This photograph shows a classroom in a hostel - ‘the first of its kind’ - which gave adults with cerebral palsy a chance to study. It was built in 1965 before the Disability Discrimination Act, before Part M of the Building Regulations and before there were any manuals or standards about design for disability. Today the image may well provoke a strong reaction. Then the building was commended for its lack of sentimentality, for its impeccable modernism and use of colour and for the way the built in furniture was perfectly scaled to suit spaces which were ‘a bit bigger than normal’ to accommodate the wheelchairs and involuntary ‘sometimes quite violent’ movements of its residents. We might not agree but whatever we think of the building, the architect Dennis Pugh and his innovative clients couldn’t reach for a manual to find the ‘right’ solution but had to debate and take their own decisions on questions about the normal body and difference, about inclusion and exclusion, about community and how architecture can define the experiences of its users.

It’s great that today building regulations and anti discrimination law recognise that many different kinds of people and bodies have the right to access the built environment with ease, and a tribute to the tireless campaigning of disability activists since the 1970’s. But behind the certainty of their dimensions and diagrams lie big questions. In the photograph above the two men are writing a response to the question chalked on the blackboard - ‘What obligation has the state to the social outcast?’ We might not phrase the issue like that today, but issues of disability and the built environment are still hotly debated.

Critical questions about the changing relationships of disability and architecture can inform and refresh these debates about the way we design, but if the manuals only offer off-the-shelf solutions how can we consider them for ourselves? It’s disappointing and bewildering to say that histories, surveys and appraisals of contemporary buildings, theoretical discussions concerning disability and the built environment are yet to be compiled. But researching 'hidden' parts of architectural history not only opens up issues around disability but also lets us see some glimpses past the usual histories of famous architects and landmark buildings.

In a collection such as the British Architectural Library (BAL) there is a wealth of resources waiting to be explored. No less than 7000 entries are found if you know how to search terms around disability, from remarkable schemes by well known architects to terrifying reports of life in Victorian institutions, from stories of an injured war veteran building his own house to ads for locks for use in lunatic asylums. And there is much to be learnt. A more in-depth article Stacks of Questions introduces you to accessing the collection; telling you about what is in the British Architectural Library (BAL) and how to go about sourcing and locating material:

• Materials you can expect to find in the collection
• Invisibility and representation of disability in the collection
• The changing language and terminology of disability

The designs for buildings relating to disability which can be found in the BAL drawings, photographs, books and periodicals collections demonstrate extraordinary shifts in typology and form. By looking at these designs we see how society defines the normal citizen and how it chooses to accommodate the individuals which do not fit these criteria. We see that in some periods of history architecture has been instrumental – even central - in constructing visions of society, in incarcerating, segregating and categorising people because of their differences. The built environment is not simply something which needs to be made accessible or modified for its many different users. It has had (and may sometimes still have) an active role in shaping that environment , in realising social policy and legislative change, and in constructing our ideas of who and what is normal.

While it is tempting to imagine that we have moved on from some of the more disturbing designs produced by architects of the past we might also use this historical material to reflect on the current forces, beliefs and legislation which shape our own architectural principles. And whilst many buildings examined here are designed 'for' the disabled, they also tell us a lot about society as a whole, about all of us: about what is viewed as an ideal community; about the place of work; and about what makes for a 'fit' citizen.

Looking at the history of disability and architecture enables us to look critically at changing concepts, categories and building types.

To get a clearer outline of this history, as well as some of the language used around disability in different periods, you can visit a timeline.

The in-depth article Some routes through the Collection uses material selected from the BAL collection to illustrate some specific themes and to emphasise the relationships between social change and the built environment:

• Changing visions of the ideal community
• Building for work
• Making difference in the details

In each section one or two examples are illustrated and described in some detail, and others drawn from the collection are recommended for further exploration.

Exploring these resources can tell us about how different disabilities have been framed throughout history (and therefore reveal 'what is normal' in any particular period); and can offer a way into thinking about designing for difference at a detailed level.

Rather than seeing disability as a 'natural' problem for 'some' people, looking at the BAL shows just how much disability is a social and material construction, which changes through time - and which has often been contested by disabled people themselves.

Within Deaf culture, for example, deaf people are not seen as disabled but as a linguistic minority, who use sign language. Deaf activists challenge the idea that deaf people should prioritise communication with hearing people, over talking to other deaf people, using sign language.

You can see some of the ways in which this fiercely contested history of sign language has affected the built environment in the BAL collection. One of the most prized materials is an early hand spelling alphabet designed by Christopher Wren when he was still a teenager, which can be seen in the 1750 ‘heirloom’ copy of ‘Parentalia’ collated by his son. The alphabet shows us an important difference between British Sign Language (BSL) and finger spelling – it just recodes the English language, whereas BSL is a language in its own right, with its own dialects and national differences. BSL was only was finally officially recognised as a language in 2003.

Today Frank Barnes School for Deaf Children is one of only four schools in the UK where deaf children can learn ‘bilingually’ using British Sign Language and not just in English with the use of a signing translator. And if, as is currently threatened, it closes or at least merges with another school for deaf children on a different site, parents fear that their children will no longer be able to learn in sign language which they and the school believe is the best way for them to get the most out of their education and future lives.

Interestingly, the fortress like building, completed in 1978 by GLC architects, was designed around a different kind of story and set of assumptions. As a comprehensive and contentious article in the Architects Journal explains, the monumental solid exterior walls were an architectural expression of the clients’ requirement for acoustic protection from the sounds of the outside world. Deaf children in Frank Barnes School were to be taught with induction loops in their classrooms which would amplify sound to such an extent that they might ‘hear’ and speak like ‘normal’ children.

In the Frank Barnes School GLC, architects used the acoustic protection needed to enable the use of induction loops in classrooms to construct an architectural vocabulary of protection, defence and interiority. In their design for Elmcourt Road School in Lambeth built in 1968, Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry used a more low key solution to the same need. They arranged classrooms around a series of courtyards which gave the necessary acoustic separation, and also a series of outside spaces which could be used for play and informal lessons.

The two photographs shown here illustrate the contrast between amplified communication in the classroom where sign language was banned from use in the 1950’s and 60’s, and the animated communication of the children signing together when left on their own in the courtyards outside. Although the architects explain that their pinwheel design was the result of the electrical requirements for amplifying the classrooms, they also seem inadvertently (or purposefully?) to have provided a space where children could freely communicate in their own language. There are many other photographs, colour slides and drawings as well as the architect’s description of Elmcourt Road School in the BAL collection.

If you want to know more about the cultural history of deafness, there is a good chapter called "How we all went deaf in the eighteenth century" by Lennard J. Davis in the book he edited: The Disability Studies Reader (Routledge 1997). He has also written about growing up as a hearing child of deaf parents - that is bilingual - in his memoir My Sense of Silence (University of Illinois Press, 2000).