The communities we design for are not immutable; they evolve as society shifts, adapts, and progresses. Architects come to understand this dynamic process throughout our careers as we engage with clients, uncovering their histories, motivations, and aspirations to transform their environments. Our success hinges on our ability to connect with clients whose values and backgrounds may differ from our own, prompting us to scrutinize our initial instincts when confronted with a design challenge. 

These differences can manifest themselves on local, regional, and national scales. A striking example of this can be seen in the aftermath of the recent presidential election and the chaotic landscape of social media, which has laid bare our culture’s deeply ingrained prejudices. The traditional media—once a pillar of nuanced reporting—is fractured, leaving us to carefully navigate a complex array of issues, while our emotional responses hover uncomfortably between reluctant acceptance and a creeping sense of dystopian fear.

A sense of exceptionalism usually arises when one community asserts domination over another, either through dialogue or action. Hostile architecture is a good example of this and can be applied to many types of infrastructure, such as supermax prisons or benches with spikes to prevent the homeless from sleeping on them. Its more insidious meaning defines a lack of empathy for those it seeks to punish. Over the past 20 months, very different things have come to my attention that highlight how hostility in design and construction play out in the theaters of urban context and war, and what one firm is doing to push back.

Last year, a social media post showed up in my email. The author, Elizabeth Kubany, a brand and communications consultant for architects and designers, was criticizing the (W)rapper Building, the latest L.A. project by Eric Owen Moss Architects (EOM): “When will we stop commissioning architects who do nothing but indulge their own egos with buildings that are irresponsible to the cities they are in, the people who use them, and the climate at large that will suffer because of the work?” It was a stark appraisal, so I read up on it and watched a video in which the design team explained its rationale. The views, varied ceiling heights, and column-free plans are remarkable, and the building is seismically engineered to last 2,500 years. The project’s webpage describes the building’s impressive structural system and notes that it conforms to the city’s transit-oriented development.

On paper, everything about the building makes sense. And then you actually look at it. The inventiveness of L.A. architecture has always been inspiring, but (W)rapper comes across as a bizarre panopticon that glowers at everything around it. Steel ribbons with cementitious coatings are splayed across a thin facade of dark glass, creating a clash of geometries and materials. Its hulking presence looms over a manufacturing district of low buildings. Apparently, this project will be followed by three other EOM-designed structures—which, if the firm’s track record is any indication, will be as aggressive, if not more so, toward the surrounding community and the urban fabric. 

About 500 hundred miles to the southeast, where a series of walls and fences have been partially built along our country’s border with Mexico, there is an altogether different project, designed by Eddie Jones and his colleagues at Jones Studio. A few years ago, they completed the Mariposa Land Port of Entry at a border crossing in Nogales, Arizona. A shaded garden with fountains greets those who have made the arduous journey from Central and South America, which often includes crossing the Darién Gap, a mountainous region on the border between Colombia and Panama covered in rain forests and swamps. In an area where security is an important design element, Jones subtly shifts the emphasis toward creating an environment that is empathetic to those coming into our country. Despite the political battles around border control in the U.S., we tend to forget that immigrants want to come here because the situation is demonstrably worse in their countries—as a moral principle, this should matter to us. It is inspiring to hear Eddie Jones speak about challenging the “crisis” label and taking a bold step toward embracing the merging of diverse cultures.

While these two projects reflect contrasts in engagement, it’s an entirely different matter when design completely defaults on its responsibility to a community, creating a paradoxical situation of deliberate provocation and security. As the war has raged on in the Middle East, many people in this country have staked out clear positions on both sides, including architects. I’ve heard one say, along with some of his conservative brethren, that the Palestinians would have been better off if they had built hotels on their Mediterranean coast. Development and design as a form of detente has probably not crossed anyone’s mind in Gaza and would probably create a new battleground if terrorists started sheltering beneath buildings designed by A-list architects. We can turn and walk away from a badly designed building, but it stretches incredulity to think that our capitalist impulses will adequately solve the well-documented displacement of Palestinians in the 20th century. On the other side, student protesters (future policymakers) on college campuses either dismissed or ignored the near annihilation of the Jews in their rhetoric and demands. As a rich diaspora that has been attacked and vilified for their differences over centuries, this came across as woefully naive and deeply concerning.

In his famous “Create Dangerously” lecture from 1957, Albert Camus said, “The greatness of design lies in the perpetual tension between beauty and pain, the love of men [and women] and the madness of creation, unbearable solitude and the exhausting crowd, rejection and consent.” It’s the tension that reveals the sublime. If we fail, and the design intent is presented as self-absorbed or retribution, beauty is lost, and everyone suffers. We serve our communities and are required to be respectful not only towards the stakeholders, but the needs of the specific place we desire to change. Implicit in the creative dialogue is the collective will to overcome barriers, literal and otherwise, and present something that transcends our experience.

Tying this all together has been a challenge for me, since I’m much better equipped to offer an opinion on architecture. These days, with rage and despair defining the public mood, a president-elect threatening mass deportations, and cease fires in the Middle East hanging on by a thread, is it still possible for us to design for a community that is at war with itself, both here and abroad? Creating a building devoid of compassion loses its ethical anchor by betraying a responsibility to the public trust. Jones Studio’s Mariposa project engages by creating safe passage for those who are willing to sacrifice almost everything that we take for granted to find a better life. That takes courage, and I am grateful to them for reminding me of why I became an architect.

David Briggs AIA LEED AP CPHD
Principal | Founding Partner
Loci Architecture PLLC

Many thanks to the following individuals:
Eddie Jones FAIA, Founder and Principal, Jones Studio; Rebekah Nash, Studio Coordinator,  Jones Studio
Editors: Wendy Silverstein, WS&A; Mary McAveney, CEO, Abrams; Martin Pedersen, Executive Director, Common Edge

This essay originally appeared on Common Edge.