Mohammad-Taqi Bana, who devoted his craftsmanship and artistic expertise to creating a strong and elegant structure. Upon completion, it became celebrated as one of the most beautiful and resilient buildings in the region.

Over the past fifteen years, part of the complex has been restored and repurposed, and it currently functions as a traditional restaurant.

Threshold

As I approach the threshold of the house, the repetition of the entrance form—rendered in larger dimensions along the edges of the doorway—makes the entrance appear more pronounced. It not only marks the point of entry but also elevates the perceived significance of the house, suggesting that it is distinct from the surrounding dwellings. This spatial emphasis and the sense of a heightened centre reappear in the first section of the hashti[51]. Through the repetition of forms in varying scales, or by placing the entrance to the main interior space at the centre of the perspective, the subsequent space is once again accentuated and made to feel important.

When I step into hashti, everything around me captures my attention. The domed ceiling above is covered, as far as the eye can see, with the intricate patterns and craftsmanship of handmade bricks, as if it extends toward the larger arched seating alcove embedded in the walls and the smaller ones positioned beside the next entrance. The floor seems to echo the harmony of the ceiling and walls, but in a more modest scale. The surface of the hashti is made of small pebbles—each insignificant and easily found on its own—but once gathered and arranged with deliberate jointing, they captivate the eye in the same way the ceiling does. One could sit for a long time, absorbed in the geometry formed underfoot. It is easy to imagine that when a visitor waited to meet a member of the household, they would sit in the recessed niche and spend the time observing the intricate brick patterns above and the pebble geometry below.

The hashti is composed of three domed spaces, and as you pass through each one, you momentarily regain awareness of yourself and feel more attuned to the environment. The architect’s play with height and ceiling form subtly influences your spatial consciousness, continually engaging your mind to prepare you for the entrance ahead. It makes you increasingly eager—almost thirsty—to reach the next space. And because light is visible at the end of the hashti, the progression never feels tiring; instead, it heightens your anticipation and draws you toward the brightness.

First element

The first image one encounters after entering the house is that of nature. Immediately, an ancient tree comes into view—one that, according to the residents and caretakers I spoke with, is older than the house itself. If this is true, then the architect intentionally positioned the tree as the first element after the entrance, as an act of respect. It suggests that the tree is the original owner of the place—one who has remained constant while generations of people have lived in and moved through the house.

This encounter reveals how deeply nature stabilizes emotional experience and shapes one’s sense of belonging. Contemporary research demonstrates the significance of this bond: “Human beings have a deep psychological need for contact with nature.”[52] When I stood before the tree, I felt a calmness that seemed to settle my mind even before stepping further inside. This aligns with findings showing that “Natural views elicited more positive emotions and reduced stress.”[53] Perhaps this is why the presence of the tree felt like an invitation rather than a visual component—an entry into stillness. Modern studies further confirm the long-term emotional value of such environments: “People living in greener areas reported significantly higher wellbeing.”[54] In this moment, the tree was more than a natural element; it was a living anchor of emotional balance, grounding the space through memory, time, and
continuity.

One View, Many Narratives

But behind the tree lies something remarkable. It is as if the architect wanted to show nature through his own perspective. Each of the arches facing the open space acts like a frame that captures the landscape ahead. Yet, when you observe each frame individually, it tells its own distinct story—so much so that you momentarily forget they are all revealing the same space.

The Courtyard

The courtyard is animated by a subtle interplay of light and shadow—a dynamic that not only enlivens the space but also lends it depth and a quiet sense of meaning. The shadows cast by architectural elements interrupt the geometry of the ground, turning it into a shifting, living surface. Meanwhile, the softer and almost imperceptible movement of the trees’ shadows introduces a natural rhythm that calms the mind and allows the space itself to breathe. These luminous rhythms resonate with what Pallasmaa describes as the capacity of light and shadow to shape spatial awareness and deepen one’s sensory engagement with architecture.[55]

Interestingly, there is no pool at the centre of the courtyard; yet this absence reveals the architect’s deeper intention. Just beyond the architectural frames, if one positions oneself carefully, the river appears in the distance; its sound becomes audible, its moisture perceptible even from afar, and a cool breeze travels from its direction into the house. It is as though the architect sought to bring nature into the space not through a single central element, but through layered sensory connections—visual, auditory, tactile, and climatic. This mode of engagement strengthens the relationship between the dwelling and its surrounding nature, echoing Norberg-Schulz’s discussion of landscape and the way natural elements participate in shaping the identity and experiential meaning of place.[56]

Here, light and shadow become the first mediators of this bond—guiding perception, establishing rhythm, and gradually attuning the visitor’s mind to the presence of the landscape beyond.

The Rooms

The rooms are once again arranged along the two sides of the house—an organizational pattern that, as Rapoport notes in his analysis of vernacular architecture, reflects a recurring spatial logic in traditional dwellings: the placement of interior rooms on either side of a central space, whether a courtyard or a transitional corridor.[57] This configuration not only reinforces privacy but also responds intelligently to climatic conditions by enabling cross-ventilation, moderating intense sunlight, and improving thermal comfort. In warm regions, such as the southern cities of Iran, the distribution of rooms along both sides of the house allows the building to effectively “spread itself,” capturing breezes and facilitating the natural dissipation of heat. This spatial logic is evident in many traditional houses of Dezful, Shushtar, and Ahvaz.

The thresholds leading into the rooms possess a quiet sense of grandeur. The brick ornamentations surrounding each entrance seem almost intentional in heightening awareness—as if the architecture reminds the visitor that they are about to enter a space of importance. These details descend to the scale of the human body, conveying a sense of welcome and respect, as though the building humbles itself to meet the visitor’s gaze. At this moment of transition, a delicate balance between above and below emerges: the ceiling, through its descending ornamentation, gently lowers itself toward the visitor, while the floor rises through a small set of steps to meet them. The spatial gesture creates a sensation akin to being embraced; the architecture seems to receive and envelop the entering body—echoing Pallasmaa’s observation on how transitional spaces establish a tactile and emotional dialogue
between the human body and the built environment.[58]

As you enter the rooms, each one feels heavy and dignified, a quality sensed through the thickness of the walls and the solidity of the domed ceilings. The same feeling of being enveloped—paired with a quiet reassurance offered by the architecture—emerges once again. Everything feels weighty, authentic, and steadfast, as if the mass of the building itself is dedicated to ensuring your safety and comfort. The largest room of the house, the shahneshin[59], despite having doors on both sides that are constantly opened and closed, remains pleasantly cool with only a small air conditioner. A room of this size in a typical apartment in the same city would require a much larger unit under similar conditions. This difference is likely due to the thermal mass of the thick walls and the use of appropriate, climate-responsive materials.

The stained-glass windows never lose their charm; each time their coloured shadows fall across the floor or walls, the space appears fresher and more alive. It is as if the coloured light sweeps away the dust of monotony and fills the room with warmth and intimacy. This subtle enlivening of space through light echoes Bachelard’s reflections on how luminous colour can awaken imagination and renew the emotional atmosphere of a room.[60]

Basement

The entrance to the basement is far simpler than the rest of the house. Unlike other thresholds, it is not emphasized or framed; rather, it seems intentionally hidden, with its access pushed into a corner as if the space wanted to remain unnoticed. The basement itself is equally modest. Its lack of ornamentation reveals its temporary, seasonal function—used only during certain months of the year. This simplicity reflects what Oliver describes regarding secondary or seasonal spaces in vernacular dwellings: areas designed for functional necessity rather than display, often left unadorned due to their limited use.[61]
At first glance, the silence and excessive darkness of the basement feel slightly unsettling; in such stillness, the mind begins to imagine shapes and stories that are not truly there. This experience mirrors Bachelard’s reflections on cellars as spaces where darkness activates the imagination, allowing fear, memory, and fantasy to intertwine.[62] Yet, despite this initial unease, one can easily picture sleeping here during the summer. The thermal difference
between the basement and the upper rooms is striking.
Only a few narrow openings allow minimal light and oxygen into the space. Aside from these slits, no natural light enters. When you touch the walls, their coolness is unmistakable—even while the outside temperature reaches nearly 45 degrees. As Rapoport explains, such thermal stability results from the high thermal mass of thick walls and the climatic intelligence of semi-underground structures in hot regions.[63] Local residents recalled how these cool walls were once used to preserve dry food, keeping it safe through the hottest months.

The smell of the basement recalls the scent of House 212 in Dezful—yet purer, deeper, and unblended with other odours. It is the smell of dampened earth, a scent that, quite unexpectedly, floods me with a profound sense of calm. This olfactory depth aligns with Bachelard’s notion that certain sensory cues, especially those tied to earth and darkness,
awaken intimate forms of imagination and emotional grounding.[64]

Chapter 3
Echoes of Tradition in Modern Forms

Transitioning from the sensory and emotional intelligence embedded in vernacular dwellings, this chapter shifts focus toward more modern architectural practices in Iran, examining how certain values and spatial principles of traditional design continue to resonate—whether consciously or intuitively—within later works. Rather than reproducing historical forms, what emerges is a translation of underlying ideas: an understanding of climate-responsive structure, material honesty, and spatial intimacy that persists beyond stylistic boundaries.

This perspective aligns with Paul Oliver’s observation that vernacular architecture is fundamentally shaped by necessity and lived experience rather than aesthetic display. As he states, “Vernacular building traditions evolve to meet the needs of people and their environment, drawing on local knowledge, skills and resources,” and architectural form is shaped “by function, climate, culture and the rituals of everyday life rather than by stylistic intentions.”[65]

A similar understanding is articulated by Amos Rapoport, who argues that “House form is not simply the result of aesthetic preferences or technological forces, but is fundamentally shaped by cultural values, social patterns, and climatic necessities.”[66] This insight reinforces the idea that the essence of vernacular architecture lies not in formal imitation but in the deep relationship between humans, climate, and culture.

In this chapter, I explore how these conceptual continuities appear within modern designs—such as Shushtar New Town—and how the emotional and atmospheric qualities of vernacular architecture persist, re-emerging in new configurations rather than remaining confined to historical structures.

Shushtar New Town

Case Overview

Shushtar New Town is one of the most well-known housing projects in contemporary Iranian architecture. Located close to the ancient city of Shushtar in the southwest of Iran, Shushtar New Town follows the traditional urban pattern of Iranian cities with an interwoven urban fabric and mud-brick as construction material. The project was designed by Kamran Diba in 1972 and planned in five stages, to be completed in 1985. Construction started in 1976 and most of the first phase, which was planned to function as an autonomous unit and to accommodate about 4,200 inhabitants, was completed in 1978. While Shustar New Town was intended to house 30,000 workers of the Karun Agro Industry (major sugar cane and production industry), due to the Islamic revolution of 1979 the project was not completely implemented and only another small part of it was constructed between 1980 and 1985.[67]

The first impression

The first feature that catches the eye is the latticework embedded within the brick façades of the balconies and parapets—elements that, even from a distance, declare: “I belong to the architecture of this land.” Although it is not a single house but a large complex composed of many residential units, it nevertheless carries a strong sense of identity. Its architectural language is unmistakably rooted in this region, and much like the traditional houses of Khuzestan, it retains a distinctive character—demonstrating that contemporary architecture can still preserve and reflect the essence of place.

The spacing between the units is clearly visible, reminiscent of the way rooms were arranged in the traditional houses I studied. This distance was likely designed to facilitate the entry and circulation of air between the units.

I am not sure why, but the materials used in this complex are not entirely consistent. Some façades appear to have been whitened during later renovations, which is understandable. However, what caught my attention were several units finished with mud plaster—a material that, as far as I remember, does not appear at all in the existing traditional houses of the city. Despite this, most of the buildings remain brick-built, echoing the material palette of the Qajar period (1789–1925). This is particularly interesting given that the construction of Shushtar New Town began in the mid-Pahlavi era (1925–1979), a time when, under the influence of modern industrial nations, residential architecture in Iran generally shifted toward stone and reinforced concrete. Yet Shushtar New Town remains faithfully brick-made, preserving the regional identity of its context and distinguishing itself from the dominant architectural tendencies of the Pahlavi period.

The narrow alleys of the complex remind me of the lane that led to House 212 in Dezful. Although they are not as tight as that particular alley, they are noticeably narrower than the newer streets of Shushtar, creating a similar sense of spatial intimacy and enclosure. This spatial condition aligns with Rapoport’s description of traditional urban fabrics in hot climates, where compact, pedestrian-oriented alleyways are designed to provide shade, cooling, and thermal comfort.[68]
Similarly, the atmosphere of intimacy and human scale echoes Oliver’s observations on vernacular settlements, in which narrow passageways are not only climatic responses but also integral elements of social structure—standing in clear contrast to the wider, modern streets
introduced in contemporary urban planning.[69]

One remarkable and thought-provoking point is the skyline: none of the housing units exceed a certain height, and all remain within a clearly defined limit. This controlled height is consistent with what Rapoport describes in traditional urban fabrics, where the built environment maintains a cohesive scale to preserve visual harmony and human-oriented proportions.[70]

This stands in stark contrast to the buildings along the route that leads to this place, where wide streets are lined with houses and apartment blocks of varying heights—each seemingly built as tall as possible to maximize profit, with little regard for principles of urban design.

Green Areas

The green spaces within this residential town appear to be fading, as if they are taking their final breaths. It is likely that, in the original design of Shushtar New Town, these landscapes were created with proper care and intention. However, over time—and especially following the 1979 Iranian Revolution and the Iran–Iraq War (1980–1988)—the development of the town was halted, and the maintenance of its green areas gradually ceased. Such neglect typically leads to the decline of environmental quality, a process that Kaplan and Kaplan describe in their analysis of how abandoned or poorly maintained natural settings lose vitality and psychological value.[71]
Since then, these green spaces have continued to deteriorate, further weakened by the informal and often unregulated changes introduced by local residents. This pattern closely aligns with Oliver’s observations on vernacular settlements, where secondary interventions and unsupervised modifications by inhabitants gradually erode the spatial coherence and environmental performance of the original design.[72]

Play of Light and Shadow

In the communal areas—such as the small commercial zones—the phenomenon becomes even more intriguing. Here, the play of light and shadow, inspired by vernacular climatic architecture, takes on a modern and refreshed character. At this particular hour of the day, an extraordinary visual effect appears: the buildings on the right side seem bright and white, while those on the left—precisely from the threshold defined by Kamran Diba—shift into a noticeably darker tone, as if two different types of brick with two distinct colours have been used.

 It is as though the buildings change colour throughout the year, breaking visual monotony and introducing a sense of dynamism and liveliness to the urban scene. This quality reminds me of the stained-glass windows in Qajar-era houses, which were traditionally used to counter monotony and inject vibrancy into interior spaces. Yet this play of light and shadow is more than a decorative effect. As Pallasmaa explains, the subtle shifts of natural light throughout the day animate the sensory and perceptual experience of space, creating environments that feel fluid, layered, and emotionally resonant.[73]

Feeling the Weight of Space

The thickness of the walls and columns reveals itself most vividly when you walk alongside them. Their sheer mass is not only seen but physically felt—a presence so grounded and substantial that it evokes an immediate sense of support and protection. This embodied heaviness recalls the experience of traditional southern Iranian houses, where the weight of the built form quietly reassures you that the structure is holding the world steady around you. As you move beneath these arches and beside these massive columns, a subtle dialogue emerges between your body and the materiality of the architecture. Pallasmaa describes this quality as the embodied presence of space—a state in which material, shadow, and thickness shape the sensory encounter between the human body and the built form.[74] Here too, the architecture responds: it surrounds you, steadies you, and grounds you through its mass and permanence.

In these moments, the architecture becomes more than a physical boundary; it becomes a shelter—what Bachelard calls a “space of protection,” where solidity and permanence create an emotional refuge.[75] The depth, weight, and silence of these walls form an intimate kind of assurance, telling you—without words—that this is a place where you can lean, linger, and momentarily detach from the instability and disorder of the city beyond.
In this setting, architecture becomes a quiet guardian—unobtrusive, yet deeply felt.

Nature at the Centre

In the communal areas—particularly within the market-like clusters—a central green space defines the heart of the composition. The surrounding buildings appear to arrange themselves around it with a sense of spatial respect, much like the traditional central courtyard in Iranian architecture, where nature occupied the core of the house and organized the rhythms of daily life. This configuration resonates with Norberg-Schulz’s notion of how natural elements form a “centre of identity,” grounding collective experience within a meaningful spatial core.[76]

This green space not only provides visual focus and orientation, but—similar to the climatic and social role of the traditional courtyard—it softens the atmosphere and enriches the emotional tone of the environment. Its greenery, shade, and subtle climatic moderation elevate the psychological quality of the space, echoing Kaplan and Kaplan’s findings on how natural elements in public settings reduce monotony, enhance sensory experience, and support mental restoration.[77]
Thus, the architecture surrounding this green nucleus does more than frame a garden; it establishes a continuity between vernacular spatial logic and contemporary design, creating a living centre that binds people, movement, and nature together—much like the enduring centrality of the Iranian courtyard

The Circles

Circular brick openings appear throughout the complex—large, distinct forms that initially seemed somewhat ambiguous to me, but gradually became more compelling as I spent more time walking through the space. These circles are not mere decorative elements; they function as spatial frames, directing light, shadow, and views through their geometry, presenting fragments of sky or landscape as carefully selected visual moments. This framing immediately reminded me of the arched frames in the Mostowfi House, where the architect intentionally shaped openings to guide one’s gaze and define a focused visual field—a gesture that resonates strongly with Norberg-Schulz’s understanding of framing as a way of giving identity and spatial significance to a place.[78]

Their presence breaks the monotony of the environment and creates a subtle visual rhythm along the pathways. This experience echoed the moments I had in the Mostowfi House, where one could spend long periods simply gazing at the geometry of the ceiling or floor, discovering new relationships within the forms. A similar sense of exploration emerged here: each circular opening invited me to pause, look, and discover. As Pallasmaa notes, architecture has the ability to focus attention and guide the eye through its material and spatial gestures, shaping how we perceive and move through space.[79]
In Shushtar New Town, these circular frames appear in different sizes and positions—sometimes high above, sometimes embedded in a passage, and sometimes directly aligned with one’s line of sight like a visual tunnel. Their variation makes each circle feel like the beginning of a new observation, as if each one opens a small doorway into another layer of discovery.

Collective Identity

As I walked through the settlement, I felt that the residents seemed to know one another—not in a superficial, casual way, but through a quiet and underlying sense of unity and mutual support. This impression did not feel accidental; the houses shared a similar form and structure, creating a visual and spatial coherence that appeared to strengthen a collective identity. Such uniformity, as Rapoport explains, often contributes to a stronger sense of belonging and social cohesion, since shared architectural form can shape shared cultural behavior.[80]
This experience also aligned with Norberg-Schulz’s notion of place-identity: that environments built upon a consistent spatial language generate a collective sense of “being-together,” where individuals perceive themselves not merely beside one another, but as part of a unified whole.[81]

In Shushtar New Town, this was perceptible everywhere; it felt as though the residents inhabited not only a shared space but a shared spatial meaning. This sense of unity was visible not only in social behaviour but also in the architecture itself. Several buildings were interconnected through elevated passageways, while at ground level, a network of walkways linked different sides of the neighbourhood. This interwoven physical structure created a subtle web of connection and mutual presence, reinforcing the communal atmosphere. Cooper Marcus describes similar conditions in neighbourhoods with shared spatial identity—where repetition, continuity, and opportunities for constant encounter enhance feelings of psychological safety and belonging.[82]
For this reason, I continually sensed that people in this settlement recognized and supported one another, as if the architecture—with its repeated forms and interconnected structures—had actively shaped and nurtured this collective spirit.

Between Tradition and Modernity

One of the most striking differences between Shushtar New Town and traditional Iranian houses is the visible shift in cultural patterns shaped by modern life. Here, balconies, staircases, and entryways extend directly from the street into the residential units—elements that clearly mark a transition from introverted, courtyard-cantered living to forms of dwelling that engage more openly with the urban exterior. The absence of the traditional basement, a key spatial and climatic feature in vernacular houses of southern Iran, further reflects this cultural shift; its disappearance signals changes not only in building practices but also in lifestyles, values, and social rhythms.
Yet what makes Shushtar Nou truly significant is the way it responds intelligently to this evolving society. Kamran Diba did not oppose tradition, nor did he imitate it superficially. Instead, he crafted a thoughtful dialogue between past and present—integrating modern spatial needs while drawing deeply from the essence of Iranian vernacular architecture. He recognized that contemporary life requires new forms, yet still depends on familiar spatial anchors: climate-responsive thinking, brick materiality, human-scale proportions, communal centres, and the enduring logic of the courtyard.
For this reason, Shushtar Nou stands not as a severing of heritage but as a bridge between two worlds: the world of modern living and the world in which Iranian architectural memory still breathes. It demonstrates how architecture can accommodate societal transformation while preserving continuity with its cultural roots. And perhaps this is why, decades after its construction, Shushtar Nou remains a rare and compelling example of a successful synthesis between tradition and modernity.

Conclusion

The value of vernacular architecture does not lie in the literal repetition of traditional forms and historical elements, but in the psychological and mental experience it creates for the human being. Adding a howz to the centre of a courtyard or visually reconstructing old houses is no longer sufficient for today’s way of living—especially considering that, according to the latest official statistics from the Statistical Centre of Iran, which the most recent update dates back to eight years ago, more than forty percent of the country’s population were living in apartments, and this number continues to increase. Therefore, the reinterpretation of vernacular architecture must go beyond form and symbolic imitation and instead operate at the level of principles, sensory experience, and climatic logic.

The examination of Shushtar Nou showed that contemporary architecture can, like vernacular architecture in the past, draw upon climatic intelligence and traditional spatial reasoning to enhance mental comfort and the quality of living. This project proved that it is possible to create a bridge between tradition and modernity without conflict—a form of architecture that neither reconstructs the past nor separates itself from it, but instead continues it.

Throughout this research, I discovered that architecture is not merely a visual experience; rather, it must engage all the senses. My experience in House 212 made this truth clear: despite the poverty of the space, the patched and raw materials—which were difficult to look at—I felt a sense of mental calmness and emotional stillness there that I have rarely experienced in my life. In that place, I understood that the body perceives architecture before the eyes do; the soft silence of the space, the smell of dampness, and the presence of time seemed to enter into a conversation with me.

Vernacular architecture, for me, was not a lifeless structure; sometimes it embraces you like a kind mother, sometimes it holds you tightly like an old friend, and sometimes, like a wise elderly man, it makes you aware so that you watch your steps carefully.

My visits to these houses were a return to myself—because I returned to Iran not as the architectural engineer who had once left it, but as a spatial researcher, with a broader vision, a more eager mind, and the curiosity of a child. Only a year ago, I considered this architecture “outdated”; but today, I believe that in many respects it was ahead of its time, and perhaps it even belongs to the future.

From my perspective, a home for the mind is a house that:

• Uses honest, unpretentious materials, like House 212
• Carries a tangible and deep coolness in its basement, like Mostowfi House
• Has its beating heart in water and vegetation, like Mapar House
• Holds an inner sense of unity and cohesion, like Shushtar Nou

Architecture becomes valuable when it helps us return to ourselves amid the speed of contemporary life; a house becomes a home only when it becomes A Home For The Mind.

List of References

1. Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Translated by Maria Jolas. Boston: Beacon Press, 1994.
2. Jiang, Bin, William C. Sullivan, Traci Larsen, and William Kuo. “A Dose of Nature: Tree Cover, Stress Reduction, and Gender Differences.” Landscape and Urban Planning 132 (2014): 26–36.
3. Kaplan, Rachel, and Stephen Kaplan. The Experience of Nature: A Psychological Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989.
4. Marcus, Clare Cooper. House as a Mirror of the Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home. Berkeley, CA: Conari Press, 1995.
5. Norberg-Schulz, Christian. Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture. New York: Rizzoli, 1980.
6. Oliver, Paul. Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide. London: Phaidon Press, 2003.
7. Pallasmaa, Juhani. The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses. Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005.
8. Rapoport, Amos. House Form and Culture. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969.
9. Sedighi, S. M. A. “Shushtar New Town, Shushtar (IR): Kamran Diba (DAZ Architects Planners & Engineers).” DASH: Delft Architectural Studies on Housing 7, no. 12/13 (2018): 246–257. https://journals.open.tudelft.nl/dash/article/view/5027
10. Ulrich, Roger S. “View through a Window May Influence Recovery from Surgery.” Science 224, no. 4647 (1984): 420–421.
11. White, Mathew P., Ian Alcock, Benedict W. Wheeler, and Michael H. Depledge. “Would You Be Happier Living in a Greener Urban Area?” Psychological Science 24, no. 6 (2013): 920–928.

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[1] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 6.

[2] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 41.

[3] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–48; Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 13–15.

[4] A central water basin or pool, usually located in courtyards, designed to regulate temperature, enhance humidity, and create a sense of calm through the sound and reflection of water.

[5] Bin Jiang et al., A Dose of Nature: Tree Cover, Stress Reduction, and Gender Differences, Landscape and Urban Planning 132 (2014), 26–36.

[6] White, Mathew P., Ian Alcock, Benedict Wheeler, and Michael Depledge. “Would You Be Happier Living in a Greener Urban Area?” Psychological Science 24, no. 6 (2013): 920–928.

[7] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 40–41; Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–48.

[8] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 15.

[9] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 5.

[10] Shushtar new town

[11] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 41.

[12] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 15.

[13] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 41.

[14] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 6.

[15] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 18.

[16] Ibid., 6.

[17] Clare Cooper Marcus, House as a Mirror of the Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home (Berkeley, CA: Conari Press, 1995), xiii.

[18] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 37.

[19] Shavadoon — an underground chamber typical of vernacular homes in southern Iran (especially in Dezful and Shushtar), designed to provide natural cooling during the hot summers and often experienced as a calm, sensory refuge.

[20] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 72.

[21] Ibid., 72.

[22] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 67.

[23] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 15.

[24] A province in southwestern Iran, home to cities such as Ahvaz, Shushtar, and Dezful.

[25] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 17.

[26] Ibid., 24.

[27] Clare Cooper Marcus, House as a Mirror of the Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home (Berkeley, CA: Conari Press, 1995), xiii.

[28] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46.

[29] Roger S. Ulrich, “View through a Window May Influence Recovery from Surgery,” Science 224, no. 4647 (1984): 420–421; Rachel Kaplan and Stephen Kaplan, The Experience of Nature: A Psychological Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 173–175.

[30] traditional wind towers

[31] brick lattice ventilators

[32] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 41.

[33] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–48.

[34] Ibid., 54.

[35]   Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 57.

[36] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 8.

[37] Clare Cooper Marcus, House as a Mirror of the Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home (Berkeley, CA: Conari Press, 1995), 67.

[38] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 6.

[39] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46.

[40] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 44.

[41] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 6.

[42] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 5.

[43] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 63.

[44] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 7.

[45] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 6.

[46] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 47.

[47] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 48.

[48] Ibid., 12–14.

[49] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 9.

[50] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 44.

[51] a transitional space in traditional Iranian architecture, often octagonal in form, that mediates between the entrance and the inner parts of the house. It regulates movement, softens light and temperature, and creates a moment of spatial pause before entering the main living areas.

[52] Rachel Kaplan and Stephen Kaplan, The Experience of Nature: A Psychological Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 2.

[53] Roger S. Ulrich, “View through a Window May Influence Recovery from Surgery.” Science 224, no. 4647 (1984): 420–421.

[54] White, Mathew P., Ian Alcock, Benedict Wheeler, and Michael Depledge. “Would You Be Happier Living in a Greener Urban Area?” Psychological Science 24, no. 6 (2013): 920–928.

[55] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 28–29.

[56] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 18–21.

[57] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–52, 61–67.

[58] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 40–41.

[59] A principal, elevated seating area in traditional Iranian houses, typically located at the central axis of a room and reserved for honoured guests or the head of the household.

[60] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 84–90.

[61] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 102–110.

[62] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 17–21; 39–41.

[63] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–52; 70–72.

[64] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 84–90.

[65] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 7–8.

[66] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–47.

[67] S. M. A. Sedighi, “Shushtar New Town, Shushtar (IR): Kamran Diba (DAZ Architects Planners & Engineers),” DASH | Delft Architectural Studies on Housing 7, no. 12/13 (2018): 246–257, https://journals.open.tudelft.nl/dash/article/view/5027.

[68] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 61–67.

[69] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 142–150.

[70] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 61–67; 73–75.

[71] Rachel Kaplan and Stephen Kaplan, The Experience of Nature: A Psychological Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 121–130.

[72] Paul Oliver, Dwellings: The Vernacular House Worldwide (London: Phaidon Press, 2003), 102–110.

[73] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 46–47.

[74] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 28–35; 46–47.

[75] Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space, trans. Maria Jolas (Boston: Beacon Press, 1994), 50–54; 84–90.

[76] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 18–21.

[77] Rachel Kaplan and Stephen Kaplan, The Experience of Nature: A Psychological Perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 125–135.

[78] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 18–21.

[79] Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses (Chichester: Wiley-Academy, 2005), 56–58.

[80] Amos Rapoport, House Form and Culture (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1969), 46–50, 61–67.

[81] Christian Norberg-Schulz, Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), 17–24.

[82] Clare Cooper Marcus, House as a Mirror of the Self: Exploring the Deeper Meaning of Home (Berkeley, CA: Conari Press, 1995), 85–96.