When drawings of the main buildings I have designed in the last five years are juxtaposed, the fact that they all involve the pursuit of certain configurations is obvious to anyone.
We remember the heroes who ran into the burning buildings to rescue those trapped inside, and the dauntless passengers on Flight 93 who laid down their lives to save others, including almost certainly those of us in the U.S. Capitol.
Many of our buildings have large format murals that are of varying subject matter, and we've found that those are the sort of things that make people stop, digest, and absorb.
My buildings are not particularly expensive. It is not a tin shed. If you want a tinny car, you pay for that.
Architects have to become designers of eco-systems. Not just designers of beautiful facades or beautiful sculptures, but systems of economy and ecology, where we channel the flow not only of people, but also the flow of resources through our cities and buildings.
Well, you could take several stories off the buildings of most U.S. government agencies and we'd all probably be better for it too.
I usually don't throw around the word 'fabulous,' but how else to describe buildings decorated with mirrored water dragons, serpents tiled in colored glass, and hundreds - no, thousands, no, tens of thousands - of gold-leaf Buddhas? Luang Prabang has more than 47,000 residents, but its Buddha population must be ten times that.
I got my first job the old-fashioned way: I took an elevator to the top floor of many buildings and walked down floor by floor on the stairs going into every firm and asking the receptionist if she knew of any jobs available.
I had a whistle-stop tour of Havana in a horse and carriage and couldn't stop taking photographs of the decaying yet enchanting buildings and people.
Old San Francisco - the one so many nostalgics yearn for - had buildings that related well to each other.
High among the unpredictable variables that endanger the survival of worthy buildings are the vagaries of taste.