The Rudolf Steiner Archive

5. Additional Comments and Q&A Following Alexander Strakosch’s Lecture on “History of Architecture and Specific Technical Fields”

[ 1 ] This is not intended to be a lecture that I wish to present following the remarks of the esteemed Mr. Strakosch; rather, please consider what I have to say merely as supplementary comments. Nor is it intended to be presented as a definitive statement on any particular subject.

[ 2 ] Whenever I have been tasked in recent times—in recent years—with overseeing [the construction] of the Dornach building, a phrase I heard while studying at the Vienna University of Technology kept ringing in my ears—a phrase I heard when, during that time, the builder of Vienna’s Votivkirche, the famous architect Ferstel, assumed the rectorship of that university. He delivered his inaugural address on the history of architecture. At that time, in the course of his speech, Ferstel said something to the effect that architectural styles cannot be invented; they must emerge from the depths of the national character. — Based on this view, Ferstel explained the fact that modern times could be less productive in terms of architectural styles, precisely because the national spirit brings such things as styles less to the surface, and that modern times could be more merely reproductive, which is why there is a return to antiquity—to speak in terms of posophy—for from these mystical depths, one can indeed create anything. You can create the craziest stuff. But that is precisely what anthroposophy must not do. It must not create the craziest stuff. So, as I said, one finds oneself in this situation: on the one hand, one has the craziest ideas of modern mystics, and on the other hand, one has to construct an anthroposophical building that must justify itself before rigorous science, and one has the most modern material—concrete—with which one can carry out the craziest ideas, but which one cannot do with a sense of stylistic integrity.

[ 3 ] Now I want to make this very clear: When one is actually working on developing a style, history is of no help at all. A historical perspective is of no help whatsoever in this regard. Everything that needs to be done here must spring from the naive, must therefore truly spring from a creative impulse. There is no other way to do this, which in a certain sense must rebel—must practically rebel—against a view such as the one Ferstel expressed at the time: “Architectural styles cannot be invented; they must emerge from the depths of folk culture.” — One must simply arrive at the view with a certain stylistic conscience: an architectural style must be created out of a specific reality, out of actual conditions. It must not be invented out of thin air; it must be created out of reality.

[ 4 ] Now I would like to draw attention to a third point, which Mr. Strakosch also mentioned. He referred to the Gothic style; he quite rightly pointed out that, given the circumstances, the structure had to be built of concrete, and the concrete foundation, which extends to a certain height, had to be crowned by the actual building—a wooden structure. In wooden construction—as you will surely agree—the forms are essentially dictated by the material itself with a certain rigor. In timber construction, we find precisely what must arise from the interplay of need, purpose, and a sense of the material. So in Dornach, a very specific stylistic approach had to be combined with something about which Mr. Strakosch has said: “You can do anything with it; you can build the craziest things out of concrete.” —

[ 5 ] Well, unless you have a particular inclination to build the craziest things, you actually have a different feeling about concrete than you do about wood. And here I have to say: based on my practical experience, I must reach the opposite conclusion from the one that was just expressed. If you take into account the precedents we have in architectural styles, you can’t really build anything out of concrete today. It’s not that you can’t build everything—it’s that you can’t build anything at all. Because if you have a sense of style, you naturally can’t do anything with the idea that “you can do anything.” You can only do something if you can use concrete as a material guided by a certain sense of style. In a certain sense, one finds oneself in a parallel situation to what is currently sometimes taking shape on anthroposophical ground as well. You see, from the misunderstood underpinnings of mystical contemplations and so on—which many people have in mind when they speak today of mysticism, theosophy, and anthroposophy—from these mystical underpinnings, one can indeed do anything. One can create the craziest stuff. But that is precisely what anthroposophy must not do. It must not create the craziest stuff. So that, as I said, one finds oneself in this situation: on the one hand, you have the craziest ideas of modern mystics, and on the other hand, you have to construct an anthroposophical building that must justify itself before rigorous science, and you have the most modern material—concrete—with which you can carry out the craziest ideas, but which, with a sense of stylistic integrity, you simply cannot do.

[ 6 ] Now I want to make this very clear: When one is actually working on developing a style, history is of no help at all. A historical perspective is of no help whatsoever in this regard. Everything that needs to be done here must spring from naivety; it must, in other words, truly arise from a creative impulse. There is no other way to achieve this—it must, in a certain sense, rebel, practically rebel against a view such as the one Ferstel expressed back then: “Architectural styles cannot be invented; they must emerge from the depths of folk culture.” — One must simply arrive at the view with a certain stylistic conscience: the architectural style must be created out of a specific reality, out of actuality. It must not be invented out of thin air; it must be created out of reality.

[ 7 ] Now I would like to draw attention to a third point, which Mr. Strakosch also addressed. He referred to the Gothic style and quite rightly demonstrated how the Gothic actually draws heavily on craftsmanship. And there is indeed a tendency in the Gothic to return to craftsmanship. In one sense, the question of style was resolved through the combination of cross vaults, pointed arches, and flying buttresses that Gothic architecture ultimately developed. However, if we consider the other aspect that has been emphasized, the matter takes on a different perspective. It has also been said that Gothic architecture would not emerge merely from the technical interlocking of structural elements; that certain forms and certain concepts still live within Gothic architecture—elements that are stylistically inherent to it—and that even within the “masons’ guilds,” a certain secret regarding these has been preserved and strictly guarded, and which now extends beyond the purely technical. We thus find an element that has been built into the style, one that must be sought within the style itself, but—as can be acknowledged in the broadest sense—one that, in terms of its true essence, has actually been lost in more recent times, at least as far as its practical application is concerned. Today, people no longer do what was done back then based on the secrets of architectural science—what arose from certain, entirely different premises, without the need for rigorous calculations and the like. Precisely these premises could—and I’ll pose this hypothetically for now—be connected to other things. They could be connected to the fact that today the reproductive element prevails: it is not so much productive style-creation that prevails, but rather reproductive style-shaping. Perhaps it is precisely from those soul entities that have been very strictly preserved that the forces underlying productivity—from which the productivity of style arises—flow forth. And perhaps this very sense of helplessness regarding style in recent times stems precisely from the fact that a certain element has been lost in architecture. This element must, of course, be given special consideration in architecture, because there it must conform to the strict laws that dictate that a building must simply stand firm—that is, it must comply with the structural and other conditions that Mr. Strakosch has elaborated upon. In architecture, in the broadest sense, one is dealing with what scientifically grounded technology makes possible, and on the other hand, one is compelled to incorporate a certain stylistic element into what one builds.

[ 8 ] The question now arises: Wasn’t what we call “technology” in earlier times perhaps much more closely tied to style than it is today? Were the building codes of that time not, in and of themselves, formulated in such a way that they also incorporated technical principles, so that one could, in a sense, build safely by adhering to what resulted from these carefully preserved rules? Were they not—despite being artistically stylish—perhaps also technically sound through and through?

[ 9 ] You get that kind of feeling again when you experience something like what could just be experienced in Dornach. It occurred to me—as I said, the main ideas always arise from a place of innocence—it occurred to me to enclose the auditorium with a dome and to connect this dome to a smaller dome that would crown the stage area. The challenge then was to find the technical solution for the connection, and this remained a major issue in Dornach for quite some time. I felt the necessity to do it this way; on the other hand, it had to be technically feasible. Until we found the solution, all I could say was: Whatever arises from the necessity of style must also have the right technical solution; it must also demonstrate a certain perfection in terms of technique. These things must come together. Of course, if something is conceived in an intellectualistic or unartistic way, and one wants to erect a building that lacks style, no technical problem will arise for it. But if something is truly found in the foundations upon which style must rest, then the corresponding technique must also be found for it.

[ 10 ] Well, as I said, history is of no help if one—if I may put it that way—has to create something like a style out of a naive starting point. But afterward, one can still take cues from what that development may yield. And in addition to what has just been said, I would like to make a few remarks that may at first seem somewhat paradoxical in the present—as do many things that must be expressed from the perspective of anthroposophical spiritual science—but which will likely prove to be thoroughly practical over time, even though they might still seem fantastical to some today.

[ 11 ] I do not wish to return to Oriental or Egyptian architecture, which has already been sufficiently discussed, but I would first like to refer to what lies at the foundation of what has emerged from Oriental-Egyptian architecture; I would like to point to Greek architecture, and there—setting aside everything else for the moment—to Greek temple architecture. But I do not wish to focus so much on the technical aspects now; rather, I would like to address matters of style.

[ 12 ] I believe that anyone who studies Greek architecture more closely will find that its forms are actually impossible to fully grasp if one focuses too much on what constitutes its structural element. Greek architecture certainly takes structural elements into account—this is clear. They are present, but in an extraordinarily free manner. They are so deeply integrated throughout that one can see: in a certain sense, what we today call structural mechanics is handled quite freely. The load-bearing structures and loads are there. But architects have neither fallen into the error of viewing what was placed there as mere decoration, nor have they, on the other hand, fallen into the one-sidedness of focusing too much on the purely static aspect of the matter. There is an element hidden there that has perhaps been guarded even more closely than the secrets of the later builders’ lodges—an element that arose from humanity’s original, instinctive perceptions, and which, in turn, can only be discovered through anthroposophical, spiritual-scientific investigation. In a certain sense, these Greek temples are also functional buildings. A Greek temple, viewed in and of itself as a mere building, is actually never a complete entity. If one removes the statue of the god from the Greek temple and then looks at it, one has the feeling that the most essential element is missing. It was understood simply as the dwelling place of the god, and only on the assumption that the people actually have nothing to do with the temple except from the outside, that only the god was supposed to have his dwelling within it. — Yet the fact that the temple is the dwelling place of the god does not, in fact, explain much about the intuitions that went into the temple’s construction. One must therefore go back to something else, specifically with regard to the purpose of the temple’s construction; if I may put it this way in a figurative sense: with regard to the question of need. One might say: The purely external aspect of the temple’s purpose—the fact that the temple is the dwelling place of the god—is sufficient for those who wish to describe these matters in a merely popular, journalistic style, but not for those who wish to go beyond such descriptions and truly understand the inner structure of the temple. For such a person, it is necessary to add another element: that the Greek temple must be viewed as a transformation of original burial vaults and tomb structures. The Greek temple cannot be understood in any other way than as the metamorphosis of a tomb structure. But this takes us back to times when the soul of the deceased was believed to remain near the buried body. The structure was actually erected in its various forms for the soul that was believed to still be present, even as the transition was made from ancestor worship to the worship of gods. The worship of gods in the older religions was nothing other than a transformed form of ancestor worship; the ancient gods are, in essence, ancestors; they are conceived as ancestors; and the way in which the spiritual-soul activity of the gods was viewed was also a transformation of how the soul’s activity after death was viewed in the deceased human being—thus, in terms of conceptual forms, something emerged that was closely connected to this. Now the task was to construct a dwelling for a soul, and this required arriving at a balance of forces, a kind of structural stability, that was possible as an external structure but at the same time served precisely this purpose: to be a dwelling for a soul, so that the soul could dwell within it; for the soul of a god, too, had to dwell in such a structure.

[ 13 ] Where did the balance of forces come from? — That is the big question. As we are rightly learning today in our own era, these relationships were not calculated in that way at all. People did not understand that in those earlier times. The little literature that still exists shows quite clearly that they did not have such a structure based on rigorous statics, mathematics, and mechanics. But those earlier times had something else, and this brings me to what is naturally regarded today—and can be regarded—as fantastical, no matter how practical it actually was intended to be: it is a matter of fathoming by what means, let us say for example, the position of the center of gravity was determined—the center of gravity that simply had to be placed in such a way that, upon looking at the structure, one knew where it was. But it was not with the intellect, but rather with feeling—specifically, a sense of style—that one had to determine how to distribute the forces, how to distribute the material, in order to achieve what the right feeling dictated. A soul dwelt within it. After all, in those earlier times people did not have those abstract notions of the soul that one finds today, for example, among our psychologists, where the soul is something entirely indefinite—to some it is a point to be sought somewhere within the body’s organization, and other such absurdities—; the ancient times did not have these abstract views of the soul. They had very specific views of the soul. It would be interesting to set forth these views, but there is not enough time for that. It would be all the more interesting because the views that these ancient people held about the soul contained, to a certain degree, precisely what the descriptions of ancient conceptions of the soul—for example, in Wundt’s philosophy—do not contain, while at the same time omitting everything that Wundt describes as part of those ancient conceptions of the soul. These things are, for one thing, such that they cannot be grasped by a materialistic way of thinking. But they lived in ancient times, and they lived so concretely that one could also associate concrete ideas with them regarding the formation of the material world. But how was this done? You see, everything that was built, everything that was discovered with regard to static conditions, arose in earlier times—as strange as it may seem today—from the human organism and its statics. Specifically, what was still relevant to architecture in the Greek era arose from the statics of the human limb system. By the human limb system, I do not mean merely a collection of arms and legs, but it also includes, for example, the lower jaw and various features of the “middle human,” the “chest human,” and so on. But everything inherent in the “limb human” could be studied. For example, one could test how a certain interplay of forces works when one crouches down, say, with bent knees, in a semi-seated position. One gained insights into the relationships between the center of gravity and a certain system of forces, and one gained an understanding of these relationships when attempting to keep the mouth open in the best possible way to find the ideal center of gravity of the head—this is done by adjusting the lower jaw. It is interesting to study the peculiar shaping found in Greek sculptures resulting from this slightly open mouth; it arose from a very specific study of the posture of the lower jaw, which one experienced inwardly in terms of its statics and dynamics.

[ 14 ] And in the same way, one observed the static and dynamic relationships that arise when, for example, one crouches down and rests one’s arms on one’s knees, and so on. This dynamic was studied in human beings, and in earlier times especially in the “limb-man.” One observed the dynamics as they are expressed in the human being while walking—because walking requires the unfolding of very specific inner static-dynamic relationships—and from this one formed conceptions of very specific static relationships; and what could be studied in the human organism itself, we find reflected in the design of temple buildings. People said to themselves: What the human being possesses as a head is, to be sure, a beautiful outward expression of the physical human being, but it is, after all, only an expression of the physical human being. The human being is, after all, a “head-human” precisely in order to be capable in the physical world. In a certain sense, people thought similarly about the “torso-human” and the “breathing-human.” People said to themselves: This is something that underlies the human being’s connection to the earthly environment. The head and chest regions, so to speak, were set aside when, in ancient times, people conceived of the human being as the vessel of the soul. One thought specifically of what cannot be directly animated by the soul in the human form; one thought of the balance of forces that arises in the use of the “limb-human.” This “limb-human” was the vehicle through which the human being carried his or her soul into the earth here. The systems of forces that the human being unfolded there entered the soul; these were studied; one sought to see the soul enveloped by them even after death. What one could experience by carrying one’s soul through life was incorporated into what one wished to have as the soul’s enclosure—not in an abstract way, but with all the concreteness and practicality of the ancient worldview.

[ 15 ] Such things can only ever be studied externally by focusing on certain qualities of sensation. One can even—and spiritual science confirms with absolute certainty what I have just explained—gain a certain insight into such things from external symptoms alone. Consider for a moment what the Greek sculptor particularly sought to emphasize when he depicted the human being as a physical form: long legs and a head that was extraordinarily large by later standards; in Greek sculpture, the length of the head is eight times the total length of the human figure. He focused particularly on the head, insofar as the head has a certain length—that is, it possesses a limb-like structure. The Greek sculptor studied in particular the limb-like structure of the head and, in turn, studied the limb-like structure in the human being as a whole. Everything contained within one system of the human form is, after all, also contained within the other. The entire human form is, in turn, contained within the head, and the structure of the arms and legs is reflected in the jaws—though one must then view the head in reverse. Thus, one can say: For the Greeks, the primary focus was on that aspect of the human form which constituted the limb-based structure—extending all the way to the head. The limb system is least pronounced in the torso-and-chest figure; this recedes entirely into the background in Greek sculpture. In Greek sculpture, this is actually the shortest and weakest part. Tall lower limbs, a large head in proportion to the rest of the body—this is precisely the directing of attention toward that from which an inner statics in the human being arises. And this inner stability was carefully studied and carefully preserved. That is why, in those days, being an architect meant possessing the insights that had been studied in the noblest subject one could study: the human being.

[ 16 ] Well, now we come to the Middle Ages. Mr. Strakosch has excellently described how something still flows into vault construction, into the construction of pointed arches, how something lives within them. You can study what lives within it by turning your attention once again to how human beings were viewed in the Middle Ages. When you look at medieval depictions of the human figure, the head is not eight times the size of the entire human form, but rather about ten times. The legs are short. People have small heads, which means that the limb system of the head recedes into the background and that little attention is paid to the other limbs. Hence the enormous, long torso; that is the main feature of medieval sculpture, and all attention is focused on it. If one studies this statics—I must speak in general terms due to time constraints —if one studies what was contained in the rules of the builders’ guilds, one can discover the secrets of that aspect of the human form which we today call the rhythmic human form—that which is expressed in rhythm, in the statics of rhythms—in that element which was added to the purely technical aspects of Gothic architecture. In a certain sense—one must simply avoid becoming fanciful when mentioning this matter—this is what trust in God is—Mr. Strakosch has correctly traced it back to its true meaning—for it comes from the heart; it comes from the middle man, not from the intellectual man. Thus we find that during the same period in which—through the study of external nature and the study of pure mathematics and mechanics as applied to nature—attention to the human being is lost, those elements that lead to a style are also lost. For one can only arrive at a style when a person is able to shape in the external world what he or she can study in the microcosm.

[ 17 ] And when one is now faced with the task of [finding] a new architectural style, the point is, of course, to create once again from similar foundations. The point is to return once again to what arises from the human being itself. Now, in our age of scientific development, this cannot, of course, be found in the way I have sketched out for two epochs of human history, but only by, so to speak, ascending from the “limb-human” through the “rhythmic human” to the “head-human.” But one cannot do anything with the latter, for he has already developed his relationships to the highest degree. The “head-human,” after all, is that in which the individuality of the human being is most fully expressed in form. One cannot work with this in the same way as, for example, in Greek statics, where one had, so to speak, captured in the spatial drawing precisely what one cannot see in a human being when he or she is simply standing before one. The same is true in later times: one captured in spatial drawing what one cannot see, but what arises solely from a deep feeling for those arches that constitute the rhythmic human being.

[ 18 ] Now, in the present, the only task can be to find the spiritually perceived foundation that underlies the true spirituality of human beings. That is why the building in Dornach had to be constructed not merely as a meeting hall, but as a space that invites each individual to feel at home within it, so that they may simultaneously attain self-knowledge. The Greek building served as a framework for the soul. The Gothic building, for all the reasons I have just outlined, is the place of assembly; it is not complete unless the congregation, the assembly, is present within it. “Assembly” is, after all, something that corresponds to the “Duma” and is etymologically related to “cathedral.” The assembly belongs there. — Now we need a building that allows people to perceive forms not in the external human figure, but in the realm of the imagination. If one were to build today in the same way as in the past, one would fall into intellectualistic architecture, which would be impossible because it is no longer art. In art, one must remain within intuition, but one must [also] find the style for what is now, after all, a product of intellectual labor—namely, our modern statics. While the statics of the Greeks was entirely based on intuition, our statics today is a product of intellectual labor, and we must find precisely what eluded the Greeks. They built upon what they perceived as statics. For us, this arises from the intellect. Intuition must contribute what can only be provided through intuition. This is how the Dornach building—which is by no means symbolic—was constructed. It is slander to say otherwise, for that would imply that the building was constructed in an unartistic manner. It is certainly true that everything about this building is perceived purely artistically, but precisely in such a way that the artistic aspect is shaped directly out of perception. It is, once again, a return to a style, but in such a way that this style—just as naively as it was created in the past—has been discovered out of the necessity of direct perception. Therefore, anyone who comes to Dornach will once again be able to feel at home in this building, because it is executed in a style that allows people to find themselves in it, just as people have always been found in true works of architecture. There is truly nothing fanciful about the Dornach building; rather, everything has emerged from the very concrete stylistic consciousness just described. That is why what would certainly have happened in another case could not happen here. — After all, anthroposophy was there, present for many years, before it needed a building such as the one in Dornach. Then, among a number of people who at that time considered themselves convinced of the fundamental truths of anthroposophy—the idea for the Dornach building did not originate with me—the thought arose to erect such a building for the particular way of life that arises from anthroposophy in both artistic and practical terms. My task was simply to find the forms and the stylistic elements for this building. I was, so to speak, commissioned by the anthroposophists. The building did not arise as a direct result of my own idea.

[ 19 ] Well, isn’t it true that these days such things happen in such a way that people say: There’s some kind of association, a society with this or that goal. That’s the way things are today: societies and associations are being founded everywhere, and then programs are drawn up to be carried out for this or that association. These programs are usually very clever, because when people get together, they can intellectually put together the most ingenious ideas; but with all that, one would get no further than a theory; one would get no further than, say, steering world history with Wilson’s Fourteen Points. That, too, is such a program—well-conceived, but, in the face of real world affairs, something unworkable, something quite abstract and foolish, one might even say. And then, when such an association exists that needs its own building, it chooses one of the existing architectural styles and has its building constructed according to that style. — Thus, if anthroposophy is honest with itself, it cannot proceed in this way. That is not possible with anthroposophy. Because it is thoroughly honest with itself, it knows that it is introducing into modern civilization, into the development of modern culture, something that has not yet been present there. Anyone who possesses even a basic sense of style or any other artistic sensibility knows how all forms of art—including architecture—grow out of the mindset of a particular era, and how they cannot be understood at all unless one immerses oneself, as a whole person, in the mindset of that time. That is why the old architectural styles are merely reminiscences to us. We can understand them only to the extent that we can put ourselves in the mindset of those bygone times. That is why so much remains incomprehensible to most people who are unable to do so.

[ 20 ] Anthroposophy is something entirely new—not a set of theories, but a way of life. This means it is something that can simultaneously become art, because it does not dull the feelings, as mere intellectualism does. Artists are often afraid of anthroposophy because they regard it as just another theory. Theory dulls everything artistic, but not anthroposophy. It actually stimulates emotional and volitional impulses. The whole person is stimulated. Anthroposophy makes people more dexterous right down to their hands—this is something to consider today, when most men are so clumsy that they cannot even sew back on a torn-off pants button. That is what is at stake: that we truly realize that everything that constitutes anthroposophical ideas—which are not merely thoughts but are at the same time world forces in which the human being lives—flows into dexterity, manual skill, and human agility. That is why one can also build, sculpt, and paint them again in the same way that one builds, sculpts, and paints what has just been drawn out of the human being in the manner described.

[ 21 ] Since anthroposophy presents itself as something new within our culture, a framework had to be found for it—one that could exist solely for anthroposophy. In other words, its style had to be derived from its spiritual impulses. The Dornach building therefore stands in such a way that what can be said from the podium—the word that is meant to exist to proclaim the content of the spiritual world—is one thing, one way of speaking; another way is what one sees in the building’s architecture. Every column, every capital speaks just as the words spoken from the podium do. There is a harmony here, just as there was a harmony in the Greek soul between the vision of God and the construction of the temple. One must create from the impulses of the artistic process. Then what emerges is something that cannot be discussed: style—the style that must be grasped from the whole human being, from that place where one experiences thoughts—which are more than mere thoughts—as forces that dwell within one and pulse through the human being right down to the blood, so that one can also give them external form.

[ 22 ] I just wanted to make a few remarks, my dear fellow students, distinguished guests. I simply wanted to point out how one might once again discover styles. However imperfectly this may have been achieved in Dornach—I myself am the harshest critic of this building, which is, after all, only a first step—an attempt has been made to rediscover the spirit of style, to rediscover what lies at the heart of style. And precisely because something has been placed within this style—something that is genuine spirituality—it is possible to master even the material that proves so brittle, as Mr. Strakosch has described—concrete—so that one then says to oneself: Certainly, you can’t make anything out of concrete unless you want to create the craziest things, but the craziest things are precisely the most styleless. One can only create something out of concrete if, based on the other prerequisites—whether utilitarian prerequisites in the case of utilitarian buildings, or spiritual prerequisites in the case of a building for a School of Spiritual Science such as the one in Dornach—one also possesses within oneself what is alive within; then one can say, even when faced with concrete: It is not the case that concrete allows one to make anything and everything out of it; rather, one can place only a single thing in a given spot. Where a person has an earlobe, there could not be a big toe—nature would not allow it; when a certain mass of forces within the organism is present, only one thing can be shaped in that spot—if one lives in the realm of perception. This is what is at stake when we speak of a sense of style, of a firmly established sense of style, and of the absolutely plastic material of concrete.

[ 23 ] So perhaps you will be able to experience in Dornach that, even though what Mr. Strakosch said about concrete—based on certain views—is true, attempts have been made in Dornach to treat the concrete in such a way—even if not everything has been successful—that whatever is in place at any given spot is perceived as necessary precisely there, and that, based on this view, one says to oneself: Just as there can be only one earlobe at a specific point on the head, so here there can be only a very specific form. — But this must be preceded by the transition from the merely symmetrical, the merely moderate and metric, to the organic—the moderation and symmetry experienced from within—as one experiences when moving from the merely mechanical to the organism. In order to arrive at a style once again, the step had to be taken from the geometrically symmetrical, metrical style—and so on—to the organic style. However imperfectly this may have been achieved, it is undoubtedly in this direction that we must seek what the further stylistic development of architecture must be. And, in my opinion, one will find the [style for a] utilitarian building, as well as [for] a building such as the Goetheanum in Dornach, only by following such paths; otherwise, we will always remain confined to the reproductive. We can only arrive at the productive stage by following this path. Then there will no longer be any need for pessimistic reflections on the fact that architectural styles are not invented; rather, the impulse toward new stylization and new stylistics will once again arise from the fullness of artistic life.

[ 24 ] Question: I would like to ask whether Dr. Steiner discovered the relationship between modern humanity and the new architectural style of Dornach through a path of higher knowledge, as was previously suggested in the context of spiritual science, and, if so, whether this path may be applied in cases involving the intuitive and artistic

[ 25 ] Creation is action.

[ 26 ] Rudolf Steiner: This is a question that cannot be addressed in such general terms. I believe I have described the process, as far as was possible in this sketchy presentation. The point is that the insight is there, and this insight arises with a certain inevitability. So one cannot say that preparations could be made for anything specific—or anything of the sort—so that these things might then come about. Rather, in anthroposophy—whether one believes it today or not—there is something that, in contrast to the merely abstract and theoretical, is an element connected with organization, growth, and so on. It is the case that one can say: Even what I recognize as an idea—as some kind of essential being in the spiritual world—is there; it is perceived, but one does not yet have the ability to hold onto it in the same way as a sensory experience that remains in memory; one can only reconstruct the paths through which one arrived at such a higher experience—that is, what lies prior to the experience—and can then wait to see if the experience returns. The experience is the actual manifestation; and just as I do not possess this hall if I have only the memory of it, so too do I not possess the higher spiritual experience if I have it only in memory. It does not manifest itself in memory at all. This is the distinctive feature of higher spiritual experiences: they cannot be recalled in the ordinary way. I explained in my lecture that higher spiritual experiences are due to a transformation of the power of memory; therefore, they are not subject to memory but must be relived again and again. I have written four Mystery Dramas; in each, every single detail was there, word for word—it was simply present. I cannot say that one can prepare for this in any specific way, but through anthroposophy one enters into a living process. I could illustrate the underlying principle with something that might seem trivial to you. If you have learned something and have a good memory for it, then you have it—it is always present to you; but if you have eaten something, you cannot say, “I don’t need to eat anything today because I ate the day before yesterday.” — What I learned yesterday is available to me today; that is an abstract process subject to memory. What is a real process is not subject to memory; it works itself out. So it is with the experience of what is experienced in the supersensible worlds. It is a real experience. Therefore, one can say: In general, the act of internalizing what anthroposophy can offer is already the path to such things, and will naturally manifest itself in specific instances when the prerequisites for it are in place. But it goes without saying that one cannot claim that one should now cultivate one thing or another through anthroposophy, or that anthroposophy is the means to realize the ideal of Friedrich von Schlegel, the Romantic, which consisted of nothing other than this: one should resolve to become a genius. Anthroposophy is not the path to that. But it is something living—that is what matters. I have said: Something like a new style arises from the naive; historical considerations would be of no use in shaping a new style. The aim is not to intellectualize artistic production, but rather to focus on what simply arises from the development of humanity—as I described yesterday—namely, that the forces that formerly acted physically must now be sought as spiritual forces. That is what matters. But I would like to warn against regulating in any way the things that must actually lead, along the path I have indicated, to the fullest freedom—and thus also to artistic freedom. I do not wish to pass over these things without reminding you that artistic freedom must prevail in them, and that I very much fear that if one applies a rule to these things from the outset—even if it is that of the golden ratio—the result will not be free creation, but rather being forced into those Spanish boots that a German poet once, shall we say, “glorified” in a poem. Setting standards for what is permissible in free creation, and judging, “That is not beautiful”—if it does not conform to a certain standard—leads to the inartistic. And I fear that the Dornach building, if one were to apply only the measure of the golden ratio [gap]—the golden ratio is, after all, abstracted from what has been built so far; it is found in countless works of art, and it is justified because it is inherent in the human form; but if one applies it as a preconceived rule, one does not arrive at what [for example] is pleasing clothing, but rather at what was worn at the Spanish court and later at the Austrian court.

[ 27 ] Question: How can we explain the fact that, when half-asleep, we can often solve problems that we cannot solve in broad daylight? ... [gap]

[ 28 ] Rudolf Steiner: When we consider the current views of physiological science—or indeed of psychological science, which is practically the same thing these days—we cannot, however, explain this fact, which is undoubtedly a fact. But if one has trained oneself, without prejudice, to observe human life as it really is, then precisely such facts serve to corroborate this fundamental view. We must be clear about the following, in the same sense that one can be clear today, from a materialistic-physiological perspective, about other things that can be ascertained through such science. One must realize that, from the moment of waking until falling asleep, a person is actually awake only in relation to a certain part of their being—namely, only in relation to their life of imagination. The life of imagination can be clearly perceived while awake. In contrast, there is no way to be present in the life of feeling with the same nuance of consciousness as in the life of imagination. When one analyzes the emotional life, it has the same nuance of consciousness as the dream life. Dreams are, after all, merely images strung together. But the sequences of the dream life, especially in interesting dreams, do not correspond to the logic of imagination, but rather to the logic of emotion—the association of feelings. Emotions are, in essence, merely the waking counterpart to what appears in dreams as images, in instinctive imagination. Even while awake, we are completely asleep with regard to volition. No matter how much we may will, we are awake only in the realm of imagination. How the will functions—what goes on when we move even just one arm—is not present [in our consciousness]; we have the intention, we raise our arm in our imagination, but we have only the mental image of the act of will. Now, however, mathematical concepts, for example, do not arise from that part of our consciousness that is limited to ordinary waking imagination. If we were merely waking human beings—that is, merely thinking beings—Dilthey once describes this interestingly in a treatise for the Berlin Academy—we would never arrive at mathematics, much less mechanics. Mathematics and mechanics are rooted deep within the human being, and humans arrive at mathematics only through the movements of their own limbs. There lies something similar to what underlies Greek statics, only we have it in reflection. We have mechanics, especially phoronomy—everything we grasp through measurement and number—only reflected in the imagination. Therefore, we are much closer to the mathematical, to that which can be calculated, to that which must be discovered by human beings. And if a person were ever to experience it—I must put it paradoxically—if he were only to truly experience how clever and ingenious he is in his sleep, he might become megalomaniacal. It is actually very good that this fog of sleep spreads over this undeserved cleverness, and that it only occasionally surfaces in dreams. But it is certainly true that, upon waking, we can just barely catch a glimpse of what we accomplish precisely when we have prepared to solve some problem in our sleep. For in our sleep we solve many problems. And anyone who wishes to proceed experimentally can conduct the following experiment. They should try, from the afternoon through the evening, to engage with a difficult task. They will see that if they succeed in clearly formulating the question—which is a difficult problem—toward the end of the day, and if they then have the composure to approach it properly the next morning, they will see what they have worked out in the meantime. This can then seem like an inspiration. So one can even approach these matters experimentally. Such experiences virtually confirm what anthroposophical spiritual science—naturally in a methodical and thoroughly disciplined manner—seeks to bring to light. I do not believe that we have yet reached the point where “The Hardships of the Technician,” which Dr. Unger so brilliantly outlined yesterday, can already be resolved through these means; we have not yet developed enough pedagogy and didactics of life for that. But the problem can certainly be explained along the lines I have just outlined.