Subtle Megalomania

Gustave Doré captured the moment when the architect's ego first soared to cosmic heights.

Recently I was asked by a client, "So why did you decide to become an architect?" It wasn't the first time I've been asked this question, and, like every other time this has happened, I stuttered for a bit attempting to draw from the recesses of my mind some semi-coherent life story, and after a concerning pause what lamely came out was, "Well...my brother took an architecture class in high school and so when the time came I took it too and when the time came to apply to college I chose architecture school and when the time came to graduate I went to work at a firm, and now here I am." For a moment I was shocked by the shameless banality of my own words. My client looked at me expectantly, then, coming to the realization that there was no forthcoming backstory involving a deep-seated passion for LEGO coupled with a tireless ambition to leave an enduring mark on this great country, he leaned back in silent, restrained judgment. Surely he was looking for a little more drive from the very architect in charge of his own house. "Wrong answer..." I thought to myself. Alas, more often than not, the stars don't align.

The truth is, I actually was a LEGO kid growing up, and I did have, for many years, an ambition toward architectural grandeur and associated glories. During college one summer, when the grandfather of my partner at the time heard that I was attending architecture school, he put his hand on my shoulder and, looking toward some invisible distant horizon, stated with a sigh, "One day I'll see a shining skyscraper...and I'll smile knowing that you are the one who built it." While I found the sentiment a little overblown, deep down it gave me a rush of pride, and I agreeably nodded along.

After the summer I was thrust back into the architecture school grind. It was a place outside of worldly life, ruled by a different set of social values. In school, the more daring the approach and the more exuberant and lofty the ideas, the more attention and praise would be heaped upon you. Group settings were a primary source of prestige for students, when professors would select a few choice works from the crowd to publicly applaud. Naturally, college evolved for me into a contest for professorial attention and academic envy. During those years, the behavior of everyone around me was regular confirmation that the ultimate pursuit of the architect is to fulfill to the greatest extent possible the soaring creative ambitions of the architect's own ego. The stories we heard about our heroes - Wright, van der Rohe, Corbusier, Kahn, Gehry, Piano, Ando, Koolhaas, Herzog de Meuron, all supported this narrative of ego-drive beyond all doubt. I am ashamed to admit that I carried this self-important attitude home with me to a greater extent each year, to the quiet distaste of my father. By the time I was deep into my college degree I was flying high like a delusional Icarus among the spires of my own conceit. Life has a curious way of re-calibrating, however, when the scale tips too far in one direction.

Anybody who came through the other end of architecture school will know that there is a period shortly after entering professional practice when your dreams finally lie down and die. It sounds harsh, but I don't mean it in a nihilistic sense. Rather, there comes a slow out-breath of letting go that arises from recognizing that the relationship between you and the world is not what you thought at all. The world is not waiting for one's creative genius to come along to save the day; in fact, it is indifferent, or even suspicious of it. Professional practice is deeply humbling precisely because it is deeply dull to a fresh graduate. Suddenly, limitations, traditions, bureaucracy, and the whims of personal taste abound where none existed before. Even a best case scenario doesn't guarantee a fulfilling project. When the soaring ego meets this fire, it has nowhere to run, and is reborn from the ashes, purer and freer from the ugly and twisted agglomerations of past prides and attachments. The caterpillar embalmed, liquefied, and reborn to soar on shaky wings into the free air. It is my view that this is where the designer's true growth begins—slowly at first, but with renewed clarity on one's own place in it all.

I know now, looking back, that I did not become an architect just to console my pride and vanity, though they were loud at the time, and remain still to a degree now, though in a less intrusive form. That after my ego has subsided I continue to feel joy in design proves to me that something else drives me to continue on this path, though what exactly I am still discovering. Recall that Louis Kahn did not complete his first notable building until age 50; up to that point, he was still in his design infancy, testing the waters. As to my response to my client's question, I've only just started learning what being an architect even means—how could I possibly know what I'm doing here and why? To be truthful to my client I would have to reply, "ask me again in a few decades."