In this inaugural edition of Design Language — our new editorial series exploring the cultural, social, and personal impacts of design — we take on the perennial hot-button topic at the forefront of everyone's mind: the dome.

Heavens on Earth: The Legacy of the Dome
by Henry Northington

Ever since humankind gained the knowledge to build them, we've been throwing up domes. Early man built domed huts, igloos, and tombs, and a persistent attraction to the form has endured in some form or another right up until the present day. From the Pantheon to Epcot Center, we've been looking up at domes for a good while.

In ecclesiastical architecture, a dome built on a square base structure often symbolized the relationship between Earth and the Heavens. The spherical bit represented the perfection and order of the divine, while the square base's harsh angles embodied earthly imperfection. In civic architecture, they're almost ubiquitous among parliament buildings, state legislatures, and even municipal-level government structures. That's no accident. What better way to inspire reverence for the State than by mimicking the architectural authority of the Church? In the U.S., we talk about the "hallowed halls" of congress with a straight face. That's the power of the dome.

Somewhere in the twentieth century, though, some people got the idea that this power shouldn't be reserved just for the Church, the State, or practitioners of traditional architecture. As mathematical approaches to dome design became more refined, and their natural geometry more apparent, we began to see what we now know as geodesic domes. In simple terms, they're self-supporting geometric structures made up of interlocking triangles or hexagons to form a polyhedral dome or sphere. They're neat.

The first is credited to Dr. Walter Bauersfield, who in 1919 built a permanent geodesic dome structure for a new type of planetarium. The build was contracted by optical company Carl Zeiss, which needed a larger structure to house their new projectors. Until Bauersfield's design, planetaria used rotating domes with holes punched in place of the planets and stars to allow light to permeate the shell, rendering our known "night" sky. Now, his approach is the norm.

But despite the success and acclaim that Bauersfield's Zeiss Planetarium enjoyed in its time, the geodesic dome hadn't entered the mainstream of architectural consciousness just yet. It wasn't until the public became acquainted with the work of American architect and futurist R. Buckminster Fuller that the idea had truly "arrived".

In direct contrast to its awe-inspiring, authority-projecting antecedents, Fuller saw the geodesic dome as — among other things — a means to house the masses. Geodesic forms proved to be lightweight, relatively simple to build, and remarkably strong due to the natural geometric reinforcement that was central to their design. They seemed, to him, the perfect way to create affordable, spacious housing that could be fabricated and deployed at scale.

At one point, Fuller lived in a 'dome home' of his own. He had it built in Carbondale, Illinois while teaching at Southern Illinois University. But while living in that home, Fuller was commissioned to design a dome for a much different purpose than human habitation. It was to be the United States Pavilion, a key part of Expo '67 in Montreal.

Rather than serving to house the masses, the Expo '67 dome and others like it quickly became the focal points for a new kind of power: the power of technology. In this era of futurism and space-race optimism, emerging technologies seemed to have the potential to eclipse the influence of both the religious and civic spheres.

But, much like the grand domes of the civic world were inspired by those of the religious world, the geodesic domes of the technological world would ultimately borrow authority from both. A world's fair was as big a stage as any ambitious nation could dream of, and when the actors took to that stage it was to perform their own technological vision, capability, and might. In Montreal, the dome obliged.

Such symbolism — as embodied by the Expo '67 dome, EPCOT Center's Spaceship Earth, and various corporate headquarters around the world — stands in rather stark contrast to the promise of Fuller's original vision. While more modest examples of the geodesic form could have provided the vehicle for actual, tangible progress, these grander expressions of that same form came to serve as merely an advertisement for the potential of such progress. That it was never actually delivered didn't really seem to matter.

While attempts to use geodesic forms as shelter never truly ceased, they never became the de facto affordable housing unit. That's probably why we don't see many of them anymore. Apart from the vestigial titans of world's fairs and theme parks, geodesic domes are now mostly the domain of high-end glamping accommodations or pop-up luxury brand "experiences."

That's a shame. Maybe, if we ever get around to exploring space again, the geodesic dome will get its second act. It seems like a no-brainer for Moonbase 1. Aside from that, though, we'll just have to make do with what's left of them here on Earth.

Their older, non-geodesic cousins are nothing to sneeze at either. Some well-informed people even prefer them. When asked what his favorite dome is, our co-founder Hunter Craighill had this to say:

"100% the Pantheon. The dome to beat all domes. Almost 2,000 years old, in continuous use, still kicking ass."

Hard to argue with that.

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