If Decimus Burton had only designed one building, and that had been the Palm House at Kew Gardens, he would deserve to be famous. It is a pioneering work of steel and glass, built in collaboration with the Dublin ironmaster Richard Turner, completed three years before the celebrated Crystal Palace of 1851, its swelling, doubly curving bubble of glass more beautiful and – unlike the latter – still standing.
As the great Observer critic Ian Nairn put it, the Palm House is a work of “utter originality and unselfconscious perfection … nearer to a beautiful animal or to one of the plants it encloses than to the fumbling, guilt-laden compositions of architecture”.
But Burton, precocious and prolific, created very many more projects than this. He designed a house for his father, a successful builder and developer, at the age of 18. From his 20s onwards he helped to shape the 19th-century institutions that are still with us: the seaside resort, with his plans and buildings for Fleetwood in Lancashire and St Leonards in Sussex; London Zoo; public green spaces such as Phoenix Park in Dublin and parts of Hyde Park; and the private members’ club in the form of the Athenaeum in London.
That he’s not better known is partly due to the apparent conservatism of his preferred style: a neo-classical architecture of pillars and pediments, similar to that of the older John Nash, that was derided as “pagan” by the gothic revivalist architect Augustus Pugin, who designed much of the Palace of Westminster.
He was possibly too successful for the good of his reputation, provoking accusations that he sacrificed quality to quantity. He was polite and considerate – whereas Pugin was cantankerous – and professional and competent, unlike the jerry-building Nash. Sometimes, if you want to go down in history, it helps to be a bit of a pain.
Burton’s classical buildings are generally pleasing and generous, good-natured settings for leisured lives in the likes of St Leonards and Tunbridge Wells. Yet, especially with the Palm House and other buildings at Kew, he could be more innovative than his rivals and critics. Possibly he was accidentally avant-garde, driven primarily by the practical need to find the best technique for a given problem.
Working with plants and animals brought out the best in him, pushing him to levels of invention humans didn’t require. A personal favourite is his giraffe house at London Zoo, a simple arched structure adapted to the proportions of the long-necked beasts, which makes it special. It’s the work of an architect who should be remembered.
