I've been appreciating the need for community more acutely lately. It’s a way to feel less alone, to weather these turbulent times. And it’s a place to nurture our tender creative explorations in their earliest stages. Part of the experience of being an architecture student or taking part in a writing workshop—or any form of collaborative creative venture—is the honor of being seen and heard at an authentic level. There’s something incredibly special about having your work taken seriously enough for people to ask questions and offer suggestions for improvement.
Even at a master’s thesis presentation, the discussion ranges from appreciation to critique. (We don’t call it a “defense.” I’ve always assumed that’s to encourage a collaborative atmosphere.) After a year of research and design, the student is undeniably the expert on their subject. And that’s the magic of it. Their proposal weaves obsessive research with new ideas, evokes thoughtful responses from experienced professionals, and sometimes changes minds.
It can frustrate students who’ve been immersed in their projects for so long that there’s always more to explore. And yet, with the distance of a year or two, several of our podcast guests observed that the lasting function of their thesis projects was to raise questions that do not have easy answers. Those questions become signposts, beacons for the sort of architects they seek to become.
I’ve written before about design as a search for the right questions. By “right,” I don’t mean correct, but appropriate, context-based, emergent, even profound. The sort of questions that can fuel a lifetime of exploration. For instance, in the final episode of the podcast, I bring up this question: How can I be a good ancestor? True, as I’ve been known to say when working with a thesis student, that’s not really an architectural question. But architecture, as one of humanity’s greatest arts, is a vehicle for raising critical cultural questions.
Sitting with unanswerable questions demands good listening. And listening requires courage, patience and humility. When Vincenza Perla, my podcast co-host, presented her thesis about climate resilience in May, one of the guests said, “Well, now I’m depressed.” Granted, climate change and sea level rise aren’t happy subjects. But Vincenza’s project bravely faced the realities and got on with the business of proposing innovative, forward-looking approaches to adaptation.
Her generation is at the forefront of the climate crisis, which, yes, is upsetting. Grief and anxiety over this, and all the other crises, can’t possibly be more acutely felt than by young people. But maybe a master’s thesis presentation isn’t the place to vent one’s personal emotions. Especially for experienced, practicing professionals with the power to do something about it.
Architects are by nature problem-solvers. When I hear a question, I want to answer it, share my expertise, give my considered opinion. I’m not gonna lie: this piling-up of unanswerable questions taxes my patience. After years of studying and practicing writing, I still struggle with fiction’s chief function: to ask questions. Definitely not to answer them. As Eudora Welty memorably observed in the great essay, “Must the Novelist Crusade?”—if you want to answer questions, write an editorial. (Come to think of it, maybe the need for daily practice of not-answering is what drew me to fiction writing. Thanks, Muse.)
When I committed two years ago to bring the powerful, visionary work of young architects to a wider audience, I barely intuited that the engine carrying it would be storytelling. As old as humanity itself, stories inspire and teach and connect us. Sharing one’s creative work is a way of building community—which is exactly what we’ve been up to with Building Hope1.
May all our lives be supported and encouraged by community: writing groups, architecture schools, friends, colleagues, neighbors, fellow gardeners, runners, plein-air painters and hang-gliders—if we’re lucky, we belong to several and will continue to grow and create in the company of others.
Of all the things producing the podcast has taught me, the most valuable is to listen. Listen to young people, to their experiences, their ideas, their perspectives. It’s no mere coincidence that they were born into this time. (And, no, by that I don’t mean they are the ones we’ve been waiting for. I’ve heard from many of my students that this sentiment infuriates them.) To be honest, I’m not quite sure what I mean. That’s the slippery nature of intuition, isn’t it? All I know is, many times during the interviews, listening to the recordings and editing the transcripts, I got chills. When Leah Clark compared wood shipping pallets to unhoused people, saying they are both considered disposable by our society, I got chills. And I got chills again when she said, at the end of the episode 62 town hall:
“I think we shouldn't underestimate how powerful just having conversations with each other can be, because ideas can spread and that's how change happens. So if this could be the spark, I think that's a great thing.”
Next week, Vincenza will guest-post about her experiences designing her thesis, how the presentation went, and what’s next in her quest to become a practicing architect in a rapidly changing world.
The Building Hope podcast is available on all major platforms, including Spotify, Apple, Google and Amazon. Our YouTube channel features visual episodes, with slide shows of projects. If I ever figure out how to add the episodes to Substack’s podcast feature, they’ll be here, too.
Podcast season 1 production was supported by a Faculty-Student Research Award from the Graduate School, University of Maryland, as well as grants from the University’s Sustainability Fund and the School of Architecture, Planning & Preservation. This summer, I’m writing proposals in hopes of funding a second season and incubating an exciting idea to involve other schools of architecture next time. Any suggestions / connections for funders, sponsors or schools are most welcome and appreciated.
I'm beyond delighted to have discovered your Substack Julie! I resonate with so much of what you write. Thank you for your courage to share your writing and creativity in the world✨🌟💖🙏🕊️
Lovely, the communities you are building with the students, through your podcast together, and on your substack. In a world that can seem so isolating - and tech is a culprit - we must do our best to reach out and connect - using the tech, not letting it use us. Thank you!