Looking Back: Architecture Career Advice

A design studio review at the University of Oregon (my photo)

This post is another outcome of my ongoing efforts to sort through and purge the mountains of old paperwork I’ve retained over the years—much of it for reasons I struggle to remember or justify now that I’m retired. I recently discovered a box containing materials from my time as an adjunct instructor at the University of Oregon’s Department of Architecture, where I helped teach the Context of the Professions class during the 2012 and 2013 academic years. Among the contents was a set of questions submitted by students as part of a class assignment. Their questions—posed to me and my fellow instructors—asked for our opinions about entry into the profession and reflections on our early experiences as fledgling employees.
 
Rather than responding in writing, we answered these questions in a freewheeling discussion before the assembled class. While I don’t have an exact record of what we said, the questions themselves remain a treasure. Below is a sampling, along with answers I composed today. I’m not sure how much my responses differ from those I gave in 2012 and 2013, but I like to think they carry a bit more perspective, reflecting an additional decade-plus of experience and insight.
 
1. If employers are concerned with hiring individuals with experience, then what makes them likely to hire a recent graduate at all?
Employers look for potential, not just experience. Recent graduates bring fresh perspectives, technical skills (especially in software), and a willingness to learn. Firms value enthusiasm, adaptability, and the ability to work collaboratively.
 
2. How can I (a presumed graduate) make myself a more desirable applicant than someone with real-world experience?
Demonstrate robust design and technical skills, proficiency in industry-standard software (Revit, Rhino, Grasshopper, Adobe Creative Suite, Bluebeam Revu, etc.), and critical thinking ability. A well-curated portfolio, professional communication, and relevant internship experience can help compensate for a lack of full-time experience.
 
3. If you were hiring a summer intern, what qualities would you look for first?
Initiative, curiosity, and a strong work ethic. A good intern asks questions, learns quickly, and contributes meaningfully. Proficiency in digital tools and a willingness to take on varied tasks are also key.
 
4. What steps should we take while still in school to help us find a job later?
Seek internships and part-time positions in architecture firms. Build relationships with professors and professionals. Develop a strong portfolio showcasing a range of skills. Learn both design and technical software. Attend networking events and join professional organizations like AIA, CSI, or NCARB.
 
5. In interviews, is it better to admit weaknesses and areas for improvement, or just focus on strengths?
A balance is best. Confidence in strengths is key, but firms also value self-awareness and a willingness to improve.
 
6. How much of your career success do you attribute to talent and effort, versus being in the right place at the right time?
Success is a mix of skill, hard work, and luck. Talent and perseverance set the foundation, but networking and timing often influence career trajectory. Many professionals recommend making your own luck by being proactive and engaged in the industry.
 
7. Would your friends and family say you’ve effectively balanced work and social life?
Many architects struggle with work-life balance, especially early in their careers. Setting boundaries and working for firms that value employee well-being can help, but long hours are often a reality in the field.
 
8. How influential is the portfolio in the application process? Can strong management and organizational skills balance out middle-of-the-road design skills?
The portfolio is crucial, but firms also consider communication, teamwork, and organizational skills. Those who are strong in project management, client relations, and technical execution can be just as valuable as pure design talents.
 
9. Is it better to take an undesirable position at a firm you like or a desirable position at a firm you don’t like?
It's generally better to work at a firm that aligns with your values, even if the role isn’t ideal. Culture, mentorship, and opportunities for growth matter more in the long run than immediate job duties.
 
10. Do you prefer working in a big firm or a small one, and why?
Preferences vary. Big firms offer large projects, specialization, resources, and stability. Small firms provide diverse experience, close mentorship, and more direct involvement in design decisions. I spent my career in small-to-medium-sized firms (ranging from 9 to 18 employees), where I enjoyed a blend of benefits associated with both large and small offices.
 
11. How does the high-pressure architecture school studio culture compare to firm work?
Working in an architecture firm is demanding but typically more structured. Deadlines are real, but projects unfold over months or years, allowing for deeper refinement. The all-nighter culture is less common, though long hours can persist depending on firm culture and project deadlines.
 
12. What do you most regret about your career? What would you have done differently?
I have no regrets. My career was fulfilling and met my expectations in every way. That said, I know much of my good fortune was due to luck and being in the right place at the right time. Other architects might wish they had networked earlier, gained better business knowledge, pursued licensure sooner, or maintained a better work-life balance.
 
13. How does one establish themselves in a firm and move into leadership?
Leadership is built through reliability, problem-solving, and initiative. Key steps include becoming indispensable on projects, building client and team relationships, learning about firm operations, and expressing interest in leadership roles.
 
14. Is it better to start my career in a small city or a large one?
There are trade-offs to both. Large cities offer exposure to high-profile projects, diverse firms, and more structured career paths, but they come with higher costs and competition. Smaller cities often provide more hands-on experience, greater project responsibility, and a lower cost of living, but fewer large-scale opportunities. Many architects start in one and transition to the other. I worked in large cities (Vancouver and Los Angeles) but spent most of my career in Eugene, which, despite being a smaller market, offered me many meaningful opportunities.
 
15. How important is getting licensed early in my career?
While gaining experience is essential, licensure opens more career opportunities, including leadership roles, higher salaries, and the ability to stamp drawings. Many professionals recommend working toward licensure as soon as possible while balancing practical experience. That was certainly my goal. I first became licensed in 1985, two years following my graduation from the University of Oregon in 1983.

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Looking back at these questions, I realize how much of what I’ve learned wasn’t just about architecture itself, but about navigating a career—understanding what really matters, what lasts, and what fades with time. There’s no single path to success in this profession, but curiosity, adaptability, and persistence go a long way. If emerging professionals stay engaged, keep learning, and surround themselves with people who challenge and support them, the rest tends to fall into place. Of course, this is easy for me to say from where I stand today. The architectural profession is changing rapidly, and my advice may soon feel outdated, but the fundamentals of curiosity, adaptability, and persistence will always matter.

Urban Identity and Collective Memory

 

Piazza San Marco, Venice (photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash)

 
During a recent, spirited round of Swedish death cleaning here in my home, I came across a brief essay I wrote in 1983 during my final year at the University of Oregon. The paper, titled Urban Identity and Collective Memory, was an assignment for Professor Rosaria Hodgdon’s class ARCH 441G – Critical Issues in the Urban Environment. Reflecting on it now, I recognize my naïve idealism and pedantic tone. My generalization about American attitudes towards urbanism was cartoonish. That said, I believe the core theme remains relevant, particularly its exploration of the relationship between the individual and the collective within our cities.
 
Influenced by cultural shifts, growing environmental awareness, and the political ideologies of the early 1980s, I grappled with the tension between individualism and collectivism. Today, while there is a strong emphasis on community and sustainability, I feel a fundamental belief in the power of architecture to shape social interactions and community life is increasingly absent from architectural education, overwhelmed by an exponentially broadening range of other concerns.
 
My perspective has evolved over the past four-plus decades, but I remain convinced of the importance of individuals coming together with a shared understanding of what constitutes a healthy urban environment. Maybe the 20-something me wasn’t so naïve after all.
 
Urban Identity and Collective Memory
The meaning of the term “urban” often eludes those of us who were indoctrinated with anti-urban, agrarian, and Jeffersonian sensibilities, and raised in that antithesis of the city—the homogenous bedroom suburb. Most Americans do not understand what it is to belong to the polis, to contribute to and share the rewards of collective agreement, much less understand the place and function of architecture within a complex city structure. The frontier mentality persists, encouraging everyone to stake their own claim on the land. It is the individual that is stressed and not the collective. Many consider “urban” and “urbanity” as abstract concepts, the domain of politicians, sociologists, and planners, rather than architects.
 
There is a risk in so simplistic a characterization of American attitudes; nevertheless, it serves the point I am making. This is that we too often hesitate to share ourselves, to be active participants in the life of the collective, and yet it is public agreement and celebration of that which is shared that ensures a vital city. Rob Krier suggests that we might almost infer in the city the existence of a kind of social ritual which provides a perfect match between the individual and the collective. To Krier, Aldo Rossi, and many others, being “urban” means being both—to be part of a community.
 
Rossi would say that all of us belong and contribute to the collective memory of the city, and that it is in the architecture of the city that we find this memory. Architecture is the stage for, as well as a participant in, the drama of human events. The city is one large piece of architecture. For Krier, “urban space” is the operative term. Urban space is of the city, and it is either internal/private or external/public. Jose Ortega y Gasset spoke of the city as a product of the street and square, the basic elements of urban space. To him the polis started as an empty space, the architecture of the city being the means of fixing that empty space and limiting its outlines. A public square, thanks to the fabric that defines it, sets itself in opposition to the countryside. The fabric is the architectural fact of urban space, and it is the interplay between architectural fact and urban effect that is of interest to Vincent Scully, among others.
 
Architecturally, individual buildings have a responsibility to the collective urban scene. At their best, they display an enthusiasm for the public life. The Piazza San Marco is a good example of a public urban space. Kevin Lynch calls the piazza a “node,” a strategic focus for the city. It sets itself in sharp contrast to the general character of Venice and to the narrow, twisted spaces of its immediate approaches. The piazza is highly structured architecturally, but as Robert Venturi noted, the consistent spatial order is not without contradictions in scale and texture.
 
J.N.L. Durand wrote “Just as the walls, the columns, etc. are the elements which compose buildings, so buildings are the elements which compose cities.” As a corollary to this, we can say that while it is the particular that characterizes the individual, it is individuals that form the collective. The Venetians have an urban sense, and the Piazza San Marco is evidence: It is full of everyday life, people, activities, and history. The piazza is the city’s living room. If we could muster a fraction of the enthusiasm for the city that the Venetians have for theirs, both we and our architecture would be more surely urban.
 
RN/1983

Architecture is Awesome: #39 The Comfort of a Corner

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

 
This is another in my series of posts inspired by 1000 Awesome Things, the Webby Award-winning blog written by Neil Pasricha. The series is my meditation on the awesome reasons why I was and continue to be attracted to the art of architecture. 
 
Corners are where architecture gathers itself, where walls meet in quiet agreement. They are the natural refuge of a room—a place to tuck oneself away, to observe without being observed. In a world that often pulls in all directions, corners provide a moment of stillness, a chance to pause, to belong.
 
I have long been fascinated by the role of corners in shaping how we experience space. They are both defining and defined, both boundary and shelter. A well-crafted corner can convey strength, elegance, or even mystery. Think of the hushed intimacy of a reading nook pressed into the junction of two walls, or the grandeur of a vaulted cathedral where corners dissolve into shadow and stone.
 

Photo by Alexander McFeron on Unsplash

 
Corners invite adaptation. In our homes, they become places of retreat—an armchair pulled close, a lamp casting a pool of light, a cat curled into the warm geometry of the space. In public architecture, corners can become anchors of human activity, where city blocks turn, where street musicians tuck themselves away, where friends gather for an impromptu conversation.
 

Photo by Partha Narasimhan on Unsplash

 
Some corners impose, while others embrace. The sharp, precise edges of a modernist masterpiece draw attention to the purity of form, while the softened, time-worn corners of an ancient stone wall suggest history and endurance.
 

Seagram Building, New York. Mies van der Rohe, architect (my photo)

 

Seagram Building - Corner construction detail

 
Even beyond the built environment, corners are woven into the way we think and feel. We speak of turning a corner when life takes a hopeful shift. We find comfort in the idea of a corner table, a corner office, a corner of the world to call our own. Corners offer both perspective and protection, a place to press one’s back and feel grounded.
 
In the end, architecture is about making space for life to unfold, and corners remind us that even in the most open plans, we sometimes seek enclosure. They give us pause, they hold us, and they remind us that finding a corner to call our own—whether for reflection, refuge, or simply a moment of stillness—is truly awesome.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome: #40 Light and Shadow

The Brutalist

My wife and I sought refuge from Friday afternoon’s rain by immersing ourselves within the imagined world of a great movie—The Brutalist. Directed by Brady Corbet, the film is hailed by many critics as a work of towering ambition, worthy of the highest industry awards. Indeed, some even deem it a masterpiece. Given its title, subject matter, and the hype surrounding it, I had to see it.

 
As someone who has lived the life of an architect, I brought high hopes that The Brutalist would provide the kind of cinematic experience I’ve long desired—one that fully embraces the transformative power of visionary design and conveys its profound impact on both creator and society. While The Brutalist is richly composed and thematically dense, it ultimately left me unfulfilled. It isn’t a film about architecture but rather one about the trauma and compromises of its protagonist, Hungarian émigré architect László Tóth.(1) At best, architecture functions as a metaphor rather than a subject. In doing so, I think Corbet missed an opportunity to explore why architecture—specifically Brutalism—matters.
 
The film charts the rise and fall of the fictional Tóth, a Holocaust survivor who immigrates to America and is commissioned by wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren to design a grand, imposing project. While The Brutalist touches on themes of artistic integrity, patronage, and the weight of history, it never truly explores why László is so devoted to Brutalism or what drives his stylistic choices beyond vague notions of resilience and monumentality. The film barely reveals the details of his designs, let alone the creative process behind them. There's little sense of how his ideas evolve, what his influences are, or how his work engages with the architectural discourse of the time. Corbet frames László’s work more as an externalization of his inner turmoil than as a deeply considered architectural philosophy. I do suppose we can see the raw, exposed concrete he designs with as a representation of his resilience and the weight of his past or as the emotional barrier he erects to protect himself from further pain.

 
While undoubtedly Oscar-worthy, Adrien Brody’s portrayal of László Tóth as a deeply principled but emotionally fractured and damaged man veers into the same tortured genius archetype he embodied in The Pianist. There, his character’s suffering was visceral, grounded in a historical reality that needed no embellishment. In The Brutalist, however, the film’s artistic affectations distanced me from Tóth’s pain rather than drawing me into it. Additionally, Felicity Jones, as László’s wife Erzsébet, provided an emotional anchor, but her character’s development was limited. Guy Pearce’s Van Buren, while compelling, remained enigmatic in ways that sometimes felt underwritten rather than deliberate.
 
For a film that spans decades and continents, The Brutalist struggles with pacing. Despite its three-and-a-half-hour runtime (including a 15-minute intermission), I found key transitions jarringly abrupt. László’s arrival in America and subsequent ascent in Van Buren’s orbit happen with little sense of progression—he goes from immigrant to major commission without much attention to his professional evolution. Later, the film’s climax feels similarly rushed, offering only a cryptic glimpse of his final project. Corbet’s decision to leave the exact nature of Tóth’s ultimate work open to interpretation might be an artistic choice, but it felt less like deliberate ambiguity and more like an avoidance of fully engaging with architecture as a discipline.
 
In this regard, The Brutalist reminds me of another film that ostensibly placed architecture at its thematic core—Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis. Both films are burdened by their own ambitions, using architecture as a narrative vessel rather than a fully realized subject. When I reviewed Megalopolis, I noted its thematic parallels to The Fountainhead: while Ayn Rand’s novel champions individualism and objectivism, Coppola’s film critiques the dangers of unchecked ambition and the ethical complexities of utopian idealism. With The Brutalist, the Fountainhead comparison also applies, but in a different way—Corbet’s film is less about ideology and more about the personal costs of creation.
 
Despite my reservations, I can't deny The Brutalist's craftsmanship. The production design is impressive in its attention to period details, such as the costuming and depictions of the society forces that shaped and constrained László’s life. The use of real locations, like the marble quarries in Carrara, Italy, adds authenticity. The cinematography, shot in VistaVision (a large format last used on a major motion picture in 1961) is likewise evocative, though at times its desaturated dreariness felt at odds with the grandeur the film seems to aspire to.
 
I left The Brutalist feeling much as I did after watching Megalopolis—impressed by its ambition but frustrated by its execution. I still long for a film that truly captures the power of architecture as an art form, one that illuminates why it matters, how it shapes us, and what drives those who dedicate their lives to it. The Brutalist acknowledges architecture’s emotional and symbolic weight, but it stops short of truly engaging with it. In the end, it is a film about an architect, not a film about architecture. And for a work that promised to be steeped in the language of design, that feels like a missed opportunity.
 
(1)  Some have suggested that Tóth is loosely inspired by Marcel Breuer, another Hungarian architect who immigrated to the U.S. and designed buildings that exemplify the Brutalist ethos.