I once met a man who refused to touch doorknobs with his bare hands. He always carried around a tissue box, and he generously used these tissues to turn any doorknob that he encountered. One tissue for each doorknob, and he carried the evidence in a plastic bag. His case may be extreme, but it is not uncommon for people to feel opposed to making contact with a doorknob. We are heavily reminded that doorknobs are agents of germ collection during flu season. Naturally, it is hard to like objects that gather potentially health hazardous microorganisms.
In architecture, doorknobs are one of the only elements within spaces that we consciously touch on a regular basis. They allow us to open or close doors, something less trivial than it may seem. Opening or closing a door equates to opening or closing a space. An open space allows for the filtering of light and air, access to other parts within a space, and social interaction with others. A closed space allows for privacy, quiet, and darkness at times. The difference between open and closed is far from small, yet the operation that allows for this spatial change is usually smaller than the size of the human palm.
What is disturbing about our hesitation to touch doorknobs is that we are ultimately making architecture a limited experience for ourselves. Architecture has always been strongly associated with the eye, but the sense of touch has filled the gaps. Our hands let us transition between spaces and make the change between open and closed. The doorknob is the utmost symbol of movement through space.
Maybe our hesitation to touch doorknobs is a commentary on the design of doorknobs. Contemporary doorknobs have been accused of being uninspiring and sterile looking, contrary to the germs that might live on their surfaces. The design of doorknobs has backtracked in a relatively negative way. The doorknobs of the 18th and early 19th centuries were ornately embellished, and their designs were cherished. As a result, the recent market for antique doorknobs and antique inspired doorknobs has expanded. Nostalgia for doorknobs of the past has replaced a possible excitement for contemporary doorknobs.
Bruce Gerrie is a doorknob enthusiast, and he curated an exhibit for antique doorknobs called “Jewelry for Buildings: The Art of Antique Doorknobs” in 2002. He is particularly fascinated by door knobs of “early skyscrapers, built during the late 1800s and early 1900s, when architects detailed every aspect of their buildings. They created knobs specifically for each building.” Gerrie elaborates, “They were designed by the architect to enhance the building's architectural style (Moorish, French, etc.), and they featured an image, such as a city's seal, or a building's initials. The emblematic doorknobs were often the owner's signature.”
Our generation of architects has stopped designing doorknobs, settling instead for prefabricated doorknobs that are usually far from charming. The disdain for ornament in contemporary architecture has wrongly translated to a disdain for doorknobs. Refusal to embellish buildings has become a lack of attention to detailing, and our will to touch has suffered. We all know that scale is an important aspect of architecture. We have skyscrapers, castles, warehouses, log cabins, staircases, windows, and doorknobs. The sheer number of doorknobs should be enough reason for people to care about what they look like.
Dear architects, please pick up the practice of doorknob design again.
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