ARTICLE 10

Frank Lloyd Wright Was the OG. So What Happened to Architecture?

When I was in architecture school, I did not appreciate Frank Lloyd Wright the way I do today.

Honestly, I fought it.

Ask the average person to name an architect and Frank Lloyd Wright was usually the first name that came to mind. As a student, that almost made me want to look anywhere else. Architecture is enormous. There are thousands of years of buildings, movements, cultures, architects, and ideas to study. Surely we could talk about somebody else.

It reminds me of asking someone to name the greatest rock band of all time and hearing Led Zeppelin.

It almost feels cliché.

But eventually you realize there is a reason certain names keep coming up.

You do not have to believe Led Zeppelin is your favorite band to understand why they are considered one of the greats. Listen closely and you hear rhythm, layering, restraint, experimentation, technical ability, and musicians who understood how their individual parts contributed to something larger.

I think Wright was similar.

You can dislike individual buildings. You can question some of his decisions. You can prefer completely different architecture.

But the more I have learned about buildings and construction, the more I have come to appreciate just how deeply Wright understood what he was doing.

It Was Never Just a Style

What makes Wright interesting to me now is not simply the horizontal rooflines, stone walls, stained glass, built-ins, or dramatic cantilevers.

It is that he thought about the whole building.

The site mattered.

The landscape mattered.

The structure mattered.

The materials mattered.

The furniture mattered.

The light mattered.

How you entered the building mattered.

How a ceiling compressed above you and then opened into a larger space mattered.

How stone met wood mattered.

How the building sat on the land mattered.

Wright called his approach organic architecture. Buildings, furnishings, materials, technology, landscape, and the people occupying the space were not treated as unrelated pieces. They were parts of one composition.

That way of thinking is what I find important.

It does not mean we should copy Frank Lloyd Wright.

It means we should ask ourselves whether we still think about buildings with that same level of completeness.

Architecture Has Changed

Modern architecture can do things Wright could never have imagined.

Our understanding of building science has advanced enormously. We know more about moisture, air movement, thermal performance, structural behavior, fire safety, accessibility, energy use, mechanical systems, and materials.

We have engineers and consultants with extraordinary levels of specialized knowledge.

We have BIM, or Building Information Modeling, allowing architects, engineers, and contractors to coordinate enormous amounts of information inside a digital model.

These are good things.

Buildings have also become significantly more complex.

And as that complexity grew, so did specialization.

Architects design.

Structural engineers engineer structures.

Mechanical engineers design mechanical systems.

Electrical engineers design electrical systems.

Contractors build.

Fabricators fabricate.

Specialty trades install increasingly sophisticated systems.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with specialization. We need specialists.

The problem begins when specialization becomes separation.

Throughout my career, I have heard versions of the same phrases:

"I just do design."

"I just do structural."

"That's the contractor's problem."

"Let someone else figure out how it stands."

I understand what people mean. Everyone has a scope and an area of expertise.

But I have never been comfortable with the word just.

Because everything is connected.

An Architect Has to Understand More Than Design

A good architect does not need to know structural engineering better than the structural engineer.

But the architect should understand structure well enough to have a meaningful conversation about it.

You do not need to be a master mason, but if you are drawing masonry walls, you should understand how masonry behaves.

You do not need to be a carpenter, but if you are designing wood construction, you should understand how the pieces are actually cut, fastened, supported, and assembled.

You should understand what happens when wood meets steel.

When stone meets a window.

When a roof meets a wall.

Where water goes.

How something gets flashed.

What happens when materials expand differently.

How someone physically gets a tool into the location you just detailed.

And in what order all of it has to be constructed.

Architecture is incredibly broad.

We have to understand design, construction, structure, building science, codes, materials, cost, human behavior, mechanical systems, history, landscape, light, proportion, and dozens of other subjects.

We will never know everything about every one of them.

That is why we work with experts.

But I believe the architect's role is to understand enough of all of them to see the connections.

That is where design actually happens.

How the Hell Did They Build This From These Drawings?

Over the years, I have had the privilege of working on historic buildings and reviewing original architectural drawing sets.

I find myself asking the same question almost every time.

How the hell did they build this from this set?

You can be standing inside an incredible building with beautiful masonry, woodwork, stairs, windows, trim, structure, ornament, and carefully proportioned spaces.

Then you pull out the original drawings.

Sometimes there are only a handful of sheets.

I have spent much of my career producing construction documents and specifications. On larger projects, the combined architectural drawings, engineering drawings, schedules, specifications, consultant information, submittals, and other documentation can easily reach hundreds or even thousands of pages.

And yet here is this beautiful old building sitting in front of me that appears to have been constructed from a fraction of that information.

So what happened?

At first it is tempting to think they simply did not need as much information.

I do not think that is the whole answer.

The information was there.

A lot more of it lived in people.

A skilled mason carried knowledge about masonry that did not have to be explained on every drawing.

A carpenter understood how wood buildings went together because that knowledge had been learned through years of physically building them.

Trades developed conventions, methods, proportions, sequences, and techniques that could be communicated with relatively little information.

Some decisions happened through conversations.

Some were made in the field.

Some came through shop drawings, templates, mockups, and established building practices.

Some documents may simply no longer exist.

And architects were often closer to the act of making the building.

The traditional idea of the architect grew out of something much closer to the master builder, where conception and construction were not as sharply divided as they often are today.

As buildings became more sophisticated, that model had to change.

No single person can reasonably be the world's best architect, structural engineer, mechanical engineer, electrical engineer, building scientist, estimator, carpenter, mason, and contractor.

But I wonder whether, in separating all of those responsibilities, we also separated some of the knowledge that once connected them.

Today, If It Isn't Communicated, It Probably Isn't There

Modern construction documents exist for very good reasons.

A contractor has to price the project.

The owner has to know what is included.

Subcontractors have to bid their work.

Consultants have to coordinate their systems.

Products have to be selected.

Codes have to be satisfied.

Responsibilities have to be clear.

And buildings are simply more technically complicated than they once were.

One lesson I have learned repeatedly throughout my career is this:

You cannot rely on everyone else to imagine the same building that exists in your head.

If a design decision matters, communicate it.

If a material matters, identify it.

If a transition matters, detail it.

If a dimension matters, dimension it.

If performance matters, specify it.

Because if it is not communicated, someone eventually has to make an assumption.

That assumption might be perfectly reasonable.

It just might not be what the architect or client intended.

And once construction begins, unanswered questions have consequences.

They can become RFIs.

Change orders.

Schedule delays.

Additional cost.

Substitutions.

Or simply a finished condition that is technically acceptable but completely different from what everyone thought they were getting.

That is part of why our documents have become so extensive.

But there is an irony in this.

We are surrounded by more information than any generation of architects and builders before us, yet more information does not automatically create more understanding.

A thousand pages can communicate a tremendous amount.

They can also overwhelm people.

A perfect BIM model still cannot replace a conversation.

A beautifully drawn detail does not mean much if it cannot actually be constructed.

A specification does not replace knowing why a material behaves the way it does.

Maybe the goal should not be to produce the most information possible.

Maybe the goal should be to create the clearest understanding possible.

Architects Need to Make Things

This is one area where I feel strongly.

I think architects should build things.

That does not mean every architect needs to become a contractor.

Put on a tool belt occasionally.

Use a drill.

Cut wood.

Pour concrete.

Fasten two materials together.

Repair something.

Watch a window being installed.

Stand next to a carpenter while they try to build something you drew.

Feel the weight of the material.

See how imperfect a supposedly straight piece of lumber actually is.

Understand why there needs to be tolerance around something.

Discover that the screw you conveniently drew in section cannot physically be installed because there is no room for the drill.

Those experiences change the way you draw.

They change the way you design.

Imagine a sculptor who had spent an entire career studying sculpture but had never touched clay or stone.

Something would be missing.

Architecture is a physical art.

Eventually somebody has to make the thing we imagined.

I think architects should have an intimate respect for that process.

Architecture Is the Master Art

When I was a kid, I thought I was going to become an artist.

I loved drawing and making things, and for a while I explored different directions trying to figure out what that might become.

Eventually I found architecture.

And the longer I have been in the profession, the more convinced I have become that architecture is, in many ways, the master art.

It brings almost everything together.

Art.

Sculpture.

Engineering.

Construction.

Craft.

Mathematics.

Technology.

Light.

Landscape.

Materials.

History.

Psychology.

Human behavior.

A piece of architecture is essentially a giant inhabitable sculpture.

But unlike a sculpture in a gallery, people spend their lives inside it.

They wake up there.

Raise children there.

Work there.

Cook there.

Gather there.

Celebrate there.

Look out the same window thousands of times.

The spaces around us influence how we move, interact, feel, focus, gather, retreat, and live.

That gives architecture an enormous responsibility.

A building should not simply be an arrangement of rooms that satisfies a checklist.

It should be considered as an experience.

So Why Has So Much Architecture Become Stale?

There is no single reason.

And I do not think blaming architects, contractors, developers, engineers, or clients gets us anywhere.

The world changed.

Construction costs increased.

Labor costs increased.

Skilled trades changed.

Codes became more extensive.

Buildings became more technologically sophisticated.

Liability grew.

Schedules became tighter.

Products became more standardized.

Financing became more influential.

Projects became divided among larger teams of specialists.

All of those pressures are real.

When every decision has a cost attached to it, there is a natural tendency to choose the familiar solution.

The detail that worked before.

The material everyone already knows.

The floor plan buyers already recognize.

The assembly that is easiest to price.

The building somebody knows will get approved.

Little by little, efficiency can turn into sameness.

But I do not think constraints are the enemy of architecture.

Some of the greatest architecture ever created came from constraints.

A difficult site can create the idea.

A limited budget can force discipline.

Structure can create form.

Climate can shape orientation.

Available materials can establish character.

The problem is not having constraints.

The problem is allowing the constraints to become the entire design.

We Do Not Need to Go Backward

When I ask what changed, I am not arguing that we should go back to practicing architecture the way it was practiced 100 years ago.

I like BIM.

I like modern engineering.

I like modern building science.

I like energy-efficient buildings.

I like knowing why water moves through an assembly instead of hoping it works.

I want buildings to be safer, more accessible, more durable, and more comfortable.

The answer is not nostalgia.

The question is how we take everything modern architecture has gained without losing the connection between thinking and making.

That means architects spending more time in the field.

Contractors being part of important conversations earlier.

Engineers being treated as design collaborators rather than people brought in afterward to make something work.

Architects listening to tradespeople.

Designers understanding materials beyond what they look like on a computer screen.

Details being developed with an understanding of sequence.

Budgets becoming part of the creative problem rather than the point where creativity ends.

Technology giving us greater understanding rather than greater distance from the physical building.

Perhaps the future is not about returning to a single master builder.

Buildings have become too complex for that.

Maybe the better idea is to create teams that think with the mentality of a master builder.

Different people bringing deep expertise while understanding that none of their decisions exist in isolation.

That is where I believe architecture becomes interesting again.

What This Means for DEMI

All of this is part of what I want DEMI Architecture to stand for.

Our tagline is:

Design. Evolve. Make. Inspire.

Those words were never meant to simply sound good together.

Design means looking at the whole problem. The client, site, light, structure, materials, cost, construction, and details should contribute to an idea.

Evolve means learning from the past without copying it. We have better tools, better technology, and better building science. Use them. Architecture should move forward.

Make might be the most important word. Architecture eventually becomes physical. Someone has to cut it, frame it, weld it, pour it, fasten it, finish it, and make it real. Design should respect the people and knowledge required to do that.

Inspire is why any of it matters. Buildings influence people's lives. Architecture should be capable of giving something back to the people who experience it.

I finally understand why Frank Lloyd Wright kept showing up in architecture school.

It was never because every architect should design like Frank Lloyd Wright.

It was because he understood that architecture was not a collection of disconnected decisions.

It was one thing.

The building.

The landscape.

The structure.

The material.

The craft.

The detail.

The person.

The experience.

All working together.

Maybe that is what we need to recover.

Not Wright's style.

Not architecture from another century.

Not the old master builder exactly as that profession once existed.

The mentality.

Know how it stands.

Know how water gets out.

Know how the materials meet.

Know how somebody is going to build it.

Know what it costs.

Know how the space feels.

Know why you made the decision.

And never stop being curious about the parts you do not know.

Then design.

That is the approach I want to continue developing at DEMI.

Good architecture should evolve, not become generic.

Michael Demetrios Frudakis, AIA, NCARB
Principal Architect