Concrete and Light: The Salk Institute for Biological Studies

Salk Institute courtyard, a "roofless cathedral" (all photos by me).

Jonas Salk founded the institute that bears his name in the early 1960s, after the success of his polio vaccine. He wanted a place where scientists could work with a sense of openness and purpose, and he asked architect Louis Kahn to design it. With input from Mexican architect Luis Barragán, Kahn produced what has become one of the most studied research campuses in the world. Even people unfamiliar with Kahn’s work have likely seen photographs of its courtyard: two symmetrical laboratory wings framing a travertine plaza, a thin runnel of water leading the eye toward the Pacific. The site itself—set high above the ocean in La Jolla—is spectacular, and Salk’s choice of it was as consequential as the architecture that followed.

I visited the Salk Institute last Friday while I was in San Diego. I’ve seen enough photographs and drawings over the years that I knew what to expect. Stepping into the courtyard felt like returning to a place I’d visited before. Nothing came as a surprise. The best way to describe the experience is one of recognition.

That familiarity didn’t diminish the visit. If anything, it underscored what I’ve always found compelling about the Salk: its sense of inevitability. The design feels so resolved that alternative outcomes are hard to imagine. I don’t mean that only Kahn could have achieved this. Another architect with a similar sensitivity to site (Arthur Erickson comes to mind) might have produced an equally strong result. But the built Salk has a clarity that reads as predestined. The alignment of program, setting, and light seems almost too exact to have happened any other way.

As I crossed the courtyard’s eastern threshold, I noticed how closely the place aligned with everything I had long understood about it. La Jolla’s bright sky did most of the work. The travertine glowed. The concrete carried its usual gravity. What struck me most was the calm that settled in once I stopped moving. For me, that calm is what “rightness” feels like: clarity, order, and confirmation that a building is precisely as it should be. Kahn’s work has always appealed to me for that reason. His pursuit of order in a world governed by entropy has long aligned with my own architectural temperament.

Our tour guide, Bob, pointed out a few details that reinforced this impression. The upper-level studies, for example, have taller ceilings and windows than the floors below. It’s a subtle correction for the way perspective compresses a façade when viewed from the courtyard. The variation in the spacing of the concrete panel joints is another subtle adjustment, giving the façade a proportional order that feels structural without explicitly expressing it. These aren’t dramatic moves. They’re the kinds of decisions that reward careful looking.

Some readers will look at the photos and see only exposed concrete and assume “brutalism” in the pejorative sense. But the Salk’s concrete isn’t cold. In that climate, under that sun, it reads as radiant and monumental. The texture and mass of the concrete play against the warmth of the teak infill panels in a way that feels deliberate and balanced. It’s a reminder that materials behave differently depending on where and how they’re used. In the Pacific Northwest, exposed concrete tends to stain, spall, and collect algae unless meticulously maintained. In La Jolla, it stays clean and sharp-edged. Context matters.

Not everything about the visit was ideal. The entry sequence through the 1992 East Building addition felt a bit flat, especially knowing that Kahn had originally intended visitors to approach through a dense eucalyptus grove—a transition from the “unmeasured world” of nature to the “measured world” of science. The grove was removed decades ago after disease spread through the trees, but I do wonder how different the emotional register of the approach might have been. I was also disappointed, though not surprised, that we weren’t allowed inside the laboratories. And I couldn’t help thinking about the unbuilt Meeting House and residences, which, if constructed, would have realized Kahn’s complete vision for the campus. These were footnotes, not failures.

The building felt inhabited, peripherally. Researchers and staff moved along the edges of the courtyard, but they were essentially background figures. The Salk is a workplace, yet it reads more like a monument that happens to contain work. It also resembles a secular monastery: a place set apart for concentrated study, shaped by a belief in the pursuit of truth. That may be the building’s deeper meaning, and perhaps its most enduring one.

Leaving the courtyard, I found myself thinking less about my visit and more about the building’s long arc. The Salk has entered that small category of works that no longer belong to their moment. It has passed into the realm of reference—a building architects return to not for novelty, but for orientation. Its reputation isn’t the result of myth or nostalgia; it’s the result of sustained performance over time. Concrete, light, and proportion held in lasting balance. Few buildings earn that. The Salk has.

Process Over Preciousness

Early in my studies at the University of Oregon, I learned a lesson I carried through my life in architecture. It came from Bill Kleinsasser, whose design studios were equal parts instruction, exploration, and gentle provocation. Bill believed deeply in process, in the idea that early design moves were not precious artifacts but simply commitments meant to evoke response.

One afternoon during a final review, a student presented her carefully crafted chipboard model. Without warning, Bill reached into his pocket, pulled out an X-Acto knife, and began cutting the model apart. He did so calmly, without malice or theatrics, as if he were demonstrating how to sharpen a pencil. The student was in tears. The rest of us were stunned.

But Bill’s point was neither cruel nor dismissive. He wanted us to understand that he regarded physical models as tools—temporary expressions of an idea, not something to cling to. Moreover, he used the act to reveal a design possibility the student hadn’t considered. By taking the model apart, he revealed an alternative way to approach the problem, one that was latent in the work but obscured by its completeness.

I don’t remember how that student ultimately felt about the moment. I only know that I’ve never forgotten it. And I’m not sure how I would have reacted if it had been my model on the table. But the lesson stayed with me: in design, as in much else, holding on too tightly to early ideas can keep you from discovering better ones, especially when letting go opens the door to something new.

Robert A.M. Stern and Frank O. Gehry Remembered

Robert A.M. Stern (1939-2025)

Frank O. Gehry (1929-2025)

In just the past few days, two figures synonymous with the architectural culture of the past half-century died: Robert A.M. Stern (1939-2025) and Frank Gehry (1929-2025). Their deaths, so close together, invite reflection—not because they directly influenced my career, but because they figured so prominently in the architectural landscape during my formative years. Those years—roughly the decade between 1977 and 1987, encompassing my university studies and early years in the profession—would see the work of both men achieve prominence.

Gehry’s own home in Santa Monica provoked debate, dismantling domestic form and announcing a new architectural language. Around the same time, he completed the Information and Computer Science/Engineering Research Facility (ICS/ERF) at UC Irvine. I was working on another project for the university then, and I remember how cheap the building looked—which, in fact, it was, consistent with his raw, deliberately provisional aesthetic of that period. When the university demolished it in 2007, a mere twenty-one years after its completion, the decision confirmed my impression that the ICS/ERF functioned more as an experiment than an enduring contribution.

Gehry Residence, Santa Monica, CA (photo by IK's World Trip, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

ICS/ERF, UC Irvine (photo source: https://11011110.github.io/blog/2007/01/22/gehry-gone.html).

Gehry drew on an idiosyncratic vision shaped by the Los Angeles art scene. He stood as a dominant personality within avant-garde architecture of the day, an iconoclast whose originality commanded attention even as his influence remained limited by how personal it was to him. That individuality gave his buildings force, but it also made them difficult to emulate without sliding into imitation.

Stern’s work in those years followed a different path. His Shingle Style houses, such as the Wiseman House in Montauk, carried forward a historical lineage with studied care. At the same time, his more mannered Post-Modern efforts reflected Robert Venturi’s teachings during Stern’s time at Yale. Stern also stepped into the “Whites vs. Grays” debate of the 1970s, giving voice to the Grays—those who argued for historical reference and contextualism against the abstract modernism of the New York Five. His writings and advocacy gave coherence to that position, showing him not only as a designer but also as a polemicist in one of the era’s defining conversations.

Wiseman House, Montauk, NY

Lang House, Washington, CT (photo source: Meet This Year's CTC&G IDA Innovator Award Recipient, Robert A.M. Stern - Cottages & Gardens)

I met Stern during my graduate studies at UCLA. He visited Los Angeles and joined a small group of us for an interactive session. He carried himself with polish and approachability, more professor than provocateur. Gehry, by contrast, earned a reputation for bluntness and ill temper, qualities that matched the rough edges of his early work. Their personalities mirrored their architectural philosophies: Stern as the cultivated historian, Gehry as the restless experimenter.

Neither man directly shaped my development. Their philosophies stood far apart, and I found my path elsewhere. Yet as a student I fell under the thrall of the starchitect phenomenon. Architecture in those years revolved around celebrity, around the idea that a single figure could embody the discipline’s aspirations. Stern and Gehry ranked among the most visible of those figures.

Duo Dickinson, in his essay The Twilight of the Starchitect, argued that this era is ending. I share that view, though I believe the decline began long ago. In 2016, when Zaha Hadid died, I wrote that the starchitect phenomenon was already fading. The deaths of Stern and Gehry feel less like continuation than conclusion. Who among their contemporaries remains? Rem Koolhaas, Norman Foster, Thom Mayne, perhaps a few others—but the celebrity of these architects today has diminished. Bjarke Ingels has cultivated a kind of stardom, but he belongs to a younger generation, and his fame seems the exception rather than the rule.

Where once a plurality of schools of thought gave architecture its coherence—Modernism, Post-Modernism, Deconstructivism, High-Tech—today the profession confronts a tangle of competing urgencies: climate change, equity, technology, housing, and economic precarity among them. During the starchitect era, aesthetics carried weight because they were embedded in those schools, which together defined the architectural zeitgeist. Today, no single school commands that kind of influence. The starchitect era, with its focus on personality and spectacle, has ended. Architecture now reflects a spectrum of overlapping concerns rather than a single, unified cultural narrative.

I acknowledge Stern and Gehry as presences in my education, unavoidable figures in the architectural conversation of their time. They were not direct influences, yet they informed the period during which I learned to think about architecture. Their passing closes a chapter and underscores the unsettled terrain the profession now inhabits.

Henry Chapman Mercer’s Quixotic Castles and Caves

Fonthill Castle (all photos by me)

During my recent trip to Pennsylvania, I visited three remarkable buildings in Doylestown, Bucks County: the Mercer Museum, the Moravian Pottery and Tile Works, and Fonthill Castle. Archaeologist, artifact collector, and tilemaker Henry Chapman Mercer (1856–1930) designed and built the buildings to embody his interests in history, craft, and storytelling, innovatively employing reinforced, cast-in-place concrete throughout.
 
I’ve previously written on Mercer’s architecture, particularly drawing from University of Oregon professor Bill Kleinsasser’s insights. Like Mercer, Bill critiqued the effects of modernization and industrialization on design, especially the rise of standardization and the loss of diversity found in historical buildings. As a figure associated with the Arts and Crafts movement, Mercer championed vernacular architecture, nature-inspired motifs, and the craftsman-designer’s role. He stood out for his ability to weave legend, literature, Americana, and archaeology into his work. His three buildings are not only unique but also deeply personal and evocative. Bill appreciated their visual qualities, the lessons they offer, and their creator’s eccentricity.
 

The Mercer Museum rises an imposing six stories, housing Mercer’s immense collection of pre-industrial tools. The central atrium is crammed with objects, many of which are hung vertiginously from the ceiling above. Narrow staircases and abrupt transitions shape the experience. The building doesn’t guide visitors through a clear sequence; instead, it asks them to navigate on their own terms. The density of artifacts and the verticality of the atrium create a kind of spatial compression. It may lack legibility, but it is undeniably absorbing.

 

The Mercer Museum.

Inside the museum.

The Tile Works operates to this day. Its architecture is low-slung, with thick concrete walls, a ground-level loggia bordering a central courtyard, and a roofline punctuated by numerous kiln chimneys—each one slightly different in shape and tile adornment. Inside, the layout follows the logic of production, with workspaces, kilns, and drying rooms arranged in a straightforward manner. The building extends the tradition of Pennsylvania German potters and continues to produce tiles using Mercer’s original molds and methods. Mercer drew inspiration from Spanish Mission-style architecture when designing the Tile Works—an unusual reference for Bucks County, but one that lends the structure a sense of restraint and clarity. That restraint stands in contrast to the more elusive formal logic of the Mercer Museum and Fonthill, where spatial organization feels less tied to function.

The Moravian Pottery and Tile Works.

Courtyard.

Reception Hall.

 

Fonthill served as Mercer’s home. The labyrinthine building sprawls across the site, fully enveloping an older stone farmhouse. It holds forty-four rooms of varying shapes and sizes, eighteen fireplaces, and thirty-two staircases. Mercer embedded tiles, inscriptions, and found objects throughout. The stairs shift direction, ceilings rise and fall, and windows frame fragments of landscape. Bill remarked on Mercer’s fascination with caves, castles, and literary imagery. That influence is evident in the building’s spatial unpredictability and whimsical turns.
 

Fonthill roofscape. The separate garage building (now the visitor center) is in the background.

Windows.

Fonthill's saloon (living room). Every one of the irregularly spaced columns is unique.

Section through a digital model of Fonthill. Click on the image to view an enlarged version. The complexity and level of detail evident in this section are remarkable. Big thanks to Jim Givens for allowing me to share this image here.

Now that I’ve been to all three of Mercer's buildings, I’ve thought again about Bill’s interest in them and their broader relevance to today’s architectural discourse: He clearly wasn’t asking us to emulate their forms; rather, he saw them as (pardon the pun) concrete expressions of personal conviction and lived experience. That was the takeaway. He noted their complexity and resistance to straightforward interpretation. In Bill’s words, each Mercer edifice emerges from “images, first recalled and then carefully developed, from his travels and studies . . . places real, and places imaginary.”

Bill recognized that an architect’s internal landscape—the memory, narrative, and inquiry it might encompass—can shape architectural form in ways that are both personal and coherent. Mercer drew inspiration from his extensive travels and the archaeological sites he explored. I certainly considered how his subjective preferences translated into the spatial and material decisions I experienced as I moved through each building. As Mercer did, we can all reflect upon our own memories, values, or narratives when designing. Such an approach can foster buildings that carry individual significance and sensory richness, shaped by our own story and those for whom we design.
 
Ultimately, I left Doylestown with impressions of buildings that resist easy interpretation but richly reward one’s attention. Mercer’s buildings don’t yield readily transferable design strategies. They resist reductive generalization, yet they epitomize what’s possible when architecture is inspired by memory and shaped by craft and conviction. The Mercer Museum, Moravian Pottery and Tile Works, and Fonthill each convey Henry Mercer’s personal inspiration, improvisation, and principles. That’s what Bill saw in them, and what I tried to keep in view at each site.

Fallingwater, Finally

Fallingwater (all photos by me).
 

In a post I wrote back in 2009, I described how a photograph of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater left me, an impressionable 5^th grader, awestruck. It was an image unlike anything I had ever seen: A dramatic composition consisting of concrete terraces cantilevered seemingly weightless over a waterfall, masonry piers of locally quarried sandstone, and horizontal expanses of windows dissolving boundaries between interior and exterior. It was a bold, fully realized expression of Wright’s organic design principles. That image didn’t just spark an interest in architecture; it defined the course my life would follow from that point forward.
 
Last Friday, I visited Fallingwater for the first time.
 
Seeing the house in person didn’t change my understanding, but it added something. The setting was familiar. The scale felt right. As acquainted as I was with its design, Fallingwater didn’t surprise, but it did affect me in a way that drawings and photographs never could.

Inside, the sound of the waterfall is steady. It’s not loud, but it is always present. That sound affects the experience of the house. It connects the interior to the site in a way that’s hard to describe but easy to notice. The house doesn’t invite interpretation as it presents itself directly. The built-in furniture, the narrow passages, the low ceilings—they all reflect Wright’s intent to guide how the space is used and understood.
 
I didn’t take notes or try to analyze every detail. I moved through the house and simply took it in. It felt familiar, but also new. I was happy to be there. Not giddy, but reverent. This was the place that first showed me what architecture could be and now I had seen it firsthand. It met the standard I had carried with me since childhood.
 

There’s a plaque near the entrance noting Fallingwater’s inclusion on UNESCO’s World Heritage List. It talks about “Outstanding Universal Value” and Wright’s contribution to organic architecture. That’s all true, but for me the value was personal. I finally had traveled to see the building that shaped my thinking before I even knew what architecture was. My visit gave me exactly what I hoped for.

 

I took some photos, which I’ve included here. They’re not exhaustive, and they’re not meant to be. They’re just a record of the visit. Proof for myself that I made the pilgrimage. That the house is real. That the path I chose all those years ago still makes sense.

Influences: Leon Krier (1946–2025)

 

Leon Krier (photo by Rggv, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

I cannot say that Leon Krier was a formative influence on me during the early stages of my architectural education or career. I was aware of his work, as well as that of his brother Rob Krier, while in architecture school during the late 1970s and early 1980s. At that time, however, their impact seemed more theoretical than practical, and I gravitated more toward figures whose work felt grounded in built achievement. While the Krier brothers shared a critical stance toward modernist urbanism and both advocated for a return to traditional urban form, their approaches diverged in meaningful ways. Leon’s work was more ideologically rooted in classical and vernacular traditions, while Rob’s embraced a more eclectic, sometimes postmodern sensibility. Leon’s voice was distinctive and increasingly difficult to ignore as the years went on.
 
Leon, who died last month at the age of 79, was a Luxembourg-born architect and urban theorist best known for his principled critique of modernist planning and his sustained advocacy for traditional urban patterns. Through his writings and drawings, he consistently challenged the dominant paradigms of the 20th century—zoning, suburban sprawl, and architectural abstraction—arguing instead for compact, human-scaled neighborhoods rooted in local character and craft. He strongly influenced the emergence of New Urbanism and helped shape its intellectual foundation.

 

His 2009 book The Architecture of Community offered an accessible distillation of ideas he had refined over decades. By the time it appeared, my own thinking on urban design already aligned with many of the principles he championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a strong sense of place. What I appreciated most about the book was its clarity and its ability to communicate complex urban design concepts to both professionals and laypersons. It didn't change my thinking, but helped clarify convictions I already held.

Krier consistently advocated for a classical architectural vocabulary, emphasizing symmetry, hierarchy, and traditional proportions. This stance defined his work and drew ongoing criticism. His preference for European typologies and forms has struck some as culturally narrow, particularly within an increasingly pluralistic and global profession. While he defended classical architecture as expressing enduring and universal principles, his work seldom addressed non-Western traditions or alternative design languages. However principled, his vision was not without blind spots.

 

Queen Mother Square, Poundbury (photo by Léon Krier, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Among Krier’s most tangible contributions was the master plan for Poundbury, an urban extension of Dorchester in England commissioned by then-Prince Charles. Developed incrementally over several decades, Poundbury embodies many of Krier’s core ideas: compact form, walkable streets, integrated housing and employment, and architecture drawn from local precedent. 

Ciudad Cayalá (photo by Vicente Aguirre - https://estudiourbano.com.gt/urbanismo/paseo-cayala/, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104322181

A lesser known but equally ambitious application of his principles can be found in Ciudad Cayalá, a large-scale urban district on the outskirts of Guatemala City, where Krier served as design consultant. Working with local firm Estudio Urbano, he helped shape a master plan based on traditional urbanism, resulting in a community praised for its livability and cohesion, though also criticized for its exclusivity and idealized aesthetics. 

Both Poundbury and Ciudad Cayalá stand as examples of traditionalist theory translated into contemporary communities.

 
The scale of contemporary urban development does raise important questions about the viability of Krier’s approach as a broadly applicable model. His ideal of human-scaled, incrementally built, traditionally styled neighborhoods, though conceptually appealing, can feel insufficient when confronting the urgency of housing shortages, rapid urban migration, and the need for climate-adaptive infrastructure. His principles emphasize long-term livability and coherence, but they have proven challenging to implement at scale, especially in fast-growing metropolitan contexts. To remain relevant, Krier’s ideas may need reinterpretation in hybrid forms that retain their humanist core while engaging with the economic and environmental realities of the 21st century.

Some of Vancouver's characteristic high-rise residential towers overlooking Coal Harbor. The narrow towers rise from pedestrian-scaled commercial podiums while heeding view corridors toward the North Shore mountains (my photo).

Other models do exist. Being from Vancouver, I’ve long regarded the urban planning phenomenon of Vancouverism as a compelling, if markedly different, response to many of the same challenges. Characterized by slender residential towers atop mixed-use podiums, Vancouverism achieves many of the goals Krier championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a coherent urban fabric. Yet it does so without reliance on traditional architectural precedent. Though Krier might have dismissed such an approach as lacking cultural continuity, I view it as a valid and adaptable urban paradigm, appropriate for a cultural context marked by notable heterogeneity. Vancouverism is not without its own limitations, particularly regarding housing affordability and the pressures of real estate speculation, but its success illustrates that multiple models can support livable, resilient cities—even if they diverge aesthetically or arise from different theoretical premises.

One of Leon Krier's polemical sketches.

Krier delivered his provocations through essays, diagrams, and sharply drawn caricatures, earning a reputation as both a dissenter and a polemicist. He rejected the notion that technological progress or avant-garde novelty should define architectural merit. Instead, he argued that a sense of permanence and proportion grounded in human-scale offered a more sustainable and civically oriented path forward. For much of his career, his views placed him outside the architectural mainstream. But over the years, growing concerns about climate resilience, social equity, and livability prompted many in the profession to revisit the values he long upheld.

Krier’s career was not without controversy. Among the more troubling aspects was his 1985 monograph on Albert Speer’s architecture, which some critics have interpreted as an endorsement of a deeply problematic legacy. Beyond this, Krier made statements that many found indefensible and reflective of Euro-centric elitism, if not worse. These views cast a shadow on his work and raise challenging questions about the intersection of architecture and ethics. While his influence on urban design remains significant, it is important to acknowledge these complexities honestly when considering his contributions.

History will not remember Leon Krier for prolific output or stylistic invention, but rather for challenging deeply held assumptions about how we build. What once sounded reactionary or nostalgic has, in many ways, caught up with the moment. As questions of livability and human scale have come to the fore, his work has taken on renewed relevance. His ideas found their way into my own thinking, through their clarity and refusal to fade. That’s how some influences take hold: not through persuasion, but persistence.

Moshe Safdie: Utopian Ideals vs. Contemporary Practice

The Great Hall of the National Gallery of Canada (my photo).

I thoroughly enjoyed my recent trip to Montreal, Quebec City, and Ottawa, having not previously visited any of these cities. All three are historically rich, presenting ample and fascinating evidence of their beginnings as French or British colonial settlements. While I admired the distinctive urban morphology and many landmark buildings (some dating back as far as the early 17th century) each city can boast, some of the more prominent recent developments attracted me as well. Of these, the projects designed by Israeli Canadian architect and urban planner Moshe Safdie stand out.    

Moshe Safdie’s architectural career presents a fascinating blend of utopian ambition, humanistic principles, and the inevitable compromises that arise from large-scale projects in a globalized world. His work, from the visionary Habitat '67 in Montreal to the iconic Marina Bay Sands Resort in Singapore, reflects both the ideals he established early in his career and the evolving demands of contemporary architecture.

I aimed to visit some of Safdie’s notable works during my trip—or at least that was my goal. I brought my well-worn copy of Safdie’s 1982 book Form & Purpose to (re)read during downtime at the airport and on the plane. I wanted to revisit Safdie’s critique of present-day architecture, particularly his call for a return to human-centered, environmentally responsive design. As he states in the book, “. . . when it comes to design—the design of our environment, cities, buildings, houses, utensils, clothes, furniture, cars, and planes—there is one overriding test: Is it done with a deep sense of commitment to people, a commitment in the broadest sense to man in all his complexities—his desires, hopes, fears, and, above all, his well-being? It is a surprisingly simple test.” This perspective remains deeply relevant in discussions about architecture today. I hoped to apply this test to the Safdie projects I wanted to see.

Habitat 67 (photo by Parcours riverain - Ville de Montréal from Canada, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

One of my targets was Habitat '67, the modular housing project that first brought a precociously young Safdie international acclaim. Unfortunately, my time constraints and the project’s relative inaccessibility precluded seeing it up close. Built for the 1967 World’s Fair (Expo 67), Habitat '67 (an adaptation of his thesis project while an undergraduate at McGill University) emerged during a time of social and political upheaval. Safdie envisioned an inclusive community, reflecting the optimism of the era while addressing the challenges of urban density. However, critics called attention to its shortcomings, pointing out that despite its ambitious intentions, the project is isolated from the urban fabric it aimed to enhance, revealing the complexities of translating visionary concepts into practical, livable solutions. I fully agree on this point.

National Gallery of Canada (my photo)

One of the National Gallery of Canda's top floor rooms (my photo).

While in Ottawa, I visited the National Gallery of Canada, one of Safdie’s most celebrated projects. Completed in 1988, the building resonated with me on many levels. The extensive use of glass, particularly in the Grand Hall, floods the space with natural light and creates a profound sense of openness. Safdie’s design emphasizes transparency, allowing the surrounding landscape to frame the architecture itself and fostering a connection between the building and its environment. This alignment with Safdie’s belief that architecture should serve both human needs and the natural world struck a chord with me.

The National Gallery stands as an exemplary representation of Safdie’s principles. It avoids the pitfalls of excessive symbolism or aesthetic novelty that he critiques in Form & Purpose, instead offering clarity of form, light, and cultural sensitivity. The massive building is “of” Ottawa, fitting in while punctuating the cityscape in a way not unlike the capital city’s other landmarks. The building encourages public engagement, blending truly grand, monumental spaces with more intimate areas that prevent overwhelming visitors. The project is an example where Safdie’s utopian vision seems fully realized, merging functionality, beauty, and environmental responsiveness into a coherent whole.

John G. Diefenbaker Building. I struggled to find a satisfactory perspective from which to take a photograph. This shot, taken from a vantage I did not have access to, is by JustSomePics, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons.

I also visited Safdie’s expansion of the John G. Diefenbaker Building in Ottawa. This project sparked controversy during its design and construction, particularly due to disagreements between Safdie and the City of Ottawa regarding both design and cost. The friction during its development reflects the compromises architects often face when tackling complex public projects. The Diefenbaker Building is a thus a balance between ambition and practicality, and perhaps belies Safdie’s claims of working without arrogance.

The tension between his utopian ideals and the demands of a global, commercialized architectural landscape have marked Safdie’s career. His early work aimed to create architecture that responded to both human and environmental needs. Habitat '67 sought to humanize urban housing by offering privacy, green spaces, and individuality in a dense environment. Yet, as with many utopian projects, economic and logistical challenges complicated efforts to implement such a vision on a broader scale. Habitat’s cost and complexity have made replication difficult, and while it remains an architectural landmark, its inaccessibility and lack of integration with Montreal’s urban fabric are problematic.

Marina Bay Sands, Singapore (photo by Someformofhuman, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Safdie’s later work increasingly reflects the commercial realities of modern architecture. Projects like Marina Bay Sands in Singapore primarily serve as luxury developments aimed at global tourism. Although these designs (the Jewel Changi Airport, also in Singapore, is another example) remain visually stunning and innovative, they prioritize commercial appeal and iconic status over the social idealism that characterized Safdie’s initial work.

Despite this shift, Safdie’s commitment to human-scale design and environmental responsiveness shines through many of his projects. The National Gallery of Canada thoroughly impressed me. It exemplifies Safdie’s belief that architecture should serve the community and its cultural context while maintaining a connection to nature. It stands as a monument to his early ideals, offering a coherent blend of beauty, functionality, and public engagement.

Habitat '67 challenged conventions of urban living. The National Gallery of Canada demonstrates how humanist and environmentalist principles can apply to architecture on a grand scale. At the same time, the challenges and compromises of more recent projects, like Marina Bay Sands, illustrate the complexities architects face in balancing visionary ideals with the realities of contemporary practice. The work of Moshe Safdie speaks to his enduring belief in the potential of architecture to shape society for the better.

The Boundless Dreams of a Kid

Calvin & Hobbes (most worshipfully borrowed from Bill Watterson for fair use).

I have always loved architecture. As a child, I discovered the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, and became utterly fascinated by the shapes, colors, and functions of all buildings. I spent countless hours drawing futuristic projects and planning entire cities teeming with skyscrapers. I dreamed of designing structures that would stand the test of time and inspire people. 

I did work hard and ultimately achieved my goal of becoming an architect. I studied diligently, gained valuable experience, and passed exams. Early on, I secured jobs with some prestigious firms and worked on notable and challenging projects. I have enjoyed a truly rewarding career and am proud of what I have accomplished and have been a part of. 

But sometimes, I do wonder about how things might have been different. What if I had followed another path? As kids are inclined to do, I often dreamed about leading an exciting—dare I say—glamorous grown-up life. Perhaps as a heroic spacefaring astronaut?  Or perhaps as an adventurous marine biologist, a dashing and determined fossil hunter, or a record-setting professional hockey player? What if I had pursued one (or more) of my other childhood passions? 

Astronaut Buzz Aldrin on the moon, July 1969 (photo by fellow astronaut Neil Armstrong).

Astronaut

I was born in the era of the space race. I grew up watching the Apollo moon missions on TV and reading about the adventures of the astronauts in magazines. I was amazed by their courage. They had the "right stuff." I wanted to be one of them. 

I imagined myself wearing a spacesuit and boarding a rocket. I experienced the thrill of liftoff and the surreal sensation of weightlessness once in orbit. I saw the Earth from above and the sparkling clarity of the stars suspended in the limitless blackness of space. I traveled to the Moon and Mars and distant galaxies beyond. 

I knew pursuing the dream of becoming an astronaut would not be an easy path. I knew it would take years of training, education, and physical fitness. The journey would be fraught with risks and sacrifices, but the allure of the cosmos was undeniable. 

Photo by NotBurtsBees, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Marine Biologist 

I was captivated by the ocean. I watched documentaries about the underwater world and its many exotic creatures. I was inspired by Jacques Cousteau and his expeditions on his research vessel, the Calypso. I wanted to be like him. 

I imagined myself diving under the waves with dolphins, sharks, whales, and more. I felt the wonder of discovering new species and habitats. I saw the beauty and diversity of coral reefs and kelp forests. I explored the depths and mysteries of the sea. 

I knew becoming a skilled marine biologist would be challenging. I knew it would require years of study, exhaustive research, and fieldwork. I knew it would involve challenges and dangers. But I also knew it would be immensely rewarding to help expand knowledge about the diversity and complexity of oceanic ecosystems. 

Paleontologist Paul Serrano (Photo by Oregon State University, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Paleontologist

My fascination with Earth’s prehistoric past ran deep. I was spellbound by books on dinosaurs and their fossils. I was fascinated by the size, shape, and imagined behavior of such fantastic, long-extinct beasts. I wanted to be a paleontologist, a contributor to the understanding of the evolutionary history of life. 

I imagined myself wearing a safari hat while patiently digging in the dirt. I enjoyed the moment of excitement upon finding a fossilized bone, tooth, or footprint. I saw the history and evolution of life on Earth. I revealed ancient and extinct worlds. 

I knew becoming a paleontologist would not be a straightforward path. I knew it would require years of learning, analysis, peer-review, and publication. I knew it would demand patience and perseverance. But I also knew the study of ancient life would be gratifying beyond imagination.

(Photo by Keith Allison from Hanover, MD, USA, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Professional Hockey Player

Like virtually every other boy growing up in Canada, I was passionate about hockey. It wasn’t merely a sport but a way of life. My brothers, friends, and I played hockey in the street every day after school. We would watch game after game on TV, while attending other must-see contests in person to cheer on my favorite team (the Vancouver Canucks). I wanted to be like the skilled and rugged players I followed as a young fan.

I imagined myself as a player in the National Hockey League, not unlike my childhood heroes: Gordie Howe, Jean Beliveau, Bobby Orr, Bobby Hull, and the other stars of the era. I felt the adrenaline of skating at full speed as I weaved among defenders and scored the game-winning goal. I saw the teamwork and strategy of the game. I was an ardent student of the skills and tactics of the sport.

I knew the path toward NHL stardom would not be an easy one. I knew it would require years of relentless practice, dedication, and raw talent. I knew it involved keen competition and the risk of injury. But the exhilaration of hockey at its highest level enthralled me. 

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These were some of the dreams I had as a kid. They were not all realistic, but they were fun and inspiring. They showed me the possibilities of life and the power of imagination. They shaped my personality and values. They made me who I am today. 

I don't for even a moment regret choosing architecture as my profession. I love my career and I'm grateful for it. But I also won't forget the other paths I could have taken. I still enjoy learning about space, the oceans, dinosaurs, and watching hockey. I still imagine what it would be like to be an astronaut, a marine biologist, a paleontologist, or a professional hockey player. 

I think that's the beauty of being a kid. You can dream of anything and everything. You can be anything and everything. You can have boundless dreams.