I purchased a copy of Five Architects during my first year in architecture
school, way back in 1977. The book, a slim but influential volume that
crystallized a moment in American modernism, showcased early work by Peter Eisenman, Michael Graves, Richard Meier, Charles Gwathmey, and John Hejduk. I found it enthralling, and I quickly read it from cover to cover. What
struck me wasn’t just the buildings these five architects designed, it was the
idea that architecture could be grounded in intellectual inquiry. Various critics, including Charles Jencks, later framed the contrast between Eisenman's form rigor and Graves' symbolic gestures in linguistic terms, interpreting their work as exemplifying architectural syntax and semantics, respectively. That framing resonated with me then, and it still does today.
Syntax, in this context, refers to the internal logic of architectural
form: the rules, structures, and generative systems that guide composition.
Semantics concerns meaning: how buildings signify, reference, or evoke cultural
and historical associations. These terms offer a way to examine architectural
intention—not as style, but as structure and signification. My aim here is to
reflect on this framework’s enduring value, not to advocate its revival, but to
explore how it prompts us to question how buildings speak and what they say in
today’s context.
Eisenman’s House II and House III illustrated a syntactic approach. In House II, he manipulated a grid
recursively to produce spatial conditions that resist conventional function.
The house didn’t accommodate domestic life intuitively; instead, it foregrounded
architectural autonomy. House III fragmented and reassembled spatial elements,
prioritizing formal operations over lived experience. These projects resembled
architectural sentences composed without narrative—grammar without story. Eisenman's work of this period was "syntactic" in that it prioritized generative structure over narrative, capturing his commitment to internal logic over external reference.
Graves’ contributions to Five Architects—the Hanselmann House and the Benacerraf Addition—reflected a different sensibility.
Graves (1934–2015) later embraced overt historical references and postmodern
ornamentation, but his work during the 1960s and early 1970s drew more from Cubist composition than
a classical vocabulary. The Hanselmann House, with its cube-like geometry and
layered volumes, evoked spatial fragmentation and visual tension. The
Benacerraf Addition, often described as a “Cubist kitchen,” explored
figure-ground relationships and compositional ambiguity. Graves’
approach was conceptually semantic, emphasizing symbolic reference and cultural
resonance over formal autonomy. Graves invited interpretation, but not through
a language of signs. His architecture gestured toward meaning through spatial
collage and formal resonance.
Both Eisenman and Graves produced work in this period that resembled Le Corbusier’s 1920s villas. For example, their
white surfaces, planar compositions, and minimal ornamentation recalled Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye and Villa Stein. Yet the resemblance was fundamentally superficial.
Eisenman stripped away Corbusier’s functional logic in favor of syntactic
recursion. Graves reinterpreted Le Corbusier's vocabulary from the perspective of a
Cubist, seeking symbolic depth rather than formal purity.
Revisiting this analogy today may seem out of step with current
priorities, not to mention referencing the work of architects whose heydays and
influence have long passed. Architecture now contends with such imperatives as climate
resilience, social equity, and adaptive reuse. My fascination with viewing
architecture as a form of language, structured around linguistic parallels,
might appear dated, even indulgent. Still, I believe the analogies remain
useful, not as doctrine, but as a way to unpack how architecture balances
structure and story. While postmodernism’s pluralism challenged this binary’s rigidity, it remains a lens for balancing form and function in sustainable design. It invites us to ask how form and meaning intersect, even
in projects driven by pragmatic demands.
.jpg)
Contemporary architects navigate these poles in varied ways. Zaha Hadid Architects (ZHA), for instance, often pursue a syntactic approach, using parametric
tools to generate fluid forms, as seen in projects like the Beijing Daxing International Airport, where functional logic governs circulation,
daylighting, and structural rhythm. Herzog & de Meuron, by contrast, lean semantic, as in the de Young Museum in San Francisco, where a perforated copper skin
evokes cultural memory and environmental dialogue. These practices don’t
replicate the Eisenman–Graves divide but engage similar tensions: autonomy
versus context, system versus story.
Beyond aesthetics, syntax now often arises directly from materials and
performance. Building systems and environmental concerns shape how
architects compose space. Mass timber construction, for example, demands a
specific logic. Cross-laminated timber (CLT) panels require predictable spans,
coordinated joints, and careful attention to fire resistance and acoustic
performance. These constraints don’t limit design but rather define it. The
discipline embedded in mass timber systems produces a syntax rooted in
fabrication, sustainability, and structural clarity. Architects working in this
medium don’t just follow rules; they compose with them.
During my professional career, I approached these questions from a
different angle, one that paralleled the semantic intent discerned in Graves’
early projects. In a recent post, On Architecture, Meaning,
and the Responsibility of Creation, I described the design of the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit. That
project aimed to convey meaning not through a language of signs, but through
symbolic resonance. My colleagues and I used the metaphor of the “Tree of Life”
to express continuity, memory, and vitality for veterans living with dementia.
The symbolism didn’t serve as ornament; it shaped the spatial experience and
material choices. It offered a narrative framework without prescribing
interpretation.
That experience affirmed for me that meaning in architecture need not
follow Graves’ semantic model. It can emerge from attentiveness, metaphor, and
coherence. It can root itself in experience rather than reference. At the same
time, syntax remains essential. Whether shaped by conceptual rigor or material
discipline, the structural logic of a project—its internal order, its spatial
grammar—still carries weight. Syntax and semantics need
not be opposing camps. They’re tools. And in today’s context, they require
careful use.
I don’t propose reviving linguistic
metaphors as architectural principles, but I do believe they offer a way to reflect on what architecture
communicates. Buildings speak, though not always clearly. Revisiting syntax and
semantics helps us ask what we’re trying to say, and whether we’re saying it
well. These questions remain vital as we shape spaces to meet today’s challenges.
