PRESERVED IN PROGRESS

Some works in progress last a day. Some last a season.

And then there are works in progress that stretch across centuries — becoming living testaments to endurance, craft, and care.

Few buildings embody this better than the Kölner Dom in Cologne, Germany: a Gothic masterpiece that survived the bombings of World War II, outlasted six centuries of construction stops and starts, and continues to be preserved stone by stone even today.

After the war, restoration teams faced a monumental question:

How do you repair a building that took 600 years to build?

The answer became a multi-decade—and now ongoing—project:

• shattered tracery rebuilt

• stone vaults stitched and anchored

• stained glass painstakingly reassembled or redesigned

• cracked piers reinforced internally

• roofs reconstructed from charred fragments

I knew all of this intellectually before I visited — the Gothic engineering, the war damage, the perpetual restoration — but nothing prepared me for the experience of walking it, touching it, and ascending into its voice.

This is not just a building.

It is a living architectural being — a work in progress that has never stopped evolving, watching, remembering, and speaking.

Walk around the exterior today and you can see the cathedral’s physical memory: areas of lighter, younger sandstone inserted beside centuries-old, soot-darkened originals. Every color shift represents a moment in its repair story.

Architecture as Witness and Memory Keeper

The cathedral’s survival became a symbol of resilience for post-war Germany. Photographs from 1945 show the spires rising above a flattened city — a reminder of endurance when everything else felt lost.

The building is not just architecture.

It is witness.

It is memory.

It is a record of what humanity chooses to preserve, even after destruction.

A STONE Giant That Refused to Fall

Cologne was one of the most heavily bombed cities of WWII. More than 90% of the inner city was destroyed. Yet the cathedral — hit by fourteen bombs, pierced by shrapnel, shaken by shockwaves — remained standing.

Its survival was not luck.

Its survival was design.

The pointed arches, ribbed vaults, flying buttresses, and thick piers formed a skeletal system so resilient that even modern warfare could not collapse it. When the city was flattened around it, the spires rose defiantly above the rubble.

The architecture spoke the only words possible in such devastation:

I am still here.

My experience began in the plaza — a vast stone forecourt alive with thousands of people moving, pausing, circling, meeting, admiring. The cathedral dominates this space not just visually but energetically. Every step feels like entering a gravitational field.

The rhythmic bustle of the crowd contrasts with the stillness of the façade, a stone tapestry stretching impossibly high. The steps leading to the main portal are worn by centuries of feet — pilgrims, tourists, worshippers, students, the curious, the hurried, the lost.

Architecture speaks here through scale, presence, and human movement around it.

Standing at the base of the façade, I felt small in the best possible way — grounded, humbled, welcomed into a story larger than myself.

Inside the Nave — Darkness, Light, and Vertical Silence

Stepping inside, the cathedral’s interior felt like entering a different atmosphere. Cool stone. Soft shadows. Light filtering through stained glass like diffused whispers in color.

But the moment that changed everything wasn’t at floor level.

It was above.

Climbing the Spire — Architecture as Physical Experience

The ascent to the top of the spire is not glamorous. It is physical, narrow, steep, and deliciously disorienting. The spiral staircase coils upward like the inside of a shell. The walls thicken. The air cools. The sound of the plaza fades until there is only breath and stone.

Architecture speaks here through compression — a lesson in how movement shapes emotion.

Reaching the open-air walkways encased in steel mesh felt like stepping into the cathedral’s lungs. Wind rushed through the openings. The city appeared below me in fragments. The stonework — tracery, gargoyles, moldings — revealed itself up close with a level of detail that the plaza could never show.

This is where I truly understood the building as a living organism, perpetually repaired, cleaned, monitored, and honored by the team at the Dombauhütte.

Every lighter stone is a sentence added later.

Every darker stone is an older part of the story.

The Bell Tower — Where Architecture Vibrates

And then came THE BELL!

Seeing the largest bell — St. Peter’s Bell, one of the world’s biggest free-swinging bells — is breathtaking. But hearing it? Feeling the vibration move through the metal grate beneath my feet, through the walls, through my ribs?

That was architectural sound.

Not metaphor.

Not poetic imagery.

Actual sound.

Stone translating vibration into feeling.

Architecture speaking literally.

Looking Down Into the Cathedral

One of the most surreal moments was standing above the nave, looking down into the interior from high above. From this vantage, the ribbed vaults presented themselves like an intricate stone web. People on the ground appeared like moving points of color.

This perspective rewired my understanding of Gothic ambition.

It’s one thing to admire the vaults from below.

It’s entirely another to see how they lock together from above — structure, geometry, light, gravity, all held in exquisite tension.

Preservation as a 700-Year-Long Conversation

Kölner Dom is arguably one of the most continuously maintained structures in Europe. Constantly monitored. Constantly renewed. Its sandstone erodes quickly, turning conservation into a full-time calling.

Its governing body, the Dombauhütte—a medieval-style workshop dedicated solely to the cathedral—still operates today. Stonemasons, glaziers, structural engineers, art historians, and scaffolding specialists work every day — literally every single day — to keep the building alive.

This is where the philosophy crystallizes:

Architecture that speaks volumes cannot ever be “finished.”

Its voice is shaped by:

• war scars

• pollution stains

• newly cut stones

• medieval carving traditions

• contemporary engineering

• weathering

• human hands

• time

The building evolves, and that evolution becomes its message.

What the Kölner Dom Taught Me About How Architecture Speaks

Walking the plaza…

Climbing the stairs…

Standing beside the bells…

Looking down into the nave…

Watching sunlight move across stone…

All of it converged into a single lesson:

Architecture speaks through endurance, presence, and lived experience.

It is not frozen.

It is not silent.

It is actively communicating — if we take the time to listen.

The Kölner Dom speaks volumes about:

• resilience

• craftsmanship

• continuity

• memory

• community

• faith (in both the spiritual and architectural sense)

• the long arc of human effort

And most importantly:

that some works in progress are meant to last forever.

A Final Thought: The Cathedral as a Living Conversation

As I descended back to the plaza, reentering the movement of the crowds, I realized something profound:

Every person who touches this cathedral becomes part of its ongoing story.

Every stone replaced continues the dialogue.

Every footstep on the plaza acknowledges its presence.

Every preservation effort is an act of care, not completion.

The Kölner Dom does not ask to be admired.

It asks to be understood.

And through its walls, its scars, its bells, its views, and its never-ending restoration, it reminds us — especially those of us who design — that architecture speaks volumes when it is allowed to live, adapt, and endure.

Why This Matters for Designers Today

In our contemporary world of fast timelines and faster demolitions, Kölner Dom challenges us to rethink what “preservation” means:

• What does it look like to design for centuries, not decades?

• How do we plan materials that can be repaired, replaced, and honored over time?

• What does stewardship mean in an era obsessed with speed?

• How do we let a building age authentically, while protecting it from irreversible loss?

Preservation isn’t about freezing a building in time.

It’s about allowing it to change—carefully, deliberately, respectfully.

Kölner Dom is a masterclass in this mindset.

A reminder that architecture isn’t a final product.

It’s a relationship.

And some relationships are meant to last forever.

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!

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.

WHY ‘ARCHITECTURE SPEAKS VOLUMES’?

Some buildings whisper. Some shout.

But the ones that matter—speak volumes.

Architecture Speaks Volumes was born from that idea: that spatial design isn’t just about structures or style—it’s about memory, movement, silence, and story. It’s about how space makes us feel, what it helps us remember, and what it says about who we are.

This is my corner on the www to speak that language with purpose.

A Voice Through Design

I’ve spent almost two decades immersed in architecture—drawing, building, teaching, wandering. I’ve walked streets emptied by earthquakes, sat under trees older than empires, stood still in rooms where light alone told the story. These moments have shaped how I see space, and why I believe it’s never just background. Its presence.

After years of holding this vision quietly, I launched Architecture Speaks Volumes LLC DBA Design Speaks Volumes to give it form. This is more than a design studio—it’s a way of thinking, a way of creating, and a way of connecting.

What Lives Here

ASV is made of many parts, each with its own voice:

• Design Speaks Volumes : A creative services wing of Architecture Speaks Volumes LLC that is dedicated to thoughtful, intentional design projects.

• The ASV Vlogs | Where is Janice? : Visual stories about travel, design, space, and creative process.

• The ASV Edit: A boutique featuring scarves, photographs, and curated objects.

• The ASV Blog: This space—a place for ideas, reflections, and untold stories.

• The Book: A memoir in progress, shaped by my time in Japan during the 2011 earthquake and tsunami.

Together, these threads form a practice that values design as storytelling—and storytelling as a kind of design tool.

What to Expect From This Blog

Here, I’ll share thoughts on spatial design, place, and materiality—sometimes poetic, sometimes practical. You might find travel stories. Sketches. Design musings. Reflections on silence, sound, memory, and form. Maybe even fragments from the book I’m writing.

This isn’t just a blog. It’s a journal. A window. A conversation.

Let’s Build This Together

Thank you for being here at the beginning. Whether you’re a fellow creative, a design enthusiast, or someone who just believes that space matters—I’m glad you’ve arrived.

There’s more to come, and I hope you’ll stay a while.

Subscribe, reach out, share a thought. Let’s see where this story leads.

Because when architecture speaks volumes,

it’s not just my voice—it’s ours.

Welcome to ASV.

Janice Ninan

Founder | Creative Director

Architecture Speaks Volumes