Why We Value the Way Buildings Look

Have you ever felt like a stranger amid the urban landscapes of new neighborhoods? Have you ever felt rejection rather than admiration for technology when faced with massive structures of glass and concrete? Have you ever had a vague sense that you're too old-fashioned for all these modern trends?

The debates surrounding the new wing of the Mariinsky Theatre confirmed an emerging trend: the younger the participant in the discussion, the more simply they view the matter, and the more readily they accept the contradictions in architectural appearance, both of individual buildings and of the city as a whole. What is this: frivolity? indifference? Hardly. More likely, it's the absence of that "protective conservatism" found in people who have lived more than 20 years.

The fact is that architecture can speak to us through the language of its forms, those that evoke memories of what we've experienced, seen, and lived through. We become different people in different places: a gloomy room may deepen our vague awareness of the imperfections in our lives, while a sunny room, gleaming with colorful tiles, can sustain what gives us the strength to live and believe in something better. That's when a facade ceases to be just a facade; it becomes a sign of the history it has witnessed.

The bland, dull aesthetic of the new Mariinsky doesn't steal the spotlight by shifting the emphasis from past to present. It has no past yet; it can only quote what shone before it. Of course, architecture isn't all-powerful. It cannot change us, but it can certainly remind us of what we could be. It advises rather than dictates. And it's entirely up to us whether to heed its signs. And youth, as we know, doesn't like advice.

Villa Rotonda. Andrea Palladio, 16th century. © Jan Voorhaar

Alain de Botton, more a philosopher than an architect, noted: "...even if we could spend the rest of our lives at Villa Rotonda or in the Glass House, we would still often be in a bad mood." This is true. But when choosing the look of our home, designing its facade, selecting the color scheme, and deciding the placement of the windows and the shape of the roof, we unconsciously appeal to memories of buildings that brought us joy. We want nothing in the house to cause irritation, but rather for its setting to calm us and offer inspiration in difficult times. That's why the panel walls of high-rises and the faceless glass of endless shopping malls sadden us: they don't speak to us. They don't evoke memories. They have no subtext. There is no cultural memory in them, which we vaguely perceive as a connection between eras.

It turns out that we value individual buildings because they can help us cope with some of our shortcomings. When planning the look of our own home, we subtly incorporate elements that remind us of our best qualities. The idea of an ideal home, therefore, may well not match the generally accepted idea of beauty. What matters is that it becomes a place where we can return to truths that are important specifically to us, a place where we can return to ourselves.

Understanding Architectural Language

Imagine a city as a vast library, where each building is a separate book written in a special language of forms, textures, and proportions. Architecture is not just the art of creating useful and durable structures, but also humanity's way of carrying on a dialogue across generations. When we talk about "reading" a city, we mean precisely this ability to recognize and interpret the meanings embedded in architecture.

It's interesting to observe how the perception of architecture changes with age and life experience. Young people, who haven't yet accumulated enough "architectural memories," often perceive buildings in terms of functionality or momentary aesthetic appeal. With age, we begin to notice subtler elements: proportions, the play of light and shadow, the relationship of volumes, the historic character of a place. A building comes to be perceived as part of the continuous narrative of the city.

A historic street in St. Petersburg.

American architect Frank Gehry aptly remarked: "Architecture should speak of its time and place, but yearn for timelessness." The grandeur of St. Isaac's Cathedral or the Winter Palace is not only a demonstration of the architects' mastery but also evidence of a certain worldview, reflecting the social and political realities of their era. Each curve of a Baroque facade, each column of Classicism, is not just a decorative element, but part of a unified system expressing the ideas of its time.

The Psychology of Space: How Buildings Affect Our State of Mind

We spend about 90% of our time inside buildings, and their influence on our psychological state cannot be overstated. High ceilings stimulate abstract thinking, while low ones encourage concentration on details. The presence of natural materials and elements reduces stress levels and improves cognitive function. These facts confirm the intuitive knowledge that architects of the past possessed: space can heal or harm.

In his research, the renowned neuroarchitect John Zeisel found that certain architectural solutions can significantly affect the recovery of hospital patients. Patients whose windows faced a natural landscape recovered faster than those deprived of such a view. This makes us wonder: if a hospital room can affect the rate of recovery, what impact do our everyday spaces have on us, our homes, offices, and public buildings?

The influence of architecture is especially vivid in sacred structures. The verticality of a Gothic cathedral, reaching toward the sky, makes a person feel small before eternity. The abundance of light streaming through colored stained-glass windows creates a sense of connection to something higher. These techniques are not accidental but the result of a deep understanding of the psychology of spatial perception.

Milan Cathedral: a vertical reach toward the sky.

Identity Crisis

One of the central problems of modern architecture is the gradual loss of the rich language of forms that developed over centuries. The International Style, with its glass facades and uniform solutions, has created a situation in which buildings in Shanghai, New York, and Moscow can look almost identical. This leads to what Rem Koolhaas aptly called the "generic city," a space without identity, without connection to historical and cultural context.

Interestingly, many of the buildings we consider masterpieces today, and that define the unique appearance of cities, once provoked fierce debate. The Eiffel Tower, which became a symbol of Paris, was called "useless and monstrous" by a group of famous French artists during its construction. Perhaps the controversies surrounding the new wing of the Mariinsky Theatre are simply part of the natural process of accepting the new?

There is, however, an important difference. The architecture of the past, for all its diversity of styles, worked with a clear language of symbols and forms. This language was rich with cultural references that were understandable to contemporaries. Modern architecture often creates forms for the sake of form alone, without filling them with universally meaningful content. As the architectural theorist Kenneth Frampton notes, "architecture is becoming increasingly visually effective and less tactile and spatially rich."

In Search of Architectural Identity

Returning to the idea that we choose or create homes that resonate with our inner values, it's worth asking: what do modern residential complexes say about us? What values do glass office buildings or generic shopping centers convey? In an era of globalization and standardization, it's becoming increasingly difficult to find architecture that truly reflects the unique character of a place and its inhabitants.

Finnish architect Juhani Pallasmaa writes about the phenomenon of "placelessness" in modern architecture, which ignores cultural context and the natural features of a location. He advocates for an "architecture of weak images," one that does not shout about its originality but is deeply rooted in human experience, tactile and sensual.

Modern architecture: the search for a balance between innovation and tradition.

In this context, buildings that can speak several languages at once, respecting the past while addressing the future, become especially valuable. One example is the Neue Pinakothek in Munich by architect Alexander von Branca, where contemporary forms combine organically with traditional materials and the scale of historic buildings. Another is the work of Peter Zumthor, whose buildings are always a dialogue with the landscape, tradition, and human feeling.

Time and Architectural Memory

Any historic city can be compared to a palimpsest, an ancient parchment on which new texts are written over erased but still discernible older ones. Each generation leaves its mark on the urban fabric, and these marks never completely disappear. They become part of the collective memory of the place, forming its unique identity.

Italian architect Aldo Rossi spoke of the "memory of the city," which is preserved not only in material monuments but also in the structure of streets, in the proportions of squares, and in the typology of buildings. This memory makes a city authentic, different from all other places. In this sense, modern neighborhoods lacking a connection with the history of the place can indeed be perceived as "foreign," failing to evoke an emotional response.

And yet, even the most impersonal modern structures eventually accumulate layers of meaning and memory. Children born near shopping malls and glass offices will perceive them as part of their childhood, as an element of normality. For them, these buildings will be filled with personal stories and emotions that we, who grew up in a different architectural environment, cannot share.

Perhaps this is the central paradox of our perception of architecture: we value not so much the objective aesthetic qualities of buildings as the memories and associations they awaken in us. And if that is the case, then each generation creates its own architectural language, understandable primarily to itself.

Beyond Aesthetics

The value of architecture, like that of any art, is not limited to aesthetic categories alone. Buildings are not just objects for contemplation, but spaces for living, thinking, and feeling. They shape our perception of the world and of ourselves, often imperceptibly, subconsciously influencing our worldview.

Ultimately, disagreements in evaluating architectural solutions are not just a matter of taste or generational difference. They are a conversation about how we want to see our lives, what values we consider important, and what legacy we strive to leave to those who come after us. In this sense, discussions about the appearance of buildings are always something more than discussions of facades or interiors.

Perhaps the main criterion for evaluating architecture is its ability to evoke an emotional response, to establish a connection between a person and a space. In this sense, both historical monuments and innovative modern solutions can be equally valuable if they address not only our vision but also our soul.

And so, let new houses (and not just in the historic center) speak in an unfamiliar language, one that sounds like slang. Time will put everything in its place here too. After all, any language, even an architectural one, lives and develops only when it is spoken, when it is capable of expressing new meanings and reflecting a changing reality. And we can only learn to listen to and understand the polyphony of cities, in which the voices of different eras, styles, and worldviews intertwine.