Do Androids Dream of the Saturday Market?

Eugene Saturday Market, May 24, 2025 (photos by me)

      

      In an earlier post titled The Human Touch in a High-Tech Future, I explored how architects might collaborate with artificial intelligence (AI) and quantum computing to enhance design. That piece focused on the promise of human–machine partnerships. It leads me now to ponder a fundamental question: what remains uniquely human in the act of architectural authorship? Similar concerns have already surfaced many times across disciplines, from design to ethics to neuroscience, but they feel newly urgent in the context of architecture’s future.

 
My current thoughts on this unfold within the framework of “Construction 4.0,” the building industry’s version of “Industry 4.0”—a term describing the rapid technological transformation of the 21st century.(1) Automation, drones, prefabrication, and machine learning increasingly drive this evolution. McKinsey estimates these tools could boost productivity by 14% and reduce costs by 4–6% across the industry. These numbers are persuasive and help explain the growing momentum behind AI adoption.
 
Still, for those of us who see architecture as a vessel for cultural expression—and closer to home, Eugene’s identity—questions of authorship arise. Can AI craft spaces that carry our community’s emotional and cultural weight? AI can crunch data, but it risks flattening our town’s quirky spirit—its tie-dye heart, its river-shaped essence—into sterile buildings that prioritize efficiency over meaning.

 
I’m intrigued by how others have addressed the question. Architect John Marx wrote about the absence of empathy and visceral engagement in AI-generated work. Tim Fu, a designer who integrates AI into his process, acknowledged that while AI can serve as a powerful creative partner, it lacks the ethical intuition and emotional nuance that we bring to the table. And an ArchDaily piece I read recently asked if AI can truly grasp the local character embedded in traditional forms. These voices contribute to a growing conversation that I follow with keen interest.
 
Consider a hypothetical: the design of a new public school in Eugene. An advanced AI system, trained on local data—the Whiteaker murals, University of Oregon’s historic campus, Kalapuya oral histories, and more—and acting autonomously, proposes a structure featuring cedar beams carved with tribal-inspired patterns and a courtyard echoing the Willamette River’s gentle curve. It simulates emotional responses to spatial arrangements and materials, optimizing the space to maximize perceived warmth and familiarity—without ever feeling them. Robots then fabricate and assemble the structure with flawless precision.
 
If the result looks indistinguishable from one conceived by local creators, why isn’t that enough? Because architecture’s significance lies in its making—the messy, human process of dialogue, iteration, and compromise. A building’s soul emerges not only in how it looks, but in how it’s conceived, inhabited and remembered. This is something AI cannot genuinely experience or interpret.

 

AI hasn’t soaked in the sun at the Saturday Market, savored the mouthwatering aromas of the International Food Court, or heard the off-tempo rhythm of a busker’s guitar beneath the canopy of the Park Blocks. It doesn’t intuit the tensions Eugene’s residents voice in town halls or coffee shops—between preserving what’s beloved and accommodating what’s needed. Without that lived sensitivity, AI risks churning out buildings that may look right but feel wrong. Architects develop this attunement over time, through immersion, observation, and imperfect but essential dialogue.
 
Philosopher Michael Polanyi called this tacit knowledge—the kind of understanding we acquire through experience, not instruction. “We know more than we can tell,” he wrote. Local place-makers carry this kind of knowledge into their work: the feel of a neighborhood, the values Eugene’s residents hold dear (whether whispered at the Farmers Market or shouted at city council meetings), the subtle cues that shape how individuals move through space. No matter how advanced, AI cannot easily replicate this kind of embodied knowing.
 
I’ve seen what happens when projects lack this grounding. In another recent post, I critiqued the vertical growth along Franklin Boulevard—new buildings that, while efficient and contemporary, feel anomalous within our city’s texture. They reflect real estate speculation, not the layered identity of a place shaped by counterculture, craft, and ecological consciousness. These misalignments arise when design prioritizes optimization over story.
 
Architects are not merely builders of forms or organizers of functions. At their best, they perform as translators and storytellers. They interpret and arrange a community's narratives, shaping them into a coherent vision that resonates within a specific context. They guide ethical decisions where no clear rules apply—choices that require judgment, compromise, and a sensitivity that machines cannot mirror.
 
Some argue that AI, trained on local data and refined through feedback, could eventually match or even surpass human sensitivity to place. Others point to its capacity for generating novel forms or convincingly simulating empathy and intuition. These are not trivial claims—and they deserve serious consideration. Maybe AI will one day mimic the outputs of human intuition with remarkable fidelity. But even then, it’s hard to imagine it navigating the moral complexities we face—such as balancing Eugene’s green ethos with the pressures of growth. And even if AI closes that gap, would we want to cede our role in tailoring the environments we inhabit to machines that cannot care in the way we do? Architecture is not only about what is built, but how and why. And those questions—of meaning, memory, and moral judgment—remain deeply human.

 

Perhaps other domains raise similar questions. Can AI replace a great teacher, not merely in conveying facts, but in inspiring a reluctant student? Can it replace a therapist, not just in offering advice, but in bearing witness to someone’s pain? The answer may not be a definitive “never”—history teaches caution with absolutes—but it is surely “not yet,” and maybe “not fully.”
 
So long as architecture seeks to embody values and tell stories, human architects will remain essential—not just as designers, but as custodians of meaning and advocates for community. Androids don’t dream of the Saturday Market’s vibrant chaos. Architects can. And that, I believe, still makes all the difference.

 
(1) “Construction 4.0” is the construction industry’s version of Industry 4.0, which is known as the current, Fourth Industrial Revolution. The First Industrial Revolution mechanized production by means of water and steam power. The Second Industrial Revolution introduced electrification, mass production, and the assembly line. The Third Industrial Revolution involved automation through computers, robotics, and programmable logic controllers. The Fourth (current) Industrial Revolution integrates cyber-physical systems, the Internet of Things, cloud computing, and artificial intelligence, taking automation and connectivity to a new level.