On Architecture, Meaning, and the Responsibility of Creation

 

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

In my last post, I wrote about the perspective that comes with stepping away from daily practice and how retirement offers me a new vantage from which to view the profession. Freed from the urgency of deadlines and client meetings, I can return to some elemental questions—questions that reach beyond architecture’s role and into the speculative realm of what confers meaning at all. What makes a place feel as though it matters? Is meaning found in form, function, memory—or something else entirely? 

I don’t approach these questions seeking metaphysical certainty. Instead, I find myself aligned with strains of secular humanism and what some call engaged realism—worldviews that prioritize human agency and experience in the physical world, without relying on spiritual or supernatural assumptions. Secular humanism emphasizes purpose through human connection, creativity, and obligation, whereas engaged realism focuses on grounding meaning in tangible experience. 

I’m not advocating for a materialist outlook that is consumerist or reductionist, but rather one founded in the lived, physical world—one that sees meaning as something we construct through interaction, attention, and embodiment rather than something revealed from on high. These frameworks help me articulate a philosophy focused upon care, craft, and honest acknowledgement of impermanence. 

This view doesn’t diminish the value of our experiences; rather, it deepens them. It underscores how much our day-to-day actions matter and how architecture, as a public and persistent act, reflects our shared values. Of course, many find meaning through faith, tradition, or a synthesis of spiritual and secular sources. Some spiritual traditions, like Buddhism or Christian humanism, also emphasize human agency in creating meaning, sharing common ground with secular humanism. But for those of us who look to the material world for guidance, the absence of metaphysical guarantees does not render meaning arbitrary. It simply shifts the burden and the opportunity onto us. 

While some might question whether a secular foundation offers the same permanence or moral authority as traditional belief systems, I’d argue that meaning rooted in shared human experience—through memory, empathy, and collective effort—offers its own resilience, adaptable to diverse contexts and evolving over time. 

If anything, my materialist perspective has affirmed my belief in the role architects play. There may be no cosmic blueprint guiding them, but that doesn’t leave architects adrift. On the contrary, it places the creative and ethical burden squarely on their shoulders: to design environments that support dignity, foster connection, and elevate experience, not because they are pious, but because they are human. This responsibility is not universal in practice; architects often face constraints like budgets, client demands, or zoning laws that prioritize function or profit over meaning. Yet, when possible, prioritizing attentiveness and craftsmanship allows architecture to embody commonly shared values. These ideas resonate with architecture’s potential to shape spaces that nurture relationships and uphold dignity, even in a world without absolute guarantees. 

One of the most rewarding projects I worked on—the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit —embodied this duty. My colleagues at Robertson/Sherwood/Architects and I set out to design more than just a facility. We wanted to create a home for veterans living with dementia, one that honored their lives, their stories, and their continued presence in the world. Though we weren’t invoking religious symbolism per se, we turned to metaphor—the Tree of Life—as a unifying theme. 

The Tree of Life became a way to express continuity, memory, and vitality—concepts especially poignant for a population facing cognitive decline. The metaphor gave form to the building's central courtyard—where soft light and open pathways invite gathering—and to the flanking households. It offered staff, residents, and visitors a narrative structure—both physical and emotional—to orient by. 

While symbols like the Tree of Life may have origins in spiritual traditions, they are not proprietary. They belong to a shared cultural lexicon, shaped by archetypes that resonate across belief systems. We chose the Tree of Life for its broad resonance, but architects should choose metaphors that align with their community’s values and experiences to resonate inclusively. When interpreted thoughtfully, such symbols can bridge diverse worldviews—not to co-opt the sacred, but to affirm enduring principles like continuity, healing, and belonging. The symbolism required no belief in a higher power; its strength lay in its emotional clarity and its capacity to unify rather than divide. The VA project benefited from a supportive client and budget. But even prosaic projects—apartment buildings, for instance—can foster meaning when they reflect how people live, gather, and belong. 

Of course, even in societies where religious belief was widespread, not every structure was shaped by spiritual doctrine. Many buildings—then as now—were designed for utility. But in such contexts, symbolic meaning often permeated the built environment more broadly, even if unevenly. 

This, I think, illustrates something essential about the creative potential of secular worldviews: they need not be sterile. They can embrace myth, metaphor, and meaning, not as dogma, but as tools for evoking compassion and coherence in a fragmented world. A secular imagination can be rich in narrative and aspiration, even if it is grounded in the here and now. 

Architecture begins with function. The building must work. But I’ve always believed that beauty and coherence are not luxuries—they are also vital. In fact, I would argue that they are part of a building’s function. They support well-being, provide orientation, and invite emotional resonance. 

I’ve found guidance in Christopher Alexander’s writings on wholeness, which suggest that spaces balanced in proportion, light, and rhythm foster a harmony that feels both timeless and deeply personal. Alexander’s concept of wholeness refers to a quality of design—achieved through elements like natural light or intuitive spatial flow—that fosters calm and connection, outcomes supported by studies in environmental psychology. Alexander wanted us to think of wholeness as a secular analogue to the sacred—an emergent quality that evokes peace, rightness, and integrity through careful, responsive design. 

There is meaning in that, too. Not a capital-M “Meaning,” but the kind we make through attention and authentic craft. Architecture is one way we respond to the world, shape it, and leave traces of what we cared about, etched in built form. Not all architecture achieves this. Some is driven by expedience, profit, or neglect, which only heightens the importance of doing it well. That buildings age and eventually disappear doesn’t negate their importance. On the contrary, it makes our efforts more poignant—and even more worthwhile. While impermanence can seem like a loss, it reminds us to design spaces that resonate deeply in their time, leaving memories and influences that endure beyond the physical structure. If permanence is unavailable, presence becomes sacred. 

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

This secular, human-centered outlook roots architecture in care and purpose, though practical realities often challenge this ideal. Others arrive at quite different understandings of life’s mission, often through faith or tradition, and I respect that deeply. 

For my part, I’ve found quiet affinity in the writings of thinkers like Albert Camus, Richard Rorty, and Friedrich Nietzsche—not because they offer answers, but because they give voice to a way of being in the world that seems honest. Camus, in facing life’s absurdity, acknowledged the human longing for meaning in a universe that offers none, and yet urged us to act with clarity, empathy, and resolve. Rorty, with his pragmatic pluralism, proposed that in the absence of metaphysical foundations, we might still find solidarity, beauty, and purpose in what we do. And Nietzsche, who saw the absence of inherent meaning as a call to create, challenged us not to despair, but to treat it as an opportunity. We can create, affirm, and live with intention. 

I don’t claim to have lived up to these ideals, but they did influence how I approached my work as an architect and my life in retirement now: as chances to contribute, however modestly, to something that matters, even if only for a time, and only for a few. 

Architects cannot promise permanence, but they can design spaces that carry lasting impact. By drawing on Camus’s insight that we can create our own meaning, architects can design spaces that feel whole, invite connection, and enhance livability. And while wholeness may not explicitly appear on a set of plans or in a specification, it is no less real. To shape environments that honor human dignity is a responsibility—and a privilege—worth pursuing for all who hope to leave a trace of humanity in the world.