JOURNAL

OF ANTHROPOLOGICAL

ARCHAEOLOGY

2, 277-303 (1983)

A Theory of Architectural Design

RANDALL H. MCGUIRE
Department
of

Anthropology, State University of New York, Binghamton, New York 13901 AND

MICHAEL B. SCHIFFER
Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson, Arizona 85721

Received January 5, 1983 A rudimentary theory to explain the design of vernacular structures is presented. Conceiving of architectural design as a social process, the theory focuses on the influence of utilitarian and symbolic functions as well as on the trade-offs between production and maintenance costs. A particular design is viewed as the outcome of a process of compromise among conflicting goals, influenced by factors of adaptation and social organization. The theory is used to generate an explanatory sketch for why the prehistoric Anasazi of the American Southwest went from being pithouse to pueblo dwellers.

INTRODUCTION

The purpose of this paper is to advance a preliminary but general theory to explain the design of vernacular architecture. This effort is intended to contribute to the larger research emphasis developing in archaeology that is concerned with explaining, in behavioral terms, variability and change in material culture (e.g., Braun 1983; Schiffer 1979; Hayden 1977a, 1977b; Goodyear 1979). Although the determinants of specific artifact morphologies have always been of interest in archaeology, theoretical treatment of the design process is usually subsumed by discussions of style and function. These discussions have resulted in tangible progress (e.g., Wobst 1977; Plog 1980; Dunnell 1978; McGuire 1981; Sackett 1982; Rathje and Schiffer 1982; Jelinek 1976), but a fully general theory, applicable to architecture as well as to chipped-stone tools, remains elusive. The present paper may contribute to the construction of a high-level theory of artifact design, but our immediate aim is to set forth
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a testable, middle-range theory to explain variability and change in vernacular architecture. Archaeologists examine the end products of design-particular structures-that can be characterized by formal properties, such as size, shape, and construction materials. To explain how structures come to have specific designs-why some are large and others small, why some are made of wood and others of stone, why some are internally partitioned and others not-we must examine the design process. In particular, we must identify the general causal factors (and their interrelationships) that influence the decisions leading to the designs for specific structures. On the broadest level, of course, availability of materials and technology constrain architectural designs. Although they may have desired it, the builders of Pueblo Bonito in Chaco Canyon could not have used marble; nor, with their technology, could the same Bonitians have erected a pueblo of 50 stories. However, these types of constraints, which put generous limits on designs, furnish relatively few insights into the causes of variability between societies, and contribute little to explaining differences or changes in the vernacular architecture within societies (cf. Rapoport 1980a, 1980b). Given the wide limits set by technology and available materials, investigators must pay special attention to the social process of design that determines where-within the limits-choices actually fall. The social process is likely to narrow the options considerably, and, on occasion, it can alter the existing constraints by inventing new technologies or by securing formerly unavailable materials. Let us now begin to build a social theory of design.

A SOCIAL THEORY OF DESIGN Architectural design is a process whereby social groups make choices concerning several recurrent sets of activities (Rapoport 1980a:287, 198Ob:7). We focus on the activity sets of production, use, and maintenunce of the built environment. With respect to each activity set, people attempt to maximize certain goals. Because the activity sets are interdependent, it is impossible in the design process to maximize all goals simultaneously. Moreover, maximization of one goal is usually achieved at the expense of others. Thus, the design process can be viewed as a series of compromises between goals, the result of which is necessarily the achievement of some goals at less than a maximum level. Factors relating to a societys social structure and adaptation determine the specific content and weighting of the goals. Social differentiation and social inequality affect both the utilitarian and symbolic requirements of

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structures. Residential mobility has a direct effect on utilitarian requirements, such as anticipated uselife, and constrains the investments that can be made in architectural symbolism. In the context of these other factors, architecture must remain responsive to the developmental cycles of households and institutions. Design is a social process because compromises between goals are effected within and between social groups. As societies become more differentiated, these activity sets and their attendant goals become increasingly associated with different social units. Among societies with limited differentiation, such as the Navajo (Jett and Spencer 1981: 17) and the Tarahumara (Pennington 1963:223, 226), the family that will use and maintain a structure often also builds it, sometimes with assistance from other families. In more differentiated societies, such as the Samoans (Goldman 1970:255), some families or task groups specialize in construction, while others-the occupants-use and maintain the structures. Finally, in the most differentiated societies, such as our own, separate task groups have arisen that specialize in design, construction, maintenance, and even demolition of structures. In this case, there is often appreciable social distance between those who made and maintain the structure and its users. The separation of these activities among different groups increases the potential for conflict in the design process. Even in the simplest case where a single family or institution participates in all three activity sets, individuals in the group may have divergent views as to the requirements for use and on the compromises to be made between the goals of use, production, and maintenance. Increased differentiation associates each activity set with a different social collective, each acting in its own best interest to maximize goals. Since the goals of production, use, and maintenance cannot all be maximized with respect to a particular structure, the potential for conflict grows, and may be exacerbated by imperfect communication between social units. In the compromises reached during the design process, goals relating to use are usually accorded a high priority (Allsopp 1977:81-95). Use goals establish a series of requirements with attendant ranges within which the design must fall. However, where, precisely, the design falls within a particular range (and, to a certain extent, the definition of the range itself) depends on the compromise (or trade-off) between production and maintenance . Let us now consider some of the causal factors that shape the design process by examining in more detail the basic goals of use, production, and maintenance. We will be stressing the trade-offs between production and maintenance goals.

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The goals of use can be partitioned into utilitarian and symbolic functions (cf. McGuire 1981; Rathje and Schiffer 1982:67; Saile 1977). This dichotomy is, admittedly, an oversimplification, but it is nonetheless a useful one for present purposes. The basic utilitarian functions of architecture are to (1) mediate between people (and some of their artifacts) and the natural environment and (2) delineate space for the performance of activities by various social units. To carry out these general functions, built environments must meet certain requirements, which can be enumerated in terms of specific material factors, stemming in part from the nature and diversity of the activities and social groups that use the space. For example, the diversity, spatial extent, and season of performance of activities as well as the size of the social unit lead to minimum floorspace needs (cf. Powell 1980; Schiffer 1973). Temporal patterns of structure use along with diurnal and seasonal temperature variations give rise to specifications for building materials having certain insulation values (Evans 1980). It should be recalled that the specific material factors and use goals are not always realized because of raw material and technological constraints and compromises in the design process. From the standpoint of the archaeologist, the delineation of use goals and material factors in highly specific, quantitative terms may be difficult given our present knowledge. A few examples underscore these problems. Although a host of studies have begun to establish correlations between the size of social units and amounts of dwelling space (for examples of such studies, see Hassan 1981), we cannot yet reliably specify the minimum space requirements for any particular prehistoric case. Clearly, a great deal more work is needed to discern the influence of activity patterns, seasonality, and other factors on the floor-space requirements of dwellings (cf. Schiffer 1972). Until these studies are carried out, specific formulations of floor-space requirements must be regarded as highly tentative . Even a mundane requirement, such as the maximum load that a wooden roof must bear, cannot be translated into quantitative terms for many of the construction materials used in vernacular architecture. Although there is a vast body of literature on the mechanical and decay-resistance properties of lumber, trees that have little or no commercial value today are not well represented (e.g., Bodig and Jayne 1982). Thus, if one wishes to specify and compare behavioral requirements for prehistoric construction materials, such as juniper, pinyon, mesquite, and ironwood in the

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American Southwest, it may be necessary to carry out new experiments. In the absence of such data, arguments (such as our own below) necessarily rest on a very insecure footing. Symbolic functions and requirements of architecture, which facilitate the workings of ideology and social structure, are not as concretely definable as utilitarian functions. In discussing symbolic functions, we are not concerned with how a structure becomes imbued with meaning, but rather with how symbolic requirements enter into the design process and influence the physical form of architecture. Buildings with predominantly utilitarian functions, such as Navajo hogans, can acquire extensive symbolic content (Kent 1980). The Navajo hogan, however, remains a structure whose design-expediently constructed from earth, stone, or woodis mainly utilitarian, with little structural investment in symbolic function, despite its heavy symbolic loading (Jett and Spencer 198151-105). Symbolic functions do under certain circumstances lead individuals and social groups to make investments in architecture beyond or in spite of a buildings utilitarian requirements. These investments take the form of decoration, use of rare or expensive materials, building on a grand scale, employing a certain shape (such as the cruciform plan of a basilica), and use of particular construction techniques. It is obvious that societies vary greatly in how much is invested in such symbolism, and the question is why. We propose that the structural investment in symbolic functions increases in response to greater social differentiation. In societies having more groups and more social distinctions, there is a need to communicate ever more information materially (cf. Wobst 1977; Hodder 1979, 1982; Rathje and Schiffer 1982). Furthermore, as social units become increasingly specialized, artifacts with high symbolic content-especially built environments associated with religious institutions-are needed to help integrate a societys disparate parts (Rathje and Schiffer 1982). If the function of an institution is primarily ideological or social, then its investment in architectural symbolism should be relatively greater than if its functions are primarily economic or technological. Although banks and insurance companies in our own society have mainly economic functions, symbolic elaboration of architecture is needed to project to potential clients and stockholders a corporate image of success: reliability, wealth, and permanence (Duffy 1980). Indeed, as Rathje (1982) has noted, even after an institutions economic base has eroded, it may still make seemingly irrational investments in material symbols. In highly differentiated societies, few structures are built totally without symbolic investment; but some have more than others, depending on their functions.

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Clearly, with respect to vernacular architecture, a change in goals or in the use requirements of a social unit or institution will lead to changes in the meaning, symbolic investment, and the design of architecture.
Goals of Production and Maintenance

The major goals of production and maintenance are set forth with comparative ease. A primary goal of production is to minimize the cost of the manufacture process (Wilson 1971:26), whereas the principal goal of maintenance is to minimize the cost of keeping a structure functional during its uselife (Keiser 197856). For both manufacture and maintenance, cost is defined in terms of energy expended, value of materials, and expertise. In most real situations, the goals of manufacture and maintenance come into direct opposition. Usually, low maintenance cost is achieved by greater manufacture cost, and low manufacture cost tends to inflate the cost of maintenance (Keiser 197856). Because of this reciprocal relationship, compromises-sometimes quite painful onescharacterize the design process. The relative weighting given to production and maintenance costs in design is determined by factors pertaining to a societys social structure and basic adaptation. The main factor from social structure is social inequality, which is conveniently viewed as relative access to resources (cf. McGuire 1983). Access to resources determines the ability of a social unit or institution to mobilize materials and labor for production. For example, the poorwho live on a day-to-day basis-have little call on resources and can establish no foundation for sizable investments in production. As a result, an unhappy compromise is often struck between production and maintenance, with the goals of maintenance-and sometimes use-sacrificed. Not only can wealthier groups afford to make more favorable trade-offs between production and maintenance costs, but they can also invest relatively greater amounts to fulfill the symbolic goals of use. Increased social inequality has three predictable effects on architectural design in a society: (1) relatively higher investments by elite persons and wealthy institutions in the symbolic component of architecture, (2) more variability in the production costs of architecture, and (3) more advantageous trade-offs between production and maintenance costs for the structures of the elite and of wealthy institutions. These consequences of social inequality can be expected for a number of reasons. At the most basic level, greater inequality means that the elite have at their disposal more of a societys total production to invest in structures beyond minimum utilitarian requirements. As such, the elite

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can define and reinforce architecturally their dominant positions in the social system (Webster 1976:816). Such displays may take the form of over- building, either in terms of scale or substantialness. In this manner, large groups of people become dependent on the elites for their livelihood, which helps to maintain the elites preeminent position (cf. Schneider 1974). Conversely, for the mass of population that is relatively deprived of resources, structures may meet utilitarian goals only minimally. Finally, as Netting (1982) establishes cross-culturally, wealthier households tend to have more members; thus, they would need to construct larger dwellings (see also Whiting and Ayres 1968:122-123). In many historic societies and those known archaeologically, the greater investment in manufacture, with attendant reduction in maintenance costs and extension of uselife, is reflected in what often survives in good condition for investigators to study: structures of elite social units and wealthy institutions. Clearly, the distribution of wealth in a society-social inequality-intluences both the mix of utilitarian and symbolic functions of architecture as well as the trade-offs between manufacture and maintenance costs. As social inequality changes, so too should a societys architectural designs. However, certain lag effects, depending on the uselives of a societys structures, may also occur. For example, a case can be made that social inequality in England is somewhat less today than that indicated by variations in domestic structures, many of which were built centuries ago by families that are no longer affluent. Indeed, some of these mansions are now being converted into museums. Because elite structures tend to have longer uselives, the fortunes of the elite relative to the rest of society may decline without being immediately reflected in architecture. In an archaeological time frame, where rates of construction for different dwelling types through time can be ascertained and where changes in function can often be determined using the evidence of remodeling, these lags should be detectable. The main factors of a societys adaptation that influence the relative weighting of production and maintenance costs are residential mobility (on household and community levels) and settlement longevity. These in part determine a structures anticipated uselife. Anticipated uselife is the critical variable that links social and adaptive factors in the decisionmaking process. The longer the expected uselife, the more benefits obtained from a greater investment in production. The interaction of uselife with other factors that affect design is complex, but some relationships can be posited. We propose that the anticipated longevity of a settlement, as determined by a societys basic adaptation, is the most important causal influence on the minimum acceptable uselife of structures. When societies are highly mobile, as is the case with most hunter-gatherers, settlement longevity is generally quite short. As

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one might expect, structures are expediently constructed and ephemeral (Sahlins 1972:3). Indeed, several cross-cultural studies have shown a relationship between floor plan, substantialness of dwellings, and degree of residential mobility (Robbins 1966; Whiting and Ayres 1968; cf. Flannery 1972; Rafferty n.d.). Generally, the more nomadic the society, the more likely it is to construct domed dwellings with round or oval floor plans. Such structures tend to be less substantial and have less stringent requirements for building materials than the rectangular structures that usually typify long-lived settlements. As a result, the uselives of such structures are generally short.
The Znjluence of Cultural and Maintenance and Adaptive Factors on Production, Use,

These relationships between settlement mobility and uselife of dwellings make good sense in terms of trade-offs between production, use, and maintenance. Highly mobile groups, which tend toward very low social inequality, have little need to express social inequality or social differentiation architecturally. Nor do these societies have to maintain structures for long periods of time. Thus, factors relating to the basic adaptation and social structure of mobile groups favor expedient construction of dwellings. The ephemeral nature of housing for most archaeologically documented hunter-gatherers is, of course, well known. A consideration of domed vs rectangular architecture permits us to examine some of these relationships more closely and allows us to set the stage for the pithouse to pueblo example. Domes fit the utilitarian housing requirements of mobile groups almost perfectly. Because of a greater ratio of volume to surface area, domed dwellings require less material to construct (Swanson 1981:vii-viii), and they may be made of flexible, lightweight materials of irregular shape (Whiting and Ayres 1968: 124-125). In addition, hemispheric structures have a lower wind resistance than rectangular buildings (Keiser 1978:21), and they heat up and cool down more slowly than rectangular structures of equivalent size (Evans 198050). These characteristics permit people who build domes to achieve their basic utilitarian goals of shelter at low cost. These advantages seem to imply that domed buildings are a universally optimal form of structure; indeed, precisely that claim was made by the counterculture builders of the late 1960s in our own society (Kahn 1978:200-201). However, domes have a number of disadvantages that make for bad compromises between production, use, and maintenance under other conditions. If people anticipate using a structure for long

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periods of time, especially a full generation or more, then they will benefit from low maintenance costs. Domed structures tend to have higher maintenance costs because they are less substantial and because they are often constructed of perishable materials (Whiting and Ayres 1968: 121). It is difficult to build a dome out of stone, adobe, or brick, all materials that require less maintenance than the organic items customarily employed for making domes in societies lacking access to aluminum and fiberglass (Keiser 1978:56). Although domes provide more volume per unit of surface area, not all of this space is available for activities because of a lack of headroom around the margins of the structure (Kahn 1978:200-201). Moreover, as Kahn (1978:200-201) also points out, domes are difficult to subdivide, and this is a distinct liability for less mobile groups. Internal partitioning of structures facilitates storage (Hunter-Anderson 1977), which is more important to settled peoples, and it provides better privacy for the buildings occupants. Privacy, defined as control of unwanted social interaction, is a culturally variable concept; nevertheless, privacy is recognized and valued to some degree in all societies (Rapoport 1976). Mobile populations, if we may generalize from the Navajo (Kluckhohn and Leighton 1962:91), obtain privacy in part through economic and social activities that often take individuals away from home for long periods. In sedentary settlements, which usually have larger populations and perform most activities within a days radius of home, privacy may be achieved by dividing structures internally. Still other reasons, pertaining to social organization, can be found for why domes are not always good solutions to the housing problem. Households in all societies go through developmental cycles: an individual or couple founds a new household, which grows by the addition of other members such as children, relatives, friends, and servants (Wilk and Rathje 1982). Even though nonresidential social groups, like task units or religious societies, do not always undergo developmental cycles, they often experience temporal variation in size (cf. Rathje and Schiffer 1982). When the composition or size of social units changes, their activities (and thus requirements for space) often also change. Architectural design must reflect and adapt to these variations in social units and their architectural needs. Hemispherical structures cannot respond well to these changes, whereas rectangular buildings easily accommodate expansions and additions. This particular deficiency of domes does not decrease their usefulness for populations that occupy structures for only a small fraction of a households developmental cycle. In such cases of high mobility, growth of the household is dealt with by building a larger dome in the next settlement. In more long-lived villages, rectangular structures can grow along with the expanding social unit. As the example of domed

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houses shows, in one way or another architectural design must be responsive to fluctuations in the size and composition of social units. The degree of residential mobility in an adaptation also affects the extent that investments are made in structures for symbolic purposes. If structures are not utilized for long periods of time, then the costs of elaboration above utilitarian requirements would have to be paid on a recurrent basis. In these cases of high mobility, societies should put greater emphasis on portable goods or animals as symbols to express social inequality and differentiation. The effects of settlement longevity on architectural design are just part of the picture; we must also examine the relationship between residential mobility on the household level and the uselife of buildings. Wilk (1981; Wilk and Rathje 1982) points out that households of the Kekchi Maya in Belize move often and, expectably, build houses that sacrifice maintenance goals to minimize production costs. Kekchi settlements themselves are not mobile, rather it is the households that move frequently within and between settlements. Consequently, some Kekchi villages contain substantial edifices associated with various institutions, principally the Catholic Church and the government of Belize. The latter institution administers large tracts of land within which households periodically shift their residences. Wilk and Rathje (1982:633-637), generalizing, suggest that this situation results from an agricultural adaptation where labor, not land, is the scarce resource. Because individual survival does not depend on maintaining ownership of specific plots of land, disputes within family groups are easily resolved by the migration of one party to another settlement. The institutions do not shift location because household movement occurs within their jurisdictions and because their existence is independent of the lifespans of particular households and individuals. Wilk and Rathje (1982:635-637) further suggest that a similar pattern of mobile households and immobile institutions characterized the Swasey phase-the earliest Maya. This model, we suspect, may also fit other prehistoric societies. For example, the Sedentary period Hohokam occupied shallow, insubstantial, curvilinear pithouses that were well suited for relatively mobile households. Yet, in these same settlements, occupied like Snaketown for centuries, seemingly permanent institutional structures-ballcourts and platform mounds (not to mention canals)-were built (Haury 1976; Wilcox et al. 1981). Social differentiation not only affects the symbolic functions of architecture, but it also interacts with adaptive variables in the design process to influence utilitarian requirements. Greater differentiation of tasks among individuals and the concomitant specialization of technology lead to in-

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creasing differentiation of architectural design. Specialists, for example, often need sheltered work areas unintruded by other activities; similarly, equipment associated with specialized tasks may demand particular architectural forms. Windmills furnish an early industrial example of such a structure. As architectural production-and later maintenance-is increasingly delegated to specialists, the costs of replacing and repairing structures go up. This furnishes additional incentives to escalate the investment in production, thereby giving structures market value in addition to use value. These effects of differentiation interact with uselife; thus, relatively mobile populations, such the Kekchi, construct expendable, partitioned rectangular houses, whereas in our own society we erect substantial houses that last many generations. In settlements of great longevity, as in our own cities, households may again become mobile, reusing structures that have an appropriate size (and symbolic content) for each stage (Schiffer et al. 1981). This strategy, one of several in use, is feasible because investments in rectangular architecture have reached the point where the uselife of structures exceeds the lifespan of households. In some situations raw material or technological constraints can lead to the construction of dwellings that do not meet the minimum acceptable uselife. In the tropics, for example, stone may be inaccessible to relatively sedentary societies of low complexity. In other regions, stone may be available but a technology to work it cheaply is lacking. The wood and thatch structures that are built in these areas generally have short uselives relative to what might be anticipated on the basis of settlement longevity. Under those circumstances it is not surprising that a single household often builds several structures to accommodate various activities, including storage, and to promote privacy. To this point we have outlined the basic parameters of the design process of vernacular architecture. The provisional theory we have set forth requires both elaboration and thorough testing. Even so, in its undeveloped state, it can serve as a framework for proposing tentative but testable explanations for specific instances of architectural variability and change. The theory forces us to ask questions about the likely influences of symbolic and utilitarian functions and about trade-offs that were made between manufacture and maintenance. It requires us to consider as well the linkage between adaptive factors and factors relating to social structure as mediated through anticipated uselife. And it prompts us to consider possible raw material and technological constraints on the design process. To illustrate this potential of the theory, we now turn to a familiar archaeological instance of architectural change, the transition from pithouse to pueblo in the American Southwest.

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ARCHITECTURAL

CHANGE:

PITHOUSE TO PUEBLO

During the later prehistory of the Southwest, there is a shift in dwellings from dome-shaped, semisubterranean pithouses to rectangular, aboveground masonry or adobe pueblos. This shift is not a sudden substitution, but rather a process of change occurring in slightly different ways and at different times across much of the Southwest. Nor is the transition total: pithouses continue to be constructed long after the introduction of rectangular surface rooms (Cordell and Plog 1979:408; Wendorf 1950:92-l 15; Martin et al. 1957:129; Hammack and Hammack 1981:62). The pithouse to pueblo development appears to have taken place first among the Anasazi, on the Colorado Plateau, between A.D. 700 and 900. Most attempts to account for the architectural transition have focused on the Anasazi (cf. Gilman 1981), and we shall too. Many of the earliest explanations for changes in Anasazi dwellings have been or can be discounted. One explanation, popular among early workers, suggested that a population of broad-headed people moved into the area and introduced the new architectural form (Kidder 1962:329-330). Subsequent research demonstrated, however, that the difference in skull forms resulted, not from an immigration, but from the adoption of hard cradleboards (Wormington 194759). At approximately the same time that the immigration hypothesis was overturned, several researchers proposed that the idea of aboveground construction diffused to the Colorado Plateau from elsewhere (Martin 1939469). This hypothesis, too, was rather soundly dismissed; over 50 years of intensive archaeology in the Southwest has failed to reveal pueblo-type structures earlier than those built by the Anasazi. Moreover, in todays frameworks of explanation, a suitable antecedent would not furnish an adequate explanation for why the Anasazi or any group actually adopted a new design for their dwellings. Recent explanations for the pithouse-to-pueblo transition have emphasized various interacting adaptive and social variables (cf. Gilman 1981; Hunter-Anderson 1980). In a discussion of the change in dwellings in the Dolores area, Lipe and Breternitz (1980) anticipated many of the present papers emphases on the relative costs and benefits of pithouses versus pueblos. Most scenarios find ultimate causality, however, in an increasing population and in shifts from lineage to clan-type organizations (Chang 1958; Plog 1974; Gillespie 1976; Whalen 1981). The present discussion seeks to integrate many common concerns into a broader theoretical framework. We do not, however, share the general belief that population growth per se explains the change in architecture. We prefer to isolate cause in a more proximate fashion, focusing on several factors that are more immediately relevant to explaining outcomes of the design process. The variables we consider, which may be determined in part by demo-

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graphic changes, are household mobility and settlement longevity (and their effects on anticipated uselife) and, to a lesser extent, social differentiation and inequality. Several authors have described the sequence of architectural change among the Anasazi, and a synopsis of this change may be abstracted from their work (Roberts 1929; Morris 1939; Daifuku 1961; Lipe and Breternitz 1980; Martin 1939). Pithouse architecture first becomes common (or at least archaeologically more obtrusive) on the Colorado Plateau at about A.D. 550. Basketmaker pithouses, which sometimes have antechambers, range from nearly circular to nearly rectangular in shape and have a depth that varies from less than 1 m to more than 2 m. By A.D. 700 the pithouses are consistently attaining a more squarelike shape, and a row of jacal (wattle and daub) surface storage rooms apparently replaces the antechamber (and semisubterranean pits). Evidence indicates that by A.D. 800-900 these jacal rooms are being used for seasonal residence. Around A.D. 900-1050 the surface structures are transformed into masonry roomblocks containing habitation and storage rooms that perhaps were used throughout the year. The former habitation structure, the pithouse, continues to be built, but its functions become more specialized as a kiva with greater emphasis on ceremonial use. In the next few centuries, masonry roomblocks and kivas are combined into larger aggregrations, sometimes attaining the size of the massive Pueblo Bonito of Chaco Canyon or Mesa Verdes Cliff Palace. The foregoing synopsis and dates apply primarily to the Mesa Verde area (Lipe and Breternitz 1980). The exact events of this sequence and their timing vary from place to place on the Colorado Plateau. More importantly, pithouses continue to be constructed in some areas well into the thirteenth century. To explain the pithouse-to-pueblo transformation, a theory must account for the evolution from subterranean forms to surface dwellings, the shift from circular to rectangular floor plans, the change from wood to stone or adobe building materials, the survival of the pithouse as a ceremonial structure, and the contemporaneous production of pithouses and pueblos in the same areas. The theory presented above leads us to examine as possible causal variables changes in settlement longevity and household mobility and in social differentiation and inequality. We have suggested that more longlived households and communities should adopt rectangular floor plans for dwellings and should move from a primary emphasis on maximizing production goals to maximizing maintenance goals. Increasing differentiation should also lead to rectangular floor plans, greater investments in the symbolic functions of structures, and the establishment of institutions that have varying emphases on ideological and utilitarian purposes. Finally, increased inequality should result in greater variability in the pro-

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duction costs of structures and in higher investments in their symbolic functions. Unfortunately, the studies required to infer changes in these variables rigorously from the prehistoric record of the Southwest have not been carried out. Thus, in presenting our scenario of architectural change, we will necessarily rely on conventional wisdom about changes in subsistence base, population, settlement longevity, and social structure. We fall back on extant inferences, not because we believe they are correct in all respects, but because to do otherwise-in the absence of intensive data analysis-would be arbitrary. We expect that future studies of change in Anasazi societies, perhaps oriented in part toward disconfirming our scenario, will establish the requisite inferences at a high level of reliability. Ideas regarding the symbolic requirements of Anasazi architecture are most controversial; thus, in this example, we will not emphasize symbolic functions. The degree of residential mobility of households and of communities depends in large part on the nature of a societys adaptation and on the density of population in relation to resources. Among aboriginal groups in the historic Southwest, sedentism and long-lived settlements seem to be correlated with degree of dependence on agriculture and with population density (Spicer 1962: l-20). From Basketmaker II to Pueblo III, the general trends appear to be toward greater dependence on agriculture and increasing population density (Hunter-Anderson 1980). Researchers disagree over how large a dependence Basketmaker III populations had on agriculture (cf. Schiffer 1972); however, that domesticated plants were more important in the diet-becoming by about A.D. 900-1000 in most areas the primary subsistence resources-is widely believed (e.g., Cordell and Plog 1979; Stiger 1977; Eddy 1966:471-505). Specific analyses suggest that pithouses were occupied for less than a generation (ca. 25 years) (Lipe and Bretemitz 1980:27), whereas some Pueblo III masonry rooms are known to have been in use for a century (e.g., Rohn 1971:25). Although some well-dated pueblo sites, such as Betatakin and Kiet Siel (Dean 1969), were inhabited for only one or two generations, the general trend toward reduced mobility of households and probably communities from Basketmaker III to Pueblo III seems to be established. Along with the reduction in household and community mobility is some evidence for increasing social differentiation and inequality (Cordell and Plog 1979; Plog 1974; Grebinger 1973). The trend toward greater social inequality peaks on the Colorado Plateau in Chaco Canyon between A.D. 1000-1150: burial data suggest a ranked society with marked differences in access to resources (Akins and Shelberg 1981). Changes in Anasazi dwellings conform to our expectations. The dome-

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shaped, semisubterranean Basketmaker III pithouses would have served quite well for relatively undifferentiated, mobile populations. With their good surface to volume ratio, and the insulating and heat-retaining qualities of earth-loaded construction, pithouses would have provided their inhabitants with ample protection against the cold winters of the Colorado Plateau. Not only do the insulating qualities of earth reduce heat loss through infiltration, but the surrounding soil helps to moderate temperature fluctuations (Ahrens et al. 1981:9-11). Despite the favorable thermal properties of pithouses, as anticipated uselife goes up they do not continue to be a good architectural compromise-if alternative designs are feasible-because of high maintenance costs. Earth-loaded dwellings, when not built of waterproof materials, exhibit definite disadvantages, such as dampness, vermin and insects, and difficulties in keeping the structure clean (Ahrens et al. 1981). Moreover, as pithouses age, these problems intensify, and new maintenance problems-brought on by the rotting of the wooden membercarise. Wood that supported the roof was in contact with the ground and would have decayed in short order. Ranchers report that untreated pine fence posts last about 5 years; those ofjuniper perhaps IO-30 years. In a U.S. Forest Service study, untreated juniper fence posts were shown to have a uselife of 32-37 years (DeGroot and Esenther 1982:231). It should be noted that these figures document the durability of upright posts bearing little or no load. Actual durability under conditions of heavy earth (and winter snow) loading would be considerably less, because early in the process of decay the strength properties of wood are markedly reduced (Wilcox and Rosenberg 1982; Bodig and Jayne 1982). Insect infestation usually begins rapidly, and may have caused pithouses to be abandoned long before they became structurally unsound. For example, Navajo hogans in the same environment suffer serious insect infestation; as a result, they have uselives-as dwellings-of about 6-10 years (Jeffrey S. Dean, personal communication, 1982). Even in the more arid Hohokam area, reconstructed Hohokam pithouses at the Gila Heritage Park showed considerable deterioration, including insect infestation, after a single year (King 1983; and observations of the junior author). Clearly, to increase uselife beyond more than about a generation, users periodically would have had to rebuild and refurbish their pithouses. Insofar as use is concerned, pithouse dwellings do not easily accommodate the increased storage requirements of a more settled agricultural population, the need for differentiated activity space, nor the changing space demands of developing households. Round and oval structures, especially with internal posts, are difficult to partition and expand. Anasazi builders addressed the need for more storage by adding ante-

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chambers to their dwellings, and then by erecting rectangular surface rooms better suited to a more differentiated use of space. A shift to rectangular pithouses may have made internal subdivisions more feasible, but did not facilitate their expansion to fit households at different developmental stages (cf. Gillespie 1976:201; Lipe and Breternitz 1980:27). In contrast to pithouses, contiguous rooms of masonry constructionpueblos-provide a good architectural compromise for low mobility populations on the Colorado Plateau where tabular sandstone requiring little working is widely available. Ratios of surface area to volume comparable to that of domed structures can be achieved by constructing large compact structures of rectangular rooms (Evans 1980:71). Anasazi builders pragmatically discovered this principle; indeed, Lipe and Breternitz (1980:23) suggest that the energy budgets of pithouses and small pueblos in the Dolores area were comparable. Rectangular structures are easily subdivided and, if one includes the possibility of multiple stories, can be added to with little difficulty to accommodate households at different stages. Needless to say, pueblos can be modified to fulfill a variety of utilitarian functions. It is of some interest that Lipe and Breternitz (1980:28) discern more differentiated use of architecture with the advent of yearround occupation of surface structures. Pueblo rooms also represent a favorable compromise with respect to maintenance goals. Built of stone, or in some cases adobe, they have few or no organic structural members in the zone of rapid decay near and in the ground. Thus, unlike pithouses, pueblos-with minimal maintenancecan last indefinitely. Tree-ring studies, for example, document pueblo rooms in use today that were built 250 years ago (Ahlstrom et al. 1978). Symbolic functions, befitting a more differentiated society, can be readily expressed in the medium of pueblo architecture. Room size, masonry styles, techniques of construction and plastering, and other design features (cf. Saile 1977) could have been manipulated to express differences in the nature and wealth of social groups as well as to channel social interaction. Pueblo architecture, then, is well suited to fulfill the functional requirements of societies that occupy their structures for many decades and that exhibit modest degrees of social differentiation and inequality. A crucial assumption of our scenario, eminently testable, is that pueblo rooms require a greater expenditure of resources and labor to build than pithouses. Several authors have suggested just the opposite, that pithouses were more costly to build than surface structures (Cordell and Plog 1979:418; Lipe and Breternitz 1980:27). This may have been true for jacal rooms that appear in Pueblo I, but is it also true for the masonry structures of Pueblo II? We suggest not. If, as Lipe and Breternitz (1980)

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imply, surface structures are more versatile than pithouses, have similar energy budgets, and are easier to erect, why did the Anasazi ever build pithouses? Resolution of this issue will require much more experimental research, but several factors suggest that masonry pueblo rooms are more costly to construct than pithouses in terms of labor expenditure, expertise, and materials. Recent studies on Navajo and Pueblo wood use are instructive in this regard. Archaeologists have long noted that Navajo hogans, especially forked-stick hogans, which may be excavated from 15 to 162 cm into the earth (Jett and Spencer 1981:57), structurally resemble Basketmaker III pithouses (McGregor 1965:216-217). Wood requirements for the construction of Navajo hogans are much less stringent than those for pueblo rooms (Jeffrey S. Dean, personal communication, 1982). Because of their basically domed or conical forms, some styles of hogan can be built from odd shaped and branching pieces of wood, whereas pueblo rooms require long, straight members for both primary and secondary beams. On a more general level, Whiting and Ayres (1968124-125) note that, compared to rectangular buildings, domed structures have less demanding requirements for construction materials. The most ubiquitous trees on the Colorado Plateau are juniper and pinyon. These two species usually grow in bent and branching shapes, and are found in or near most areas that were occupied prehistorically. Gnarled specimens of juniper and pinyon are not useful for constructing pueblo rooms (Jeffrey S. Dean, personal communication, 1982). Straight pieces of juniper and pinyon occur but Douglas fir and ponderosa pine, which generally grow at higher elevations on the Plateau or in restricted canyon settings, provide a more appropriate timber for pueblos. Because these latter species are found in more scattered locales, much of the Anasazi population would have had to travel greater distances, sometimes over mountainous terrain, to obtain these materials. It should also be noted that a pueblo roof requires a considerable amount of wood. For example, Vivian and Mathews (1964:lll) estimate that an average of 15 timbers would have been needed to construct one room at Chetro Ketl. Dean (personal communication, 1982) would double this figure, and estimates that 26,000 trees were cut to build Chetro Ketl. We have been unable to identify any grounds for the belief that excavating a pithouse required more work than quarrying, shaping, hauling, and laying rock for a masonry room. Experiments reported by Coles (1973) and by Erasmus (1965) for various construction activities using neolithic tools provide data relevant to part of this question. Experimenting in Sonora, Erasmus found that 2.6 m3 of earth could be excavated per person-day using digging sticks; the comparable figure for Europe,

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reported by Coles, is 1.4 m3. Erasmus data on quarrying, shaping, and laying of stone indicate that in the neighborhood of 8.5 person-days are required to erect each cubic meter of masonry. Regarding wattle and daub construction, Coles (1973:57) suggests that a structure with 90 m2 of floor space could be built in about 150 person-days. It is also apparent that more skill is involved in laying masonry walls than in digging pits. These experimental data permit us to offer very coarse estimates on the relative expenditures of labor for pithouses, jacales, and masonry houses of similar size. A jacal structure with 45 m2 of floor space and 2 m of head room would involve a construction effort of 75 person-days (Coles 1973:157). Excavating a pit of the same dimensions would require either 64.3 person-days (from Coles 1973:73) or 34.6 person-days (Erasmus 1965). Most Anasazi pithouses were of course a great deal shallower, and thus required less labor. Finally, constructing masonry walls 0.25 m thick to enclose the same volume or space would have involved about 114 person-days. To the pithouse and pueblo estimates one would have to add costs for procuring and shaping the roofing materials as well as for erecting the roof. Even if these figures were the same, which is doubtful given the different materials used, the basic conclusion would not change: the effort to build a pueblo room was generally greater than that needed for an Anasazi pithouse. The arguments and evidence presented above are in no way conclusive regarding the relative production costs of masonry pueblo rooms and pithouses. It should be obvious that the experimental errors built into these estimates could be somewhat greater than the magnitude of the differences in labor requirements for the various modes of construction. Clearly, many more experiments, perhaps using Anasazi tool kits to replicate pithouses and pueblos, are required. We stress that comparisons of pithouse and pueblo costs must include the entire range of activities, from procuring materials to the last stage of construction. Despite the lack of fully appropriate experimental data, available information furnishes tantalizing support for the proposition that the mix of maintenance vs production costs are very different for these two kinds of Anasazi structure. At this point, one might inquire: How do kivas fit into the picture? Kivas, after all, were pithouses that continued to be built in pueblo villages. The institution that occupied the kiva, at least in historic pueblos, had important nonutilitarian functions (Dozier 1970). Although we cannot assert that Anasazi kivas were used exactly like more recent kivas or that Basketmaker III and pueblo kivas had identical uses, there is little doubt from the archaeological evidence that kivas served some kind of integrative function prehistorically. As a pit structure, the kiva could

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contrast with domestic pueblo architecture to indicate symbolically the discreteness of that institution (cf. Lipe and Bretemitz 1980:27-28). Previously, in pithouse villages, size alone set off kivas from dwellings; in puebloan society, size and mode of construction could carry a heavier symbolic load. In addition, many of the later pit-kivas are in fact very costly round, subterranean masonry rooms, or round rooms built into square architectural spaces. These expensive variations are entirely understandable, given that symbolic functions are heavily weighted in the design process of kivas. The survival of extinct dwelling forms as sacred structures may be a common pattern. In the Southwest, there are at least three other examples: the construction of Navajo hogans for ceremonial use in HEW housing tracts (Jett and Spencer 1981:232), the survival of the traditional Piman Ki as a ceremonial wine house among the Papago (Underhill 1946), and the persistence of the ceremonial plaza at Zuni Pueblo (Ferguson and Mills 1978). With the differentiation of structural designs for various uses, changes in utilitarian functions demand new forms, whereas symbolic functions, often involving the most sacred aspects of a societys ideology, remain tied to the past. Another issue to be considered with respect to the pithouse to pueblo transition is the contemporaneous use in one area of pithouses and pueblos, and the apparently late adoption of pueblo architecture in some areas. Our theory would suggest that pithouses might survive as dwellings in three situations: (1) as temporary shelters used during pueblo construction, (2) households, perhaps living on the margins of Anasazi society, pursuing a more mobile, older adaptation, and (3) as the homes of poor people who cannot afford the greater production costs of pueblos. Of these possibilities the third appears unlikely for the Anasazi case because the production costs of a pueblo room would not seem to exceed the resources that any family could muster. We suggest that the remaining two possibilities probably account for the late pithouse villages. If they were temporary shelters, then they should be found near pueblos and should be inhabited for only a brief period just before them. On the other hand, if these pithouse villagers were following a more mobile adaptation, then their settlements should be located in agriculturally marginal areas (i.e., short growing season or paucity of arable land) and should yield evidence for greater dependence on foraging. For example, because of altitude or aspect, large areas within the northern Rio Grande region in New Mexico are marginal for agriculture (Cordell 1978). It is probably no accident that in some of these areas pithouse villages, seemingly dependent largely on hunting and gathering, continue to be occupied well into Pueblo III times (Cordell 1978). Perhaps

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pueblos are finally built after the development of instititional mechanisms for evening out spatial and temporal variability in agricultural production (cf. Braun and Plog 1982). Stuart and Gauthier (1981) have suggested that the degree of complexity reached in certain Anasazi areas, such as LargoGallina, was in part a function of their mode of integration within regional systems (i.e., the Chaco phenomenon). Clearly, any factor that affects the degree of agricultural dependence, the extent of residential mobility, or the amount of social inequality (e.g., such as population pressure, environmental potential, and the nature of the cultural environment) could ultimately be responsible for causing changes in vernacular architecture by altering anticipated uselife and the mix of symbolic and utilitarian functions. These various hypotheses to account for apparently anomalous developments need to be examined critically with extant and newly gathered data. An additional consideration relates to further challenges to our theory and to other theories of architectural design that may be proposed in the future. In examining the pithouse to pueblo transition we have, like other investigators, necessarily emphasized the extreme points of this developmental process. However, the rich architectural record of the Anasazi, tied into the modern calendar through tree-ring dating, reveals in fact an era of experimentation lasting over a century where diverse architectural forms as well as various combinations of those forms were built for short periods of time in (usually) restricted areas (e.g., Brew 1946). Clearly, a period of research and development took place that enabled the Anasazi to advance technologically. It is noteworthy that when the pithouse-topueblo change occurred in the Mogollon region, it was relatively rapid; one may reasonably infer that the experimentation done centuries earlier by the Anasazi-and embodied in their pueblos-was expeditiously applied by Mogollon groups as their residential mobility decreased. On the other hand, a few centuries later when the Hohokam underwent the transition, a period of architectural diversity is evident, perhaps reflecting the need to experiment with new building materials (e.g., adobe and calithe) having different characteristics that were ultimately used in the construction of Hohokam pueblos. Similarly, appropriate wood for roofing pueblos is quite scarce in the Hohokam area; construction of pueblos may have required considerable experimentation with local materials and with long-distance procurement of better timbers. These patterns of variability deserve closer scrutiny in the future, because they undoubtedly have the potential to furnish information about how new technological knowledge is acquired by and applied in nonindustrial societies. Additionally, there is a clear need to build into theories of design various factors pertaining to the costs of innovation and experimentation (cf. Schiffer 1979). A final issue concerns the effects of raw material availability on the

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pithouse to pueblo transition. Some sedentary groups do build rectangular, surface, wooden structures that readily decay and have high maintenance costs. While the Anasazi could have built log houses, the ready availability of tabular sandstone blocks in most areas provided a better alternative. By processes of trial and error, the Anasazi gradually arrived at the cost and behavioral parameters of various architectural designs; masonry pueblos usually won out. In another environment, with more suitable wood resources and less tractable stone-thus different procurement and processing costs-the outcome could have been very different. Clearly, it will take many more years of archaeological research and experimentation until our knowledge of building materials and costs is as extensive as that developed by the Anasazi more than a millennium ago. The above scenario for explaining changes in Anasazi architecture is based on many untested-but eminently testable--hypotheses about differences between pithouses and pueblos in costs and in their suitability for performing various functions. Indeed, this explanatory sketch furnishes myriad implications for future research in experimental, ethnoarchaeological, and prehistoric contexts. Until such research is carried out, however, our scenario should not be uncritically accepted.
CONCLUSION

The discussion of the pithouse-to-pueblo transition illustrates the productivity of the general theory of architectural design. As efforts to refine and test it continue, archaeologists can expect to learn more about how various factors interact in a social context to influence design decisions. The theoretical framework presented above specifies causality at the appropriate scale: individuals and social groups making decisions and effecting compromises in order to achieve various goals. Architectural design, we suggest, involves the give and take of social interaction that occurs against a broad backdrop of environmental and social processes. By means of such a theory-middle-range theory in the correct usage of the term-archaeologists can link up large-scale adaptive processes to the characteristics of specific artifacts, in this instance architecture. Theory building on that level ought to be most congenial to archaeologists, who on a daily basis deal with artifacts. If we could explain why they vary and why they change (Schiffer 1979), then we would be in an advantageous position to use material evidence to provide more rigorous and incisive explanations for human behavior of the past and the present.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A great many people have contributed to the present paper by supplying ideas and leads to sources and by furnishing comments on drafts. For this important assistance we thank

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Richard Ahlstrom, David Braun, Gordon Bronitsky, Christopher Carr, Jeffrey Dean, William Doelle, Keith Kintigh, Shirley Powell, David Saile, and Gary Schaffer. The senior author wishes to single out for special thanks Patricia Gilman, with whom he carried out stimulating conversations on the problem of the pithouse-to-pueblo transition. We thank Robert Whallon, Jr. for encouragement and prompt editorial attention. The reviewers of JAA did a splendid job of providing constructive comments and ideas for other papers. An early version of this paper was presented at the 47th Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Minneapolis.

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