TRADE | Performing Architecture
On erasing the false dichotomy between building and designing.
Written By Fernando Pagés Ruiz
This piece was originally printed in Issue 2 of Southern Urbanism Quarterly.
Maybe it’s because I came into the trades while working on a degree in music that I see my role in homebuilding as a performer: a performer of architecture. I know this is an unusual approach, but it has engaged me with a passion that I could not find focusing solely on the business or even on the craft of construction. Ask any musician, classical or jazz, or even a good rock ‘n’ roller, and they will answer knowledgeably about the history of the songs they perform, the greatest hits of that style, and the geniuses that wrote best-loved scores. As an architectural performer, I feel responsible for becoming a connoisseur of my art: learning not only how to build but also the story of the architecture and its meaning.
From artist to artisan
At the California Institute of the Arts in the early 1990s, I built theater sets in the shop, and I had access to tools. On weekends, I borrowed those tools and made a few bucks helping teachers remodel—I worked cheap. At night, I played the clarinet. I was paid to play, but never as much as I earned remodeling. Life proceeded, kids came along, and gradually I put down the horn and picked up a hammer full time. I felt defeated, my teenage dreams cut short—until I began to look at homebuilding as a sort of symphony. One with a composer: the architect. A conductor: the contractor. And performers: me and all the other tradespeople. When you tilt your head just so, and if you know how to listen, even whining saws and percussive nail hammers can sound like a rock opera.
Yet on this construction stage, where I began my career performing architecture, I noticed unique conflicts that I never encountered in an orchestra. Performers (tradespeople) routinely changed the score (blueprints) and often argued with the composer (architect). In other words, builders didn’t and don’t always follow the plans and sometimes even criticize the architect with comments like, “...well, you can draw anything, but it’s quite another thing to construct it.”
Building for a living becomes much more interesting when you understand the architectural dialect and appreciate its expression.
I had a different view. For me, not following the plans felt analogous to playing the wrong notes. Correcting the architect signaled something worse than arrogance—it was ignorance. Architects spend years learning composition. They know exactly where the windows should go and how the horizontal and vertical lines of the siding best accent the structure. They understand the hierarchy of forms and the proportions that make a façade balanced and harmonious. They know the story behind each detail. Architectural ornaments speak to the trained eye. If you learn the history of architecture, the elements of style will talk to you too. Building for a living becomes much more interesting when you understand the architectural dialect and appreciate its expression.
For example, did you know that the rosette you place at the corner of door and window casings represents an ancient Greek patera, a vessel for drinking sacrificial wine? Have you heard that crown molding represents an ancient rain gutter? It should never go beneath the soffit as a trim. Similarly, the frieze board should appear wider than the fascia because it represents the rafter ends of a stone temple. Do you appreciate the differences between the Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian orders of architecture? For the old-timers, this was basic carpentry knowledge. If you doubt me, read an early American pattern book to see just how deep an understanding of classical forms our homebuilding forefathers had before 1930.
There was a time when builders respected architecture, and the homes of that era show it. I know a famous architect who will give you $100 to find an ugly home built before 1930. After this date—when homebuilders became businessmen and houses became a commodity—ugly homes built by architecturally illiterate developers abound.
The language of architecture
To interpret architecture, which is what you’re doing when you build, it’s essential to learn the language and history of design. You may not appreciate this yet, but architecture has a grammar—a pattern language with conventions of syntax handed down over centuries of tradition. When you ignore and violate the customs, you change the meaning. You may not have a great grasp of grammar, but you know a good sermon when you hear it: It’s inspiring. Buildings work the same way. Some well-designed structures speak clearly, even eloquently. Others rise to the level of poetry. When you look at good architecture, you know it. People travel across the ocean to walk around neighborhoods with great architecture. Think of Rome, Barcelona, and Florence. Closer to home, Newport, Rhode Island; Charleston, South Carolina; Santa Fe, New Mexico; and Palm Springs, California. Does anyone travel even across town to admire the architecture of a suburban housing tract near you? Likely not.
“A builder worries about the roof not leaking. An architect worries about how the roof looks.” — Andrés Duany
I’ve long felt this way about the relationship between building and architecture, but even after all these years in the field, my recent work with storied architect Andrés Duany of New Urbanism fame has cemented my opinion that the best builders will understand how architecture works. Recently, I helped organize and install two homes at the International Builders’ Show for Duany. One of the building elements included a portico along the front of the building. The carpenter and I laid out the rafter hangers, and everything looked good to my eye. Just then, Duany arrived, appearing alarmed. He told us the rafter hangers were not laid out correctly. I argued they were precisely at the 32-inch centers specified, but he shook his head and said no. We removed all the hangers, leaving behind a marred, stainless-steel sheet that covered the header, now riddled with nail holes. Duany measured and laid out the supports in slightly different locations. He told me, “I will never get this into any architectural magazines if the rafters aren’t right.” Looking at the photographs, I can now see it clearly. But as a builder, I sweated the marred stainless steel—I would have let the layout error stand to preserve the costly covering. This didn’t bother Duany. He cared about the alignment of building elements—in this case, the rafters over the glass panes below.
“A builder worries about the roof not leaking. An architect worries about how the roof looks,” Duany told me during a recent conversation. “But before 1930, this dichotomy did not exist. Builders came from a tradition of classical design handed down over centuries and understood building proportions and alignment intuitively—they had an eye,” Duany said. “Today’s builders were reared on the equivalent of visual junk food.”
What design is for
The post-World-War-II building boom that ushered in the McDonaldization of homes brought two detrimental consequences: First, it created a competitive component-manufacturing industry that brought ample choice in windows, siding, doors, and trim, but much of it was devised by factory technicians and not architectural designers. And, second, it led to the evolution of an empowered, uneducated business class. “In the old days, only the educated were wealthy enough to affect the built environment,” Duany told me, implying that today, rich enough to afford a mansion does not signify good taste. It almost assures vulgarity.
So, while the quality of homes has grown and continues to benefit from our industry’s keen interest in building science and environmental stewardship, builders still suspect and misunderstand the architect’s specific expertise, as if good style and informed aesthetics were inconsequential.
Now, to spring to the builder’s defense, you may have seen poorly detailed blueprints. I’ve encountered architects’ plan sets that are a scant six pages long and lack much information beyond schematics, leaving the builder to figure a lot out on site. Most builders hate this, but I do not. If the architect comes up with a clever motif, I can usually figure out how to build it. I need the architect for designing more than construction details.
While not all architects are geniuses, all architects have invested years in learning design conventions handed down over centuries. Most can create at least competent buildings. Gifted architects can play off the protocols to design works of art. As a homebuilder, I can design homes, and I have. Yet I prefer to work with well-educated designers with a refined eye for much better results.
When you build or remodel homes as an architectural performer and not merely as a contractor—or, worse, a businessperson—you enter a collaborative production akin to a symphonic opus. The word opus is simply a fancy way of saying “work.” As in—a work of art. Just think of how you experience your life’s opus when you leave the house in the morning feeling, “I’m going to work, again...,” versus, “Today, I perform a work of art.” Or at least perform with architectural intent.
A higher goal
When I work with architects, I get to know their worldview—their intent. I find hidden in the architect’s plan not only aesthetic considerations but also social themes, a concern for health and climate, and even psychological motives. For example, in Wyoming, with the award-winning scholastic architect Prakash Nair, I assembled a learning community where the homes helped young people feel inspired to concentrate on school- work and other learning activities. Yes, it can be done, just as a cathedral inspires awe and a nightclub the urge to dance. The environment affects us.
Andrés Duany’s most recent designs hearken back to the modernism of the 1920s—an era like ours, recovering from a pandemic flu. His designs are transparent, including ample light (which kills virus), ventilation (which dilutes airborne contaminants), and even a decontamination foyer when you enter to take off shoes and outer clothing, wash up, and store packages for opening later. The room includes UV lighting that comes on after you exit to purify the items left inside. He offers a segregated recovery bedroom for anyone in the family needing it. All the while, these features do not intrude on otherwise very livable condominiums going up in Alys Beach, Florida.
Working at this level of thought, I feel my life enriched, and my “job” as a homebuilder is becoming more than a means to a good living.
Architect Korkut Onaran is working on designs for future climates, geared toward a heating planet. With architect Geoffrey Childs, I built a community in Lincoln, Nebraska, that considered the psychological needs of refugees, providing a haven at home for those quite suddenly relocated to an alien culture. These architectural considerations go well beyond the sticks-and-bricks aspect of construction and become involved with buildings that do more than keep out the cold. Working at this level of thought, I feel my life enriched, and my “job” as a homebuilder is becoming more than a means to a good living.
The ancient Roman architectural polymath Marcus Vitruvius Pollio wrote: “May the Architect be high-minded, not arrogant, but faithful.” To which I would humbly append: May the builder faithfully perform high-minded architecture, not arrogantly, but competently. This attitude toward the full range of architecture, its purpose as well as its performance on the jobsite, would go a long way toward creating a better world. One we build not just for profit but for the enrichment of humanity.
Fernando Pagés Ruiz builds non-subsidized affordable homes for a largely immigrant community. He collaborates with DPZ CoDesign on cost reduction, chairs CNU Latino, and writes for Fine Homebuilding and the Green Building Advisor. He is busy researching and writing the second edition of his bestseller Building an Affordable House with The Taunton Press.
All images provided by the author.