TOUCHING HISTORY

Some architectures are built to shelter.

Some to monumentalize.

And some — like the Berlin Wall — are built to divide.

But decades after its fall, what remains of the Wall is no longer a symbol of separation. Today it exists as a tactile archive, a material landscape where memory is embedded in concrete, steel, earth, and scar. Walking along the former border, you don’t just see history — you feel it. Across textures, voids, fragments, and surfaces, Berlin reveals a city continuously stitching itself back together.

Material Fragments as Memory Fragments

The Berlin Wall no longer appears as a single structure. It survives through scattered remnants — some monumental, others almost invisible:

• Reinforcement bars emerging from the ground like exposed ribs

• Concrete stumps eroded down to their aggregates

• Metal bands and stone strips marking the Wall’s original path

• New steel partitions aligned exactly where the border once stood

• Museum installations mapping both its presence and absence

Together, these pieces form a constellation of material memory. Touching the concrete’s rough, porous face feels like reading an archive carved by weather, conflict, and time. The Wall persists not as an object, but as a series of tactile encounters.

Concrete as Witness

Berlin’s concrete holds its history unapologetically.

Up close, its surface reveals:

• Years of weathering

• Graffiti that once protested division

• Scratches and pits from attempted escapes

• Imperfections from rushed construction

Concrete is usually considered hard, cold, and inert — yet here it behaves almost like skin. It absorbs stories. It carries trauma. It softens at the edges but hardens in meaning. The exposed rebar, now rusted and delicate, reveals the internal anatomy of a structure that once defined geopolitical reality. Its material honesty is disarming.

New Steel Against Old Concrete: A Dialogue of Eras

In several stretches, Berlin places a new metal wall directly beside the original concrete.

The contrast is intentional:

• Old concrete is rough, heavy, and absorptive.

• New steel is smooth, cool, and reflective.

Together, they form a quiet architectural dialogue — a threshold between what was and what is. The pairing is not about reconstruction; it is about recognition. The city chooses to remember through juxtaposition rather than erasure. In this layered condition, the tactile story becomes richer.

The Church of Reconciliation: Architecture as Healing

One of the most moving sites along the former border is the Church of Reconciliation, rebuilt on the footprint of a church destroyed in 1985 when it stood stranded in the death strip.

The new church, made of rammed earth mixed with clay from the site, carries fragments from the ruins within its walls — brick pieces, stones, glass shards. You can see them embedded in the material. You can touch them. The building becomes an act of architectural healing, binding fragments of the past into a grounded present.

Outside, a sculpture of a kneeling man and woman embraces along the ghosted outline of the original church walls. Their gesture mirrors the city’s own — a collective bending toward reconciliation.

Graffiti, Stamps, and Collective Imprint

Large reassembled segments of the Wall stand today as open-air galleries. These surfaces — once instruments of oppression — have transformed into vibrant layers of public participation.

Graffiti, signatures, checkpoint stamps, stickers, and drawings cover the concrete. Each mark is a personal encounter, a moment of contact. The Wall no longer enforces division; instead, it gathers a global community around it.

In these installations, materiality becomes democratic. People touch the Wall, take photographs before it, and imprint their own stories onto its surface. The concrete accepts it all, becoming an evolving canvas of collective memory.

Touching History: Materiality as Sensory Archive

What makes the Berlin Wall so affecting today is not only its history, but its tactility. The city allows you to experience memory through touch, scale, texture, and presence.

You feel history when:

• Your fingers skim a pitted concrete surface

• Your palm rests against cool, new steel

• Your feet follow the stones tracing the Wall’s old path

• Your eyes read the layered graffiti and markings

• Your body stands in the void where a building once stood

This is architecture as sensory record.

Materiality becomes a vessel for memory — not abstract, but embodied.

Why the Berlin Wall Still Matters to Designers

For architects and designers, the Berlin Wall offers a profound lesson:

Materials remember.

Concrete can carry trauma.

Steel can articulate clarity.

Earth can hold grief and healing simultaneously.

Graffiti can become a people’s archive.

The Wall demonstrates that architecture holds emotional resonance long after its political use fades. Rebuilding is not only technical — it is cultural, tactile, and deeply human.

Walking these remnants, photographing their layers, and tracing their textures is a reminder that cities metabolize pain through material decisions. Berlin teaches us that memory lives not only in monuments, but in fragments, scars, and deliberate acts of reconstruction.

Closing Reflection

The Berlin Wall once divided a city.

Today, its remnants connect people across time.

Through concrete, earth, steel, and public inscription, Berlin transforms conflict into tactile memory. It invites us to touch history, to read it through materials, and to witness how architecture can carry the stories we cannot afford to forget.

Some walls fall.

But the materials remain — offering tangible lessons in resilience, reconciliation, and the quiet power of design.

THE ARCHITECT’S MARK

There are tools that help us design, and then there are tools that shape the way we think.

For architects, the simplest and most sacred of these is the hand-drawn line.

We live in a world where software is fast, AI is accelerating, and entire buildings can be modeled before a pencil ever touches paper. It’s efficient, powerful, and essential. But in this rush toward the digital, something quieter—but foundational—is slipping away:

The art of hand-marking.

That first intuitive gesture on a page.

That quick, imperfect line that reveals how you see.

That moment where thought and hand move at the same speed.

Hand-marking is not nostalgia. It’s literacy.

Why the Hand Still Matters in an AI World

Ask any architect you admire: long before their projects became icons, their ideas lived as tiny marks inside sketchbooks. Those marks trained their eyes, their instincts, their sense of proportion and space.

Hand-marking does three critical things no software can replace:

1. It strengthens perception.

A freehand sketch forces you to truly see—shadow, proportion, void, rhythm, balance.

Your hand becomes an extension of your eye.

2. It sharpens decision-making.

A line has direction. A gesture has intent.

You learn to commit, adjust, refine—developing confidence with each mark.

3. It slows the mind down just enough.

In architecture, slowness is not inefficiency.

Slowness is discernment.

A chance to absorb, understand, and interpret space with clarity.

Hand-marking is less about the drawing itself and more about the designer it builds.

Europe, Sketchbooks, and the Practice of Seeing

During my Europe study abroad program, I filled entire sketchbooks with drawings. Churches, courtyards, narrow streets, fragments of facades—each captured quickly, quietly, instinctively.

I wasn’t trying to make them perfect.

I was trying to make them true.

Those sketches taught me more about architecture than hours of lectures:

The weight of stone in a Romanesque arch.

The rhythm of a colonnade in Florence.

The way morning light slides across a Berlin facade.

The humility of a doorway in a small German town.

The pause before stepping into a public square.

Travel sharpened my senses, but sketching trained my mind to hold onto the moments that mattered.

Looking back, those drawings were not souvenirs.

They were exercises in presence—my earliest “instruments of service.”

Why Architects Must Keep Hand-Marking Alive

We risk losing something vital if we stop teaching young architects how to draw by hand—not for beauty, but for clarity.

Hand-marking:

• reconnects architects to the fundamentals of space

• anchors the design process in observation rather than shortcuts

• strengthens the connection between imagination and articulation

• makes ideas personal, embodied, and human

A hand-drawn line carries intention, memory, and emotion.

It carries you.

Digital tools make us efficient.

Hand-marking makes us authors.

Both are needed.

But only one builds the quiet confidence of knowing that your mind, hand, and eye are in conversation.

The Mark as Threshold

Every sketch—no matter how small—marks a threshold.

A moment where something unseen becomes possible.

A spark of an idea becoming form.

Keeping the art of hand-marking alive is not a sentimental act.

It’s a commitment to the craft, the discipline, and the way architects learn to think.

In a future shaped by screens, the soul of architecture may still be shaped by the hand.

So on this Mark Monday, here’s an invitation:

Pick up a pen. Make a mark.

Draw what you see. Draw what you feel.

Draw—not to impress, but to understand.

Your hand still remembers how to see.

Let it speak.

‘CAN’-tilever Fever

In 2014, I had the privilege of leading a team of AEC professionals in one of the most joyful, purpose-driven design challenges of my career: CANstruction Chicago. Each year, architects, engineers, contractors, interns, vendors, and volunteers come together to build massive 10’ x 10’ structures entirely out of canned food—all of which is later donated to the Greater Chicago Food Depository.

That year, our team proudly christened ourselves Team POP — Power of Partnerships, and we set out to create something unmistakably Chicago. What began as sketches, planning meetings, can-testing experiments, and spirited design debates eventually became our installation:

CANtilever Fever — a playful structural tribute to Chicago’s riverfront and skyline.

We built a Chicago scene featuring:

• the iconic Chicago River complete with the iconic Chicago Boat Taxi,

• a pair of Chicago’s signature open-position bascule bridges,

• and a distilled skyline with the Sears Tower and John Hancock Tower rising behind it.

It was Chicago, reimagined in cans—to be built with intention.

Why CANstruction Matters ?

CANstruction is design with purpose.

It challenges the AEC community to think with discipline and heart—using material, scale, gravity, and coordination to create something beautiful that ultimately becomes something essential: food.

It transforms architecture into an instrument of service—literally. The cans donated after each exhibition become meals for families across Chicagoland.

Architecture becomes nourishment.

Design becomes generosity.

TESTING The Design Concept:

Chicago’s Iconic Bridges Reimagined in Cans

Chicago’s bascule bridges—frozen in dramatic open positions—are some of the most recognizable symbols of the city. We knew from the start they had to be the centerpiece.

The challenge?

Building sloped, cantilevered geometry out of cylindrical cans with no adhesives, no friction control, and limited structural tolerance. Every angle required experimentation:

• Which cans had the structural consistency to bear load?

• Which colors worked for legibility at scale?

• How do you maintain incline without collapse?

• How do you balance sloped geometry using only gravity, density, and teamwork?

We prototyped, stacked, tested, rebuilt.

We sketched elevations and stacking sequences.

We calculated loads based on baked beans vs. chili vs. pasta. (For the record: pasta cans are deceiving—they’re heavier than you expect.)

Somewhere between the prototyping and the recalculations, the build design stopped being merely a sculpture and became an expression of teamwork.

Build Day:

When the City Rose in Cans

Build day felt like controlled chaos—in the best way.

We arrived with pallets of cans stacked taller than we were, multiple booklets of color coded floor plans for every horizontal ‘plate of cans’, and a volunteer army ready to build.

The team divided instinctively:

• the Bridge Crew,

• the Skyline Crew,

• the River and Boat Team,

• and the all-important QC leads, calling out every misalignment and micro-lean.

Calls echoed across the build site:

“Check that slope!”

“Swap these labels—color gradient’s off!”

“Bring a lighter can—we’re tipping!”

“Check the alignment!”

“Hold the load—reset that row!”

The build forces you to reconsider materiality, stability, and structural behavior through an unconventional medium.

Can by can, our build rose,

The skyline stretched upward.

The river curved into place using bottled water.

The bridges found their balance and locked into their open sculptural stance as they cantilevered over the Chicago boat taxi below.

And suddenly, there it was:

CANtilever Fever, complete—whimsical, structural, unmistakably Chicago and undeniably ours.

Local news stations like NBC Chicago visited to film the installations, including ours. Watching visitors point, smile, and take photos reminded me why we build: to create connection.

After the exhibition closed, every can became nourishment for families across Chicagoland.

Architecture became care.

And CANS of food a fundamental form of shelter.

Project Stats (from our official team sheet)

CANtilever Fever — CANstruction Chicago 2014

• 6,000 cans used

• Building blocks : Cans of -

• Dakota’s Pride Baked Beans (Original & Maple)

• Bon Italia Pasta & Meatballs

• Happy Harvest Peas

• Chilli Man Chili

• Bottled water for the river

• Benefiting: Greater Chicago Food Depository

• Presented by: Whole Foods Market & Chase

• Built by: Team POP — Power of Partnerships

• Sponsors included: FGM Architects, Arup, Trendway, Herman Miller, Maharam, Office Concepts, (re)group, and more.

• Exhibited : Aug 14 – Sept 8, 2014

Power of Partnerships: The Heart of the Build

CANstruction projects live or die by the strength of the team. Our roster included architects, engineers, designers, vendors, interns, and volunteers from across multiple firms of Chicago’s AEC community:

FGM Architects / Arup / Trendway / The Dobbins Group / Maharam / Herman Miller / Office Concepts / (re)group

Each person contributed something irreplaceable:

• the engineer who recalculated a leaning tower section,

• the architect who refined the bridge slope for stability and perfected the skyline proportions,

• the designer who designed the build plans and graphics for T-shirts and build day info boards,

• the vendors who helped co-ordinate storage of 6000 cans and provided spaces for meetings and mockups,

• the volunteers who lifted palettes, stacked cans, adjusted them, and kept morale high throughout build night.

Partnerships built the project.

Partnerships held it together.

Partnerships made it meaningful.

When Architecture FEEDS

After the exhibition closed, every single can— all six thousand of them—went straight to the Greater Chicago Food Depository.

Our skyline dismantled itself into meals.

Our design transformed into nourishment.

Our architecture became service.

The most meaningful transformation wasn’t the skyline we built.

It was the impact it became.

The T-Shirt:

When Architecture Is Literally Built Out of People

Team POP believed collaboration was our greatest material—and I wanted our team shirts to reflect that spirit.

I designed a graphic of the open bridge constructed entirely out of the names of every team member. No lines, no strokes—only typography arranged to form the silhouette of the bridge.

The bridge wasn’t merely a symbol.

It was a portrait of collaboration and partnership.

When we submitted the design to CustomInk for printing, something unexpected happened:

Our shirts were featured in CustomInk’s “Ink of the Week” which gave our project visibility in the community.

That recognition wasn’t about the shirt—it was about the spirit behind it. Design resonates when people are its foundation.

Looking Back:

What CANtilever Fever Taught Me

CANstruction taught me something fundamental:

Architecture isn’t only about creating buildings.

It’s about creating impact.

Whether it’s volunteering for Open House Chicago, designing a hotel, writing a blog post, or leading a team in a competition where structure becomes service—every act of design shapes how people live, move, feel, gather, or eat.

Sometimes architecture speaks in glass and steel.

Sometimes it speaks in cans.

Leading Team POP affirmed that architecture lives in:

• collaboration,

• community impact,

• creative problem-solving,

• and the joy of building something that matters.

Design can be playful and purposeful, structural and symbolic—

and sometimes, it can win “Ink of the Week” while feeding thousands.

INSTRUMENTS OF SERVICE

Every profession has its instruments.

Musicians have sound.

Writers have words.

Surgeons have scalpels.

For architects, the instrument isn’t bricks or mortar — it’s the drawings, models, and documents we create to bring ideas into the world.

In architectural practice, these are formally called “instruments of service.” They’re the sketches on trace paper, the CAD files on a glowing screen, the renderings that sell a vision, the construction documents that guide a builder’s hand. They’re not the building itself — but they’re the essential bridge that connects imagination to construction.

What Are Instruments of Service?

Legally, the American Institute of Architects defines instruments of service as any representation an architect produces: sketches, plans, specifications, models, or digital files. These are protected intellectual property — meaning they belong to the architect who created them, even if a client commissions the work.

This protection matters because architecture is both art and service. Our instruments are how we speak our design language. They can’t be copied, repurposed, or built upon without the author’s permission.

Why They Matter

When I first encountered the term, it sounded abstract — almost clinical. But over time, I realized just how central these instruments are to architectural practice.

1. They Protect Vision

An architect’s instruments of service are a safeguard. They ensure that your design intent isn’t misinterpreted or altered without your input.

2. They Define Scope

Instruments of service clarify what a client is paying for and how those deliverables can be used. They make the invisible — design labor — visible.

3. They Shape Process

Every drawing, sketch, or file is a step in a larger story. Instruments of service are iterative, evolving as ideas move from concept to construction.

From Studio to Practice

I think of all the tools I’ve used in my own journey: ink drawings, watercolor sketches, cardboard models cut late at night, and now the digital languages of CAD, Rhino, and Revit.

Each one was an instrument — some quick and messy, some precise and technical. In studio, they were part of the creative process. In practice, they became legally binding documents.

What struck me is how fluid the boundary is: the same pencil sketch that sparks a concept can eventually live inside a contract drawing. Both are instruments of service, just speaking at different volumes.

Beyond the Legal Definition

But instruments of service aren’t just about protection or liability. They’re about storytelling.

A sketch persuades.

A rendering inspires.

A set of documents instructs.

They’re how we share imagination with others — translating thought into form, and form into reality. They’re also how we collaborate: with clients, with engineers, with builders, and with each other.

Looking Ahead

As tools evolve, so does the definition of instruments of service. Today, they include BIM models, VR walkthroughs, parametric scripts, and even AI-assisted visualizations. Tomorrow, who knows?

The challenge for architects is to keep authorship while embracing innovation. Because no matter the medium, the core truth remains: instruments of service are the language we use to communicate design.

Reflections

Buildings may last centuries, but before the first stone is laid, they begin as fragile lines on paper, pixels on a screen, or models held together with glue.

That’s the power of instruments of service: they are not the building itself, but the bridge between imagination and construction. They protect, they persuade, they inspire.

And like any instrument — a violin, a pen, a chisel — they demand both skill and care to be played well.

THE CAMERA AS A THRESHOLD

In architecture, thresholds mark transitions—between inside and outside, light and shadow, public and private. Photography works the same way. Every time a photographer picks up a camera, they draw an invisible border around a moment. What falls inside the frame becomes the story. What falls outside becomes speculation, imagination, or omission.

A photograph is never just a record.

It is a constructed threshold.

The Photographer as Architect of the Frame

Just as architects orchestrate a person’s first impression of a built space, photographers orchestrate what a viewer will encounter when they step into an image. The frame becomes an intentional piece of authorship—a portal designed by the photographer.

• Tilt the camera slightly, and the scene becomes unstable.

• Shift left a few inches, and a new character enters the story.

• Crop out a background element, and the emotional charge changes completely.

The photographer is not simply a documentarian; they are a designer of narrative space through the images they capture.

What the Frame Reveals—and Conceals

Every photograph is a negotiation between presence and absence.

What is included becomes evidence.

What is excluded becomes silence.

This is where photography and architecture meet. Both disciplines manipulate:

• Edges

• Sightlines

• Boundaries

• Perspective

• Interpretation

A photograph of a serene street corner may hide the chaos outside the frame. A portrait might capture vulnerability while concealing the world pressing in just beyond the lens. The viewer steps through the threshold and fills in the missing context from their own experiences, biases, and fantasies.

The Viewer as Co-Author

Once a photograph is released into the world, its meaning expands beyond the photographer’s intent. Viewers bring their own memories, cultures, and emotional histories to the frame. They fill the negative space with their own narrative.

This is the quiet power of photography:

Two people can stand before the same image

and walk away with two entirely different stories.

The frame is fixed,

but the interpretation is fluid.

Photography as a Narrative Tool in Design

For architects and designers, photography becomes more than documentation. It becomes a method of storytelling—of guiding how others see our work or our world.

• A tight crop might focus on texture and materiality.

• A wide shot may reveal relationships, boundaries, or context.

• A long exposure might whisper something about time, movement, or ritual.

When we photograph architecture, we are not merely recording the built environment. We are shaping how others will enter it—through our lens and our chosen threshold.

Conclusion: The Ethical Threshold

With authorship comes responsibility.

Just as architects consider the social and cultural impact of their designs, photographers must ask: What stories am I choosing to make visible? What am I leaving out—and why?

Every frame is an ethical decision.

The camera is not neutral.

The threshold is not accidental.

And the narrative is never singular.

MATERIALITY OF A BUILDING IS CODE, TOO

We often think of code in architecture as something abstract — a checklist of fire ratings, egress paths, and accessibility clearances.

But there’s another kind of code, one that speaks directly to the body, the land, and the climate: material.

Material is code, too.

And it’s time we start treating it that way.

What Are We Really Building For?

Architects are taught that our foremost responsibility is to ensure the health, safety, and welfare of the public.

It’s written into building codes, ethics guidelines, and design handbooks.

But I keep coming back to a deeper question:

What are we really building for — and for how long?

As flash floods, hurricanes, wildfires, and rising tides disrupt lives across the U.S., I’m struck by the disconnect between our codes and our materials.

Why do we speak of resilience in abstract terms while continuing to build with wood studs and gypsum board in regions repeatedly devastated by water, wind, or fire?

We wouldn’t accept seat belts made of cardboard in our cars.

So why are we okay with homes that buckle under the same storms that return every decade?

Materiality of a Home

A structure’s core and shell — its bones and skin — aren’t just aesthetic or budget-driven decisions. They are life-safety choices.

They determine whether a space survives, breathes, protects, or collapses. They define thermal comfort, structural integrity, water resistance, and even emotional security in times of crisis.

When flash floods drown neighborhoods, when hurricanes strip roofs to rafters, when wildfires turn towns to ash — the material story becomes painfully clear:

wood frame construction simply isn’t enough anymore.

Not in coastal zones. Not in floodplains. Not in wildfire belts.

Durability Is Safety

In architecture school, we often talk about “100-year buildings” — structures that stand the test of time both physically and culturally.

Yet this mindset rarely extends to the everyday home.

In the U.S., the dominant model for residential construction remains light wood framing — fast, inexpensive, and standardized.

But it’s also vulnerable.

To rot. To termites. To wind shear. To fire. To time.

Not all wood, however, performs the same way.

Heavy timber construction — using large, solid wood members like columns and beams — tells a different story.

When exposed to flames, its outer layer chars, forming a protective barrier that insulates the core. This slow, predictable burn rate means the structural core often remains intact far longer than steel, which can lose strength rapidly under heat.

Beyond fire, heavy timber offers mass, thermal stability, and longevity. Its volume resists warping, absorbs and releases moisture gradually, and regulates interior temperature through natural insulation. It’s a material that breathes with its environment — and ages gracefully within it.

Light-frame homes may meet code, but they don’t necessarily meet the moment — a moment defined by climate volatility and recurring disaster.

Durable materials — whether reinforced concrete, precast panels, masonry, structural steel, or heavy timber — have long been proven in seismic zones, flood-prone regions, and dense urban cores.

The question is not whether they work, but why we aren’t using them more widely, especially in housing where the stakes are personal and perpetual.

The Cost Question

The answer, of course, is cost — or at least, perceived cost.

Wood framing is cheap to install, fast to assemble, and deeply embedded in American building culture. Developers prioritize margins. Municipalities prioritize code minimums. And homeowners often don’t know what questions to ask.

But initial cost shouldn’t be the only metric.

What about life cycle value?

What about the cost of rebuilding, again and again, after every storm season?

Yes, concrete emits carbon.

But so does rebuilding entire subdivisions every time a hurricane levels stick-built homes.

Shouldn’t we be calculating the environmental cost of repeated loss?

Is “cheap” construction really affordable if it has to be replaced every decade?

Code Is Not Enough

Building code should be the floor — not the ceiling.

It tells us what we’re allowed to do, not what we ought to do.

The climate is changing.

Our material habits must evolve with it.

As architects and designers, we are responsible not just for meeting code, but for reading context — climate, geography, time, and memory.

And in the face of rising sea levels, record-breaking heat waves, and billion-dollar weather disasters, material choices are no longer aesthetic or economic preferences.

They are ethical decisions.

What if we began to treat materiality as a civic duty?

What if we honored the land by building for its cycles — not against them?

Building for Generations

We admire centuries-old structures for their endurance — their ability to stand as testaments to both material and cultural longevity.

We must start holding our homes to the same standard.

If we value sustainability, care, and cultural continuity, our buildings should be designed not for the duration of a mortgage, but for generations.

Because every material we choose doesn’t just support a structure —

It tells a story.

It carries memory.

Durable homes are sustainable homes.

They are safer, more equitable, and more resilient homes.

They speak to a future that values care over convenience.

So What Can We Do?

As architects, designers, and citizens:

🚩 Advocate for stronger material standards in vulnerable zones.

🚩 Educate clients about the long-term value of durable construction.

🚩 Question when “value engineering” starts to mean “short-term thinking.”

🚩 Design for repair, not just replacement.

Let’s Build Like the Land Matters

Architecture Speaks Volumes is founded on the belief that design is not just shelter — it’s storytelling.

It holds memory, intention, and presence.

When we choose materials with integrity — when we design with durability, context, and care — we’re not just protecting buildings.

We’re protecting lives.

We’re protecting the stories those lives carry.

Let’s build with care.

Let’s build with memory.

Let’s build like the land matters.

Because material is code, too.

And we have the tools to choose better.

ARCHITECTURE WITHOUT CONSENT

Every first Monday of a month, I look at the marks architecture leaves behind — sometimes through what is built, sometimes through what is lost. This week’s mark is one of absence. The East Wing of the White House — a space steeped in history, ceremony, and civic symbolism — has been erased. What eventually rises in its place will not just be a new gilded ballroom, but a new question: what happens when architecture moves forward without democratic consent?

The Mark of Erasure

The White House has never been static. It has burned, been rebuilt, expanded, reinforced, and reimagined over two centuries — each transformation leaving its own architectural signature. Yet the recent demolition of its East Wing and the proposed privately funded ballroom rising in its place mark a rupture, not a continuation.

This is the mark of erasure — a physical void where a historic structure once stood, and a conceptual one where public voice has fallen silent. The East Wing was more than service corridors and offices; it was the connective tissue between the ceremonial and the domestic, the public and the private. To remove it without conversation is to edit history without annotation.

The Mark of Omission

For the first time in the modern era, a significant alteration to the architecture of the People’s House has proceeded without visible public or professional engagement. There were no open design discussions, no advisory reviews from the Committee for the Preservation of the White House, no national dialogue about what this change represents. The process unfolded quietly, swiftly, and underwritten by private wealth.

This absence is its own kind of mark — the mark of omission. The silence around this project speaks volumes about a shift in how power operates: architecture once used to symbolize democracy is now deployed to bypass it.

The Mark of Power

Architecture is never neutral. It encodes hierarchy, ideology, and values into form. When a building as symbolic as the White House changes shape, the act reverberates far beyond its walls. The East Wing’s demolition is not merely a spatial alteration — it is a statement about governance and authority: who holds the right to alter a national symbol, and whose vision that change serves.

Throughout history, even the most drastic White House renovations — from Truman’s total interior reconstruction to Roosevelt’s creation of the West Wing — involved architects, historians, preservationists, and public oversight. They were changes made through process, however imperfect. What distinguishes this moment is not the scale of construction but the erosion of transparency — the mark of power overtaking process.

The Mark of Patronage

The proposed ballroom, reportedly funded by wealthy businessmen, compounds the unease. Public architecture derives legitimacy from public trust. When a national monument is reshaped by private money, it shifts from civic representation to personal projection. The funding itself leaves the mark of patronage — a return to an older, pre-democratic model of building, when architecture served donors rather than citizens.

The White House, long an emblem of the collective, risks becoming an estate of the few. The very space meant to host the public narrative may soon echo with private applause.

The Mark of Memory

And then there is what remains — memory. Architecture is temporal; every renovation overwrites another, layering time into space. But when change comes without consent, memory becomes resistance. Photographs, drawings, and stories of the East Wing now hold what the structure no longer can: evidence of a public ethos. The mark of memory is fragile, yet it endures — a quiet archive of what once stood for inclusion, transparency, and civic participation.

The Mark This Monday Leaves

Architecture speaks in silences as much as in structures. When the conversation between government, architects, and citizens is muted, design stops being democratic — it becomes declarative. The mark this Monday leaves is a reminder that architecture, like democracy, depends on participation.

When we stop being invited into the process, we are no longer represented in the result.

And the White House — the most visible house of the people — can only remain so if it continues to bear the mark of our collective voice.

Blogpost Cover Image Credit - East Wing; view of East Elevation, circa 1985–1992 - Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, DC,WASH,134-207

OPEN HOUSE CHICAGO

Every October since 2011, Chicago has offered the world a free backstage pass to experience the architecture that shapes its skyline and urban fabric. For one weekend, Open House Chicago transforms the city into a vast stage of discovery, opening the doors of buildings and spaces rarely accessible to the public. It’s an invitation to see the city not just as residents or tourists, but as explorers.

For me, Open House Chicago has always been more than an event — it has been a thread woven into my own architectural journey. I began as a volunteer nearly 15 years ago, and later returned as a participant while working at DMAC Architecture and Interiors, sharing my designs and perspectives with fellow enthusiasts.

My First Open House: The Tribune Tower

My very first assignment as a volunteer was at the Tribune Tower, the neo-Gothic landmark completed in 1925. On the exterior, I marveled at fragments of historic structures embedded into its façade — a tradition begun by publisher Colonel Robert R. McCormick that continues to fascinate visitors.

Inside, the experience unfolded like a private tour through Chicago’s architectural memory. In the lobby, inscriptions celebrated the “free press.” In the cavernous press room, grooves carved into the floor marked where massive rolls of paper once fed the Tribune’s presses.

From there we rode the elevator to the 24th floor, where the conversation among my fellow passengers drifted to Pulitzer Prize–winning critic Blair Kamin. At the top, we entered the Tribune boardroom — once called the Colonel’s Quarter — the executive suite of McCormick and his co-publisher Joseph M. Patterson.

Then came the revelation. Behind a paneled wall, a hidden door revealed a narrow wooden staircase. On the blueprints, it was disguised as a “file room.” Known as the “escape tower,” the secret passage was designed for McCormick, who feared an angry mob might one day storm the building. Whether paranoia or prudence, the eccentricity of it stayed with me.

That first glimpse behind the curtain taught me that architecture is never just form and function — it is also personality, eccentricity, and myth. It shaped the way I have experienced Open House Chicago ever since: with curiosity about the stories buildings hold.

A year later, I had another unforgettable moment at the Tribune Tower, standing on the open-air observatory on the 25th floor during an AIA event. From beneath its soaring flying buttresses, the views of the Chicago River and the Loop were nothing short of surreal.

The Tribune left the tower in 2018, and the building has since been transformed into luxury residences, earning a 2023 Driehaus Prize for preservation and adaptive reuse from Landmarks Illinois.

Volunteering: Witnessing Curiosity Firsthand

As a volunteer, I stood at thresholds, welcoming visitors into spaces of history and innovation. I watched as they entered with wide eyes, connecting what they saw to their own lives, memories, and imaginations. Through their questions and reactions, I learned something invaluable: architecture lives beyond its walls. It becomes complete through the stories people carry into it.

Participating: Joining the Dialogue

Later, with DMAC Architecture and Interiors, I returned not as a volunteer, but as a participant. Sharing my work was not simply about displaying drawings — it was about entering a dialogue. Visitors asked about my process, my inspirations, the meaning behind the designs. In those conversations, my role shifted: I was no longer only a guide, but a storyteller — one voice among many in the collective conversation Open House Chicago fosters .

The Gift of Participation

Over the years the participation has grown, drawing visitors from across the globe. I still remember welcoming a group of 67 guests from France - all eager to experience the city’s architecture firsthand!

Moments like these remind me that architecture is never solitary. It thrives on participation — on people being curious, engaging, questioning, and responding. Open House Chicago embodies that principle: it dissolves the boundary between architect and audience, insider and outsider, designer and explorer.

Looking Ahead: Open House Chicago 2025

This year’s Open House Chicago takes place October 18–19, 2025, with more than 200 sites opening across the city and surrounding neighborhoods. Last year, the festival launched a photography competition with four categories — Interior, Exterior, Detail, and Black & White. This year, a fifth has been added: People & Buildings, a fitting way to capture the event’s spirit through the eyes of its visitors.

An Invitation

From volunteer to participant, my journey with Open House Chicago continues to shape how I see the city and how I practice architecture. It is a reminder that architecture speaks volumes when it becomes a shared story.

If you’re in Chicago next weekend, I encourage you to take part — wander, explore, and maybe even bring your camera.

Open House Chicago is more than an event; it’s a conversation. One that we’re all invited to join.

📖 Read more stories on Architecture Speaks Volumes Blog THE ASV BLOG

📸 Join me on Instagram @architecturespeaksvolumes

THE PLEIN AIR STUDIO

For architecture students, the city is the most profound classroom. Its buildings, streets, and public spaces hold lessons no model or textbook can fully capture. This is why traveling studios and study abroad programs are so transformative—they immerse us in both the artistry and the mechanics of design, while teaching us to read the architecture that speaks volumes.

Drawing as a Way of Reading

In my European travel studio, one of our courses was devoted entirely to sketching. Armed with pencils, ink, charcoal, pastel, and watercolors, we spent our days on site, translating cities into marks on paper. Each medium became a different voice: the precision of ink, the softness of charcoal, the immediacy of watercolor.

Sketching trained us to read architecture like a text—the rhythm of windows, the weight of stone, the cadence of light across a façade. Each line became a sentence; each shadow, a paragraph. To sketch was to enter into dialogue with buildings, to discover how architecture speaks if we slow down enough to listen.

Technology as Translation

Running parallel to sketching, our second course explored building technologies. Here, we learned to decode the structural and material systems behind the spaces we admired: masonry vaults, thermal mass, glazing, spans. If sketching taught us to hear the poetry, technology revealed the grammar—the framework that makes meaning possible.

This dual focus—art and science, hand and detail—reminded us that architecture is both language and logic, expression and execution.

Learning in Context

The studio experience extended beyond coursework. Traveling together through unfamiliar cities, we learned collaboration in its most organic form: critiquing sketches at café tables, passing charcoal across a piazza, or discussing systems and spans on a train ride between stops. Each city became a new chapter to interpret, each sketchbook page a translation of what we saw and felt.

Why It Endures

Traveling studios teach us that architecture is not abstract—it is lived narrative. To sketch by hand is to hear its voice; to study technologies is to understand how that voice is carried. Together, these courses revealed that the built environment is never silent. If you know how to look, every building, every street, every material speaks.

When I look back at our final presentation—a plethora of mixed media sketches distilled from weeks of travel—I see more than drawings. I see the first attempts at fluency in the very language that defines my practice: Architecture Speaks Volumes.

A Call to Future Architects

If the chance comes to join a traveling studio, take it. You will return not only with a sketchbook and technical knowledge, but with the ability to read architecture as text, as voice, as memory.

Because architecture does not whisper. Architecture Speaks Volumes.

GUARDIANS OF PROJECT THRESHOLDS

In architecture, thresholds are more than doors or passages. They are transitions—moments of pause, decision, and transformation. But thresholds exist not only in physical buildings. Every architectural project process itself is a sequence of thresholds, each one carrying a vision forward into reality. From idea to realization, we pass through stages—each one demanding clarity, leadership, and decision-making.

As I study for my ARE Project Management exam, I’ve been struck by how crucial it is for an architectural project manager to serve as a guardian of thresholds. They ensure that each phase of a project is navigated smoothly, protecting both design intent and practical execution. Without careful stewardship, the vision risks getting lost in translation.

Let’s walk through these project thresholds—moments where ideas shift, details sharpen, and the paper project begins to breathe.

1. Conceptual Design → Schematic Design

Threshold of vision. Ideas become drawings. A dream begins to take form.

Every project begins in the realm of imagination—sketches, conversations, big ideas. Crossing into schematic design means translating that spark into something tangible. It’s the moment when dreams gain structure, when a vision can finally be communicated beyond words.

A project manager ensures this threshold is crossed with clarity—capturing intent while keeping scope, budget, and client expectations aligned.

2. Schematic Design → Design Development

Threshold of refinement. Big moves give way to detail. Choices of material, systems, and budget become real.

At this stage, the work deepens. Materials, systems, and spatial relationships are defined. What was once broad strokes now becomes a composition of interlocking parts.

It is a threshold where the romance of an idea meets the rigor of decision-making. A project manager coordinates disciplines—structural, mechanical, electrical—ensuring integration without compromise.

3. Design Development → Construction Documents

Threshold of precision. The project shifts from “what if” to “this is how.” Drawings become instructions.

Here, design becomes instruction. The drawings evolve from expressive to exacting, offering a roadmap for those who will bring the building into being.

Crossing this threshold requires absolute discipline. Every line must be intentional, every detail coordinated. The project manager oversees deliverables, timelines, and accuracy—because a missed detail now can snowball into a costly mistake later.

4. Construction Documents → Bidding and Negotiation

Threshold of translation. The design must be read, priced, and trusted by those who will build it.

This is where design leaves the architect’s desk and enters the marketplace. Drawings must be legible not just as ideas, but as commitments—costed, priced, and scheduled by contractors.

The project manager acts as interpreter, ensuring that the design intent is understood, that bids are competitive and fair, and that no misstep erodes the integrity of the project.

5. Bidding → Construction Administration

Threshold of execution. The paper project becomes built reality. The PM ensures alignment of design intent, budget, and schedule.

Now, the paper world becomes material. The ground is broken, steel rises, concrete sets.

This is a turbulent threshold—full of change orders, unforeseen conditions, and the push-pull of budgets and deadlines. Here, the project manager is a constant presence, balancing client expectations, contractor realities, and architect intentions. Without them, the project risks losing its center.

6. Construction → Occupancy

Threshold of life. A building is handed over and begins its dialogue with the people it was made for.

The final threshold is not an end, but a beginning. A building is handed over. Lights turn on. People move in.

At this moment, the project ceases to be drawings and details—it becomes lived experience. The architecture speaks, and its volumes are measured not just in square feet, but in the lives it holds.

Why Project Managers Matter

Each of these thresholds is fragile. They are points of transition where missteps can derail progress or compromise intent. A skilled project manager is more than a scheduler—they are the bridge between vision and execution. They hold space for both the dream of the architect and the realities of construction by implementing a Standard of Care.

Without them, projects stall. With them, projects thrive.

The Project Manager is the steward of these thresholds. They ensure smooth passage through each stage, holding the vision steady while navigating time, cost, and scope.

Not every threshold is easy—but each is necessary. Without crossing them carefully, the project risks losing its integrity.

👉 Question : Which project threshold feels most critical to you: vision, detail, execution, or life? Share your comments below.

Closing Reflection

Thresholds remind us that architecture is never static. It is a continual act of becoming—on paper, in construction, and in life. As designers, builders, and managers, our role is to guide projects through these passages with care.

Because every threshold crossed is one step closer to the realization of architecture that speak volumes!

TEXT AS TEXTURE. LIGHT AS DIALOGUE.

The Museum of the Future in Dubai stands as a paradox — at once monumental and weightless, solid yet fluid. Its torus-like form, sheathed in polished stainless steel, mirrors the shifting desert sky. What appears as permanence reveals itself to be constantly in dialogue with light, reflection, and time.

Text as Texture

The façade’s flowing Arabic calligraphy transforms written language into architectural matter. Cut through the steel skin, each stroke forms a physical incision, giving words a tangible depth. This is text as texture — script that becomes surface. The calligraphy doesn’t just decorate the building; it defines its material presence. The words are no longer flat symbols on a page — they are architectural, tactile, inhabiting the skin of the structure. Each curve and line rises from the surface like embossed language, transforming script into material.

In daylight, the façade reads like a metallic membrane. The glazed calligraphy appears opaque in the desert sun but casts soft shadows across the curvature of the interior volume, changing subtly as the sun moves. This interplay of light and shadow turns the surface into a living, breathing material — one that blurs the boundaries between inscription and construction, ornament and structure.

The façade becomes an interface between body and meaning, inviting us to imagine what it might feel like to trace a finger across its cool metal surface, following the rhythm of words as though they were woven into fabric. But the shift from reading the calligraphy on the exterior to sensing the atmosphere created on the interior makes the building more than an object of sight. Here, text does not merely communicate — it embodies.

The Ephemeral Museum

Inside, the experience continues in this tension between the tangible and the intangible. Light filters through the calligraphic openings, scattering patterns that move gently across interior walls. The result is a space defined as much by lightness as by material — an architecture that aspires toward the immaterial while remaining rooted in form.

The Museum of the Future captures a rare balance: a building made of the heaviest of materials — metal, glass, concrete — yet one that feels as though it could dissolve into light at any moment. It reminds us that the essence of architecture is not only in what is built, but in what is felt — in the fleeting moments when surface, light, and air converge to create atmosphere.

Here, materiality and ephemerality coexist. The steel skin may endure, but its meaning is in constant motion — rewritten each day by the desert sun and re-illuminated each night by light’s quiet conversation with form.

Lighting as Dialogue

As night falls, light slips into the carved calligraphy, transforming the building from an object of reflection into one of revelation. Embedded LEDs trace the script from within, making each word glow softly against the dark sky. In this moment, light becomes a dialogue — not merely illumination, but communication.

It is as if the building begins to speak through its own skin. The glowing script recasts the metal’s rigidity into something ephemeral, weightless. Architecture, often thought of as static and permanent, becomes transient, responsive — alive to the rhythms of dusk and atmosphere.

If the calligraphy is texture by day, by night it becomes dialogue. Light embedded within the strokes animates the words, turning them into luminous sentences that float across the building’s curved body.

This interplay of illumination and shadow creates a conversation: between inside and outside, between viewer and surface, between word and world. The glowing script is not static; it pulses with atmosphere, altering how the building feels as the desert sun sets and the night takes hold.

In this way, the Museum of the Future reminds us that light in architecture is never neutral. It can act as a voice — not just revealing form, but giving it expression. When the façade speaks through light, it is not only decoration, but narrative, presence, and mood.

Atmosphere Beyond Sight

The genius of this building lies in how it extends architecture beyond visual spectacle. Words, normally confined to pages or screens, are lifted into three-dimensional space; light, normally an afterthought, becomes an active participant. Together, they create a sensory atmosphere that is at once physical and poetic.

The result is a building that doesn’t just house exhibitions about the future — it embodies a vision of what architecture itself can be: a place where texture and dialogue replace silence, and where language and light shape not only what we see, but how we feel.

Idea to Identity

Every identity begins with a mark.

Before a brand, before a website, before even a name finds its full expression — there is a moment of pause where meaning seeks form. That was the beginning of Architecture Speaks Volumes.

When I first began to imagine the visual identity of ASV, I knew it had to do more than look appealing — it had to speak. The word “speaks” itself became my starting point, a conceptual key that unlocked everything that followed.

From Ellipsis to Architecture

Language often finds its pauses in the ellipsis — three dots suspended in continuity, holding the promise of something more to be said. That sense of continuation resonated deeply with me. Architecture, too, speaks in continuities: between material and memory, between structure and story.

So I began with three dots. Simple. Symbolic. A visual echo of speech waiting to unfold.

But as the design evolved, those dots took on form — transforming into three squares that could hold space, volume, and structure. Within each square, I began constructing the abbreviation A S V using triangles — the most elemental architectural form, the basis of strength and stability.

It was a small but significant shift — from punctuation to geometry, from language to architecture.

When Language Becomes Code

As I continued to refine the mark, I found myself drawn to the rhythm of Morse code — a system of dots and dashes that translates thought into signal. It was an elegant metaphor for communication itself: invisible, coded, yet universal.

Through Morse, I could abstract “A S V” into a vertical arrangement that merged my studio’s name with my own initials — embedding personal and professional identity into a singular architectural form.

The result resembled volume bars, rising and falling like waves of sound or the skyline of a city. It felt right — Architecture speaking volumes, visually and conceptually.

The Blueprint of an Idea

The final decision was color. I wanted the logo to evoke origins — not the polished finish of a completed project, but the process of design. The chosen hue, a deep blueprint blue, grounds the mark in the world of architecture: sketches, drafts, ideas, and construction lines.

Blueprints, after all, are not just technical documents. They are promises of something to come — much like an ellipsis, still unfolding.

More Than a Logo

In the end, the ASV mark is more than a logo. It’s a distilled conversation between language and form, speech and structure, identity and architecture.

It began as a whisper — three dots on a page.

It now stands as a statement — Architecture Speaks Volumes.

Closing Note

Every Mark Monday in the Atelier Diaries will return to this idea — how a mark, whether drawn, designed, or built, becomes the first word in a larger dialogue between vision and space.

JAPAN, 2011 - AND THE ECHO I FEEL TO THIS DAY

When memory, myth, and the ground beneath us converge

Some memories are so visceral, they never leave the body. They live in the bones, in the breath, in the quiet moments before something shifts again.

On March 11, 2011, I was in Tokyo, walking temple grounds just before the Sakura Festival. The air was cool, expectant—cherry blossoms just beginning to stir in their buds. White tents dotted the paths between wooden towers and shrines, vendors preparing their wares for the coming season of celebration. I had just made a purchase and was stepping into one of those tents to collect my item when the ground began to move.

At first, I thought it was a chariot passing by. That’s how smooth the rumble was at the start—low, rolling, like a procession approaching. But then I saw the expression on the vendor’s face. He looked at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He didn’t speak English, but fear needs no translation. He motioned for me to step out of the tent. I did.

And that’s when it hit.

The Ground Moved Like Water

The towering wooden structures of the temple began to sway—elegantly, rhythmically, and terrifyingly, like trees in a storm. Their bells rang, not from any human hand, but from the sheer violence of the earth shifting beneath us.

People emerged from the tents, silent. Phones in hand, they began recording, not out of detachment but perhaps as a way of witnessing, of proving: yes, this is happening. No one was running. But we were all holding on—some to railings, some to one another. The earth felt like a boat at sea, rocking without rhythm, refusing to settle.

We couldn’t stand still. The tremors went on and on. And through it all, I kept thinking: This shouldn’t be happening. But it was.

July 5th, 2025

I woke to headlines about a manga artist’s prediction—a tsunami, forecast for today. It stirred something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not fear exactly, but an echo. A bodily memory. The uneasy stillness before a wave.

There may be nothing to it. A prediction. A coincidence. A media cycle feeding on myth. But something about the prediction won’t let go of me.

I find myself back in Tokyo, standing beneath those temple towers, watching them bend but not break. I remember the way beauty and terror coexisted—bells ringing over fear, spring blossoms refusing to pause their bloom.

The Architecture of Memory

I founded Architecture Speaks Volumes not just because I love buildings or design. I founded it because I believe space carries memory. Because architecture is not just structure—it’s story. And some stories shake us. Some never stop reverberating.

That earthquake changed how I understood space. It taught me that permanence is an illusion, and that even sacred ground can move. But it also taught me the resilience of stillness. The steadiness in strangers. The way culture, craft, and human connection hold us up—when the earth won’t.

If July 5th Felt Strange to You Too…

…you’re not alone.

Maybe it’s the power of suggestion. Or maybe we’re just more tuned in than we think. But whether anything happens today or not, I’m remembering what it’s like to stand in the middle of still-moving ground and feel time split in two: before and after.

This post is just one piece of a larger memoir I’m writing—a story of place, loss, stillness, and what came next.

Thank you for reading. For remembering. For standing still with me.

With care,

Janice Ninan

Founder | Creative Director

Architecture Speaks Volumes

📖 A memoir-in-progress, unfolding in chapters here.

✉️ Subscribe to be the first to read the next piece.

Birthing a Design Practice with Many Voices

It didn’t begin with a business plan.

It began with a feeling.

A quiet realization that the work I wanted to do — the architecture I wanted to practice — wouldn’t quite fit into the molds that already existed. I wasn’t just trying to start a firm. I was trying to build something that could carry more than drawings and deadlines. I wanted to create a design practice that could speak in multiple voices — through space, through story, through objects — and still feel like one clear, resonant truth.

This is how Architecture Speaks Volumes was born.

Listening for a New Kind of Practice

As a trained architect, I’ve spent years learning how to think spatially — how to listen to a site, a material, a brief. But what school never quite teaches you is how to listen to yourself, or how to design a life that feels as intentional as the buildings you create.

I began to sense that I wanted more than project cycles and client calls. I wanted a practice that could carry personal memory, cultural complexity, and emotional resonance. I wanted space to write, to reflect, to share. I wanted a studio where slow design, sensory experience, and story were just as central as structure and form.

That’s where the weaving began — between design thinking, entrepreneurship, and personal storytelling.

Scaling with Intention

Too often, the idea of “scaling” a business is reduced to growth for growth’s sake — more clients, bigger teams, higher fees. But for me, scaling meant deepening, not just expanding.

That’s why I structured Architecture Speaks Volumes as a practice with multiple distinct but connected voices:

• The ASV Atelier: My design studio — where I work on design projects grounded in slowness, care, and material storytelling.

• The ASV Edit: A boutique for designed objects, scarves, and photographs — each item an archive of memory and meaning.

• ASV blogs & Podcasts: A space for memoir, design writing, and reflections — where I can explore the edges of architecture, culture, and emotion.

Each branch is its own channel, but together, they speak to a shared belief: that architecture is not just built — it is felt, remembered, experienced and expressed.

The Need for Multiple Streams — Not Just for Profit

In today’s world, many of us are waking up to the fact that a single stream of income is no longer sustainable — especially for creatives. But I didn’t create The ASV Edit just to diversify revenue. I created it to give form to ideas that couldn’t live inside floor plans.

Sometimes a scarf carries more meaning than a structure. Sometimes a photograph captures more memory than a model. The boutique allows me to share fragments of my design language in tactile, intimate ways. It also invites those who may never commission a building to still be part of this story — to wear, hold, or gift a piece of the practice.

In this way, income and impact become intertwined. Not in a transactional sense, but in a meaningful exchange of value and vision.

Building a Community that Listens

The real reason I built ASV in this way — across multiple modes — is because I didn’t want to simply launch a brand. I wanted to build a community.

A community of thinkers, feelers, makers, and quiet rebels. People who believe that the built environment is never neutral. People who notice the curve of a stair, the softness of a wall, the stillness in a courtyard. People who understand that architecture is never just structure — it is memory, language, and care.

I write for them. I design for them. I edit for them.

And I share my stories — including the difficult ones — because I believe that vulnerability is part of architecture too. We build from who we are.

In Closing: Architecture Speaks Volumes

What does it mean to birth a design practice in this moment?

For me, it means resisting narrow definitions. It means allowing architecture to speak through drawings, yes — but also through short film, curated objects, essays, poems, materiality, vision and small moments of shared wonder. It means embracing the many voices that live inside me — the architect, the writer, the daughter, the wife,the witness — and letting them all have a place in the room.

Because I still believe that architecture speaks.

And if we listen carefully enough,

it speaks volumes.

STEEL, SHADOWS AND SILENCE

I graduated from IIT Chicago, where I spent three formative years studying inside S.R. Crown Hall, a temple of steel and glass designed by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. I didn’t realize it then, but spending that much time within such disciplined space — stripped to its essence — would shape how I move through the world, how I see, and how I design.

In my final semester, I joined a month-long study abroad program across Europe in 2011. One of our stops was Bauhaus Dessau, the birthplace of an ideology — the Bauhaus movement — that would ripple through time, continents, and cities like Chicago. It was there that I encountered, in person, an icon I had only known through books: the Wassily Chair by Marcel Breuer.

⸻

Seeing the Chair in Its Element

The moment was quiet.

Afternoon light slanted through the glass block wall, casting soft, diffused shadows across the concrete floor. There, against the rhythm of translucent geometry, sat the Wassily Chair — lean, self-contained, unapologetically modern.

It didn’t ask for attention. It simply was.

Its tubular steel frame, its taut leather straps — all so precise, so resolved. Designed in 1925, this chair wasn’t trying to be beautiful in a traditional sense. It was built to be logical. And in that logic, it became something profound.

⸻

What Makes the Wassily Chair Significant?

The Wassily Chair — originally known as the Model B3 — was designed by Marcel Breuer while he was at the Bauhaus. He was inspired by the frame of a bicycle, captivated by the possibilities of tubular steel, a material not yet used in residential furniture at the time.

Its significance lies in what it represents:

• Material Innovation: Breuer took an industrial material — chromium-plated steel tubing — and introduced it to domestic interiors. This was radical. The steel was strong, light, hygienic, and modern.

• Bauhaus Principles Embodied: The chair represents everything the Bauhaus stood for — honesty in materials, the merging of art and industry, and the pursuit of pure form and function. Nothing is decorative. Everything serves a purpose.

• Transparency + Structure: Unlike the heavy upholstered furniture of the past, the Wassily Chair feels almost like a line drawing in space. It’s open, it breathes. It frames the human body instead of engulfing it.

• Timeless Relevance: A century later, the chair still feels contemporary. It doesn’t age, because it’s not rooted in fashion — it’s rooted in intention.

Breuer later said: “I thought that perhaps I could design chairs that would be built on the same principle as bicycles.” That line has stayed with me. It reframes design as engineering, poetry, and vision — all at once.

⸻

From Dessau to Chicago, from Breuer to Mies

Standing in that room at Dessau, I was struck by the continuity. I had spent years immersed in Miesian clarity, working and sketching beneath the floating roof of Crown Hall. And here I was, at the source — surrounded by the work of Breuer, Gropius, Kandinsky — the very figures who laid the foundation that Mies would later refine and export.

The Wassily Chair felt like a kind of bridge.

It connected art to function, Europe to America, past to present, and material to idea. It reminded me that architecture doesn’t exist in isolation. It lives through objects, through spaces, through moments of stillness where design simply speaks.

⸻

What This Moment Taught Me

Design doesn’t have to shout to be powerful.

Sometimes, the most enduring work is the most restrained — the kind that’s been reduced to only what’s essential, nothing more. The Wassily Chair is not just a chair. It’s a manifesto in steel and leather. A quiet rebellion against ornament. A declaration that beauty can be engineered.

It’s the kind of object that asks you to look closer. To notice the way materials come together. To think about how things are made — and why.

That’s why this chair, this space, and this moment are my Feature Friday.

⸻

Photo taken at Bauhaus Dessau, Germany — 2011.

A NEW SKIN FOR A POSTMODERN ICON

The James R. Thompson Center in Chicago has always been a bold statement in postmodern architecture. Designed by Helmut Jahn and completed in 1985, the building is known for its vast atrium, curved glass façade, and futuristic ambition. Now, decades later, it’s undergoing a dramatic transformation — not just as a renovation, but as a reinvention.

The Transition

When Google purchased the building, the future of the Thompson Center shifted. No longer just a government hub, it’s being reimagined as a workplace for one of the world’s most innovative companies. This shift reflects larger conversations in architecture: adaptive reuse, sustainability, and the challenge of preserving iconic design while updating it for modern use.

Façade Work in Progress

Standing outside the site today, you can literally see the building shedding its old skin. Panels of the glass façade are being carefully removed, replaced, and prepared for an upgraded envelope that will improve energy efficiency while maintaining the building’s recognizable form. The mirrored glass that once symbolized transparency and openness is giving way to a refreshed vision of the future.

Jahn’s Legacy in Dialogue

The renovation is being overseen by Jahn, the architectural firm founded by the late Helmut Jahn himself. This creates a fascinating dialogue: the original designer’s vision is now being interpreted and updated by the very studio he established. It’s less about erasing history and more about writing a new chapter with respect to its origin.

Reflections

Watching this work-in-progress, I’m reminded that buildings, like cities, are never static. The Thompson Center is not disappearing — it’s evolving. Its story of transformation mirrors Chicago’s own spirit: bold, experimental, and always forward-looking.

Closing

I’ll be following this renovation closely and documenting its changes as part of my WIP Wednesday series. What do you think — should iconic buildings be preserved as-is, or reimagined to fit new lives and uses? Leave your comments below.

RAMMED EARTH AND REMEMBERANCE

Architecture of the Church of Reconciliation, Berlin

On Bernauer Strasse in Berlin, architecture and memory meet in a profound way. Here, the Church of Reconciliation stands as both a spiritual space and a physical reminder of the city’s fractured past. The original church, trapped between the barriers of the Berlin Wall, was destroyed in 1985. Its absence became an emblem of division, but its rebirth in 2000 gave the city a new symbol—one rooted in healing.

What makes the new structure remarkable is not only its circular form or its contemplative presence, but the choice of material: rammed earth walls made from clay gathered directly from the site of the former Berlin Wall. In this act, soil once synonymous with separation was transformed into a vessel of unity and reconciliation.

Clay is not a neutral material. It holds warmth, absorbs moisture, and reveals texture in a way that concrete or steel never can. Inside the chapel, the tactility of the walls changes the experience of space. Light is absorbed softly rather than reflected harshly. Sounds are muffled, giving the interior an almost hushed intimacy. The walls, layered by hand and pressure, display striations of earth that feel both fragile and timeless.

To press your hand against the clay is to feel its porosity, its roughness, its grounding presence. It makes history tangible. The wall is not polished smooth, not distanced from touch, but instead invites the visitor to physically engage with it. In doing so, one confronts both the pain of division and the possibility of reconciliation—quite literally embedded in the earth.

The use of clay here is more than a sustainable material choice. It is an ethical and poetic gesture: memory made tactile, history rebuilt into a place of peace. The Church of Reconciliation shows us how architecture can hold space for healing—not only through form and light, but through the direct materiality of touch.

My First ARE Milestone

Hallelujah! I’ve passed my very first ARE exam — Practice Management (PcM). It feels like marking the first notch in the final leg of a long but rewarding path toward licensure. From completing my Bachelor’s degree and getting licensed in India to immigrating to the USA, earning my Master’s in Architecture, and working in various firms to gain experience and complete my AXP hours — every step has led me to this moment, finally eligible to sit for the ARE exams in Illinois.

Navigating personal and professional hurdles over the years, this provisional pass feels like the start of conquering the last stretch of an arduous process.

⸻

The Mindset Shift

In the past, the ARE exams felt overwhelming. I would often run out of time, get stuck on case studies, and leave questions unanswered. What changed this time was not just my studying, but my mindset - thanks to my coaches Eric and David!

The night before PcM, I made a conscious choice to prepare my mind as much as my notes. I went to bed early. The next morning, I started with some Wim Hof breathing and meditation. I reread mindset notes from my coaching program that reminded me: control your mind, stay present, and trust yourself.

Even on the train ride to the testing center, I kept my nerves in check by listening to music. Instead of spiraling into anxiety, I felt centered — like an athlete heading into a big game.

⸻

Strategy in Action

Once inside the exam, my approach was disciplined and deliberate:

• Time management: I aimed for 20 questions in 20 minutes as advised by my coaches and strived to do this for every increment of 20 questions. Breaking the exam into increments kept me on pace and prevented me from lingering too long on one question.

• Highlighting for focus: I diligently used the highlighter tool to underline key words and clues. This helped me avoid second-guessing and stay attentive to what was really being asked.

• Presence over panic: I reminded myself constantly to take it one question at a time. Not the next 80. Not the case studies waiting at the end. Just the question in front of me.

For the first time, I finished an ARE exam without leaving a single question blank. That alone felt like a victory.

⸻

Tackling the Achilles Heel

Case studies have always been my stumbling block. In previous attempts, I’d run out of energy, lose focus, and fall behind. This time, I treated them differently.

Before starting the case studies, I took my scheduled break. I stepped away, did some box breathing, and reframed my mindset: This is not my weakness. This is just another section I am capable of solving.

When I returned, I paced myself and worked through the two case studies steadily. I didn’t let them control the outcome. When I finally clicked “Submit,” my heart raced. Then I saw it: Provisional Pass!

Tears welled up. I felt relief, disbelief, and gratitude all at once.

⸻

The Power of the First Mark

Passing PcM is one of six final steps toward licensure. On paper, it’s just a fraction. But symbolically, it’s the hardest one — the first mark etched into the journey.

Like the first line on a blank drawing, this milestone gives shape to what comes next. It proves that the effort, the mindset, and the strategies work. It’s the mark that transforms hope into momentum.

I walked out of the testing center exhausted, but victorious. I grabbed ice cream as a treat — the kind of small ritual that made the achievement feel real. One down. Five to go.

⸻

Lessons for Fellow Test-Takers

If you’re on the ARE path, here are the strategies that helped me turn the corner:

1. Prioritize mindset as much as study time. Anxiety management, sleep, and breathing techniques matter as much as practice questions.

2. Break the exam into chunks. Setting a pace gave me structure and confidence.

3. Use the tools. Highlighting key words kept me from missing details or overthinking.

4. Don’t fear the case studies. Take a break before them, reset your mind, and approach them with focus, not dread.

5. Celebrate the wins. Even one pass is proof of capability. Use that momentum to fuel the next.

⸻

Looking Ahead

This provisional pass in PcM is my first ARE milestone, and I’m choosing to mark it boldly. It’s not the end of the journey, but it’s the beginning of believing I can finish it.

Each exam ahead will bring its own challenges, but now I know: with the right mindset, the right strategy, and the right support, I can cross them one by one.

One mark down. Five to go.

And yes, the ice cream was worth it. 🍦

Skylines in Motion

The first time I photographed the Chicago Air & Water Show from North Avenue Beach, I didn’t just watch the planes — I watched the city respond.

It was August 2011. The day was bright, already warm when I woke up. I dressed quickly, slung my Nikon D700 over my shoulder, and began packing my camera bag: extra lenses, lens hoods, memory cards, sunscreen and just enough water and snacks to last the day.

Outside, the city felt charged. I caught the CTA bus, then the train, then another bus, watching Chicago’s steel and glass slide by in the windows. The closer I got to the lake, the more the streets swelled with people — sunglasses on, folding chairs in hand, beach bags slung over shoulders. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same current.

After stepping off at North Avenue, I crossed the pedestrian bridge over Lake Shore Drive. The blue sweep of Lake Michigan opened before me — glittering under the late-summer sun. The hum of the crowd mingled with the first distant rumble of jet engines. On the sand, I moved slowly, weaving between sunbathers and swimmers, searching for a clear spot — somewhere my gear would stay dry and my sight-lines would stay wide.

The sand was hot, the lake sparkling, and the air thick with anticipation.  I found myself a spot on the boardwalk where photographers- both professional and novice had already staked claim on prime positions for an uninterrupted view. From here, the city was not just the backdrop — it was a participant.

Rooftops and terraces had transformed into grandstands, their railings lined with leaning bodies, the skyline itself alive with spectators. Out on the water, boats clustered together, their bows facing back toward the shore. The anticipation was a tangible thing.

Then — the roar. Somewhere behind me, a child squealed as the first jets thundered in. Crowds leaned back in unison as the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds streaked across the sky in tight formation, their white contrails carving patterns against the deep summer blue. At times, the planes shattered the sound barrier, their sharp cracks bouncing between the lake and the skyscrapers.

Some of the most dramatic moments came when the jets veered toward the Chicago skyline and the architecture seemed to lean into the performance. Pilots threaded their paths past vertical landmarks with astonishing precision, making glass and steel seem momentarily alive. The John Hancock Center, its black steel frame catching the sunlight, stood like a sentinel as the jets sliced past. For a moment, glass and steel felt alive, part of the choreography. I caught them in frame as they swept past the Hancock’s black steel frame, its windows shimmering with the planes’ passing. In that instant, architecture wasn’t just a backdrop — it was part of the choreography.

From the beach, you see the sweep of the lakefront — Chicago as a grand stage where water meets steel. From the rooftops, you feel the intimacy — the rush of a jet passing at eye level. From the boats, you see the city from a distance, its architecture and crowds united under one vast summer sky.

Between aerial acts, the U.S. Navy SEALs and U.S. Army Golden Knights parachuted in, their canopies blooming with color as they spiraled toward the water. Civilian performers filled the sky with loops and rolls. Below, the Chicago Fire Department’s bright red boat sent shimmering arcs of water into the air, an aquatic encore.

Eventually, the engines quieted. The water cannons fell still. Rooftops emptied, boats dispersed, and the shoreline began returning to joggers and cyclists. The city exhaled after all the rush of adrenaline.

I packed my gear, crossed the bridge again, and walked back into the hum of the downtown. That day, I didn’t just see planes. I saw a skyline in motion — a city that, for a few hours, had joined the spectacle!

The Art of the ‘Throw-Down’

There’s a certain kind of magic in sketching on location — the kind you can’t replicate in the studio, no matter how sharp your pencil or how big your desk.

I first felt it during my study abroad program in Europe. Our professor, John DeSalvo, would take us to a piazza, a cathedral square, or a tucked-away alley framed by centuries-old stone. The instructions were simple:

“Here’s the architectural subject.

Pick your spot.

You have 30 minutes.

Go.”

We’d scatter — some gravitating toward the front steps of a church, others to the cool shadow of a colonnade or a cafe bench beneath a tree. We had half an hour to capture the subject given, to draw whatever caught our eye: the physical or ephemeral; the macro or micro.

When time was up, the real magic happened.

We’d gather in a circle, standing right there on site, and open our sketchbooks for what we called a sketchbook throw-down.

The Throw Down Ritual

The throw down was never a competition — it was a celebration. We’d lay our sketchbooks open so everyone could see: watercolors still damp, pastels and ink lines still smudging if you weren’t careful.

The beauty was in the variety. Twelve people could stand in the same space and come away with twelve completely different interpretations of the same architectural subject. Some sketches were all about precision; others captured atmosphere. A few honed in on details you hadn’t even noticed. It was a reminder that architecture isn’t just about what’s there, it’s about what each person sees.

Why Travel Sketching Matters

Looking back, those 30-minute sessions shaped me as a designer in ways I’m still grateful for. Here’s why I believe travel sketching is a practice worth keeping — whether you’re an architect, artist, or just a curious traveler:

1. It Sharpens Observation

When you’re sketching, you’re not just glancing — you’re studying. You notice lines, edges, proportions, materials and patterns you’d otherwise walk past.

2. It Trains Speed and Confidence

Thirty minutes is just enough time to make decisions but not enough to second-guess every line. You learn to commit and move forward.

3. It Captures Memory Differently

A photograph records what’s in front of you. A sketch records how you experienced it — what you chose to include, what you left out, how the colors felt.

4. It Builds Community

The throw down itself is a shared act. It’s about seeing through each other’s eyes, and realizing how diverse creative vision can be.

From Piazza to Present: Thursday Throw-Downs

Those circles of sketchbooks, held open to the sun, have stayed with me. They’re a tradition I want to bring into my work today — not just for nostalgia, but because I believe the throw down is a powerful way to connect people through creativity.

That’s why I’m building a new ASV community initiative called Thursday Throw-Downs.

The idea is simple:

• Once a week, people across the world will take 30 minutes to sketch — a building, a space, a corner of their own street.

• We’ll share our work together, online or in person, just like we did in the piazzas.

• It’s open to anyone, from seasoned architects to first-time sketchers.

Some weeks, I’ll host online sketch prompts so we can all work on the same theme. Other weeks, I’ll gather a local group for an on-site throw-down, where we can stand in that familiar circle, pages open, seeing what each other saw.

Why Thursday?

Because Thursdays are the perfect almost-weekend energy. Enough time to pause, make something, and connect — and still carry that creative spark into the weekend.

Travel sketching taught me that design is not just about buildings — it’s about perception, patience, and sharing your way of seeing the world. Thursday Throw-Downs will be a space for exactly that: fast lines, fresh perspectives, and a circle of people who understand that the best sketches are never perfect — they’re alive.

Stay tuned or the first Thursday Throw-Down announcement here on Architecture Speaks Volumes. I hope you’ll join me, with your choice of medium in hand.