Iteration is laziness.

There, I said it.

In architecture firms, it’s all too common to hear: “𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴?”

It might look like design, but to me, it’s just hedging.

It’s an inefficient use of time and a sign of an immature process. Chefs don’t invent new dishes by tossing the same ingredients into different pots and hoping one tastes right. They start with a clear vision and build with intention.

I’m not saying iteration can’t achieve successful results—in fact, many prominent architects have built their careers on this approach. But I can’t help but reject it as a design philosophy.

By all means, explore—but endless iteration is not a substitute for real ideation—intentional, well-considered moves grounded in expertise. Too often in client meetings we show three schemes and explain why two of them don’t work. That doesn’t inspire confidence. It doesn’t speak to leadership. It dilutes the value of design.

Much stronger is to say:

“𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗲’𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴—𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝘆.”

Design isn’t about cataloguing what 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 work.

It’s about consciously navigating to what 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴.

Let’s lead with ideas—not options.

Spend enough time around architects and you start to notice a pattern.

The love of fancy pens. The muted but meticulously curated wardrobes. The willingness to spend countless underpaid hours moving pixels on a screen for work that might never see the light of day. It’s an odd mix of traits—quirky, intense, obsessive.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗼𝗴𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿:
Architects are on a quest for control.

Not control in the manipulative sense (hopefully), but in the more subtle sense—the power and freedom that come from being in control. From shaping something with intentionality. Like an orchestra conductor, architects seek to conduct physical space into harmony and beauty.

Most architects I’ve met believe deeply in the power of design to transform the world. They’re not satisfied with “good enough.” They believe things can be better—and that they 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be.

A building should be better.
A city should function better.
𝘐 should be better.

That language of “should” runs through the architect’s inner and outer world. And the tool we reach for, again and again, is control.

This internal drive makes architects highly motivated, deeply self-aware, and often incredibly self-critical. There’s a reason the stereotype exists of the cold, cerebral architect: the mind is easier to control than emotion. Warmth is volatile; the intellect is safer. Black clothing and minimalism are not just aesthetic choices—they're strategies for clarity and simplicity.

But the same impulse for order often spills into every corner of life. An architect’s obsession with the details of a building is mirrored in their curated playlists, their favorite mechanical pencils, even their perfectly labeled packing cubes.

This relentless pursuit of “should” is a double-edged sword.
It’s our superpower—but also our stumbling block.

Because control, unchecked, becomes a cage. The healthiest, most successful architects I know are the ones who’ve found a balance. They still care deeply. They still obsess over the details. But they’ve also learned to let go—of perfection, of rigidity, of fear. They’ve embraced warmth, emotion, vulnerability. They’ve made space for wisdom from others, for collaboration, for surprise.

And in doing so, they don’t just become better architects—they become fuller versions of themselves.

So yes—keep your fancy pens. Wear all the black you want.
But don’t forget to be human.

The world needs your eye for beauty and your hunger for better—
but it needs your heart even more.

In most models of education, we’re taught to think in binaries: rational or irrational, logical or illogical. If something makes sense, it’s good; if it doesn’t, it’s dismissed. These two realms—logic and its absence—are where we’re told all thought must reside.

But Hasidic philosophy offers a third category: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳-𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭.

This isn’t the realm of wishful thinking. It’s something higher—𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 reason, not beneath it. And crucially, it isn’t a rejection of logic, but a completion of it.

Hasidic thought urges us to use the mind rigorously—to understand through the full power of reason. But reason has limits. The mind eventually encounters a boundary—a door it cannot pass through. And at that threshold, a different kind of knowing begins: the super-rational.

From there, the work continues not through more analysis, but through intuition, sensitivity, and attunement—qualities that emerge with discipline and practice.

This idea has deep implications for architecture—and for all creative work.

As architects, we are charged with designing rationally. A building must make sense. It must function, cohere, and express clear intent. Everything—site plan, structure, materials, even a doorknob—should connect back to a central idea.

But great architecture doesn’t stop there.

Eventually, the very logic we’ve built begins to limit the design. The rules we’ve created start to constrain rather than serve. That’s when we know we’ve reached the door. And now we face a different task: to step beyond reason and into the realm of the super-rational.

This is where architecture begins to ask different kinds of questions:

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦?
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴?

These aren’t analytical questions. They’re perceptive ones. They belong to a different mode of working—one that relies less on problem-solving and more on presence, listening, and instinct. It's a shift from control to attunement.

Design becomes less about applying rules and more about letting go of them. Logic becomes a foundation we step off from. And from that ground, something deeper can emerge.

The most compelling buildings often come from this space. They may bend convention, ignore efficiency, or defy explanation—and yet they resonate. People are less inclined to question the cost or excess, because the result feels undeniably 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. It carries a kind of truth that doesn’t need to be justified.

So while architecture must begin with reason, it can’t end there. Logic gives us clarity and form, but eventually it begins to constrain. The real work is knowing when to let go—when to design not just with the mind, but with instinct, presence, and trust.

That’s when architecture becomes more than functional.
That’s when it gains meaning.

A little while back, someone asked in our office:
𝗪𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿—𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗱𝗶𝗴𝗶𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗽𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗹?

My answer? 𝗣𝗵𝘆𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗲𝗹.

But not for the reasons you might expect.

It’s not that physical models represent a design better. It’s that the 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 shapes the design itself.

In my experience, digital tools—especially Revit (but also Rhino, Grasshopper, CAD, etc.)—suffer from a core flaw:

𝗛𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱.

I can generate a decent-looking building in Revit in minutes—set levels, draw walls, array windows, apply materials, import a site—done.

But try modeling a custom stair, modifying a populated model, or working non-orthogonally, and suddenly the simplest move becomes hours of tedious work. The result?

“𝗚𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗰𝗸” 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗴𝗻.

We orbit a nice-looking Enscape model, subconsciously hesitant to challenge decisions—not because we believe in them, but because changing them is work. And hey, 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?

Physical models flip this logic. Foam, chipboard, and wood are forgiving and fast. You can sketch in space, test bold moves, remix and rethink—freely.

But when it’s time to make a finished model? That’s a whole different story. Cutting each piece by hand or laser, assembling, gluing, sanding, landscaping—it’s slow and meticulous. And that labor matters.

It forces you to 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 to your decisions. Every move builds on the last. You don’t “guess and check” your way through a physical model. You build it once. And when you present it, you’re saying: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦.

𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲—
𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗱𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

I’m reminded of something a favorite professor once told me in grad school. I was working on a boathouse and mentioned I’d do a quick rendering. He stopped me:

“𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘵.”

His point was: stay in plan and section. Let logic guide form. Don’t let visuals drive decisions prematurely. He rarely let us view our projects in 3D—and the work was better for it. Stronger. Clearer. More intentional.

That lesson has stayed with me. Especially now, designing buildings that shape real places and impact real lives.

In a world of instant visuals, there’s still something powerful—and grounding—about the deliberate act of making.

There’s a reason why so many people love the work of BIG—and I’m definitely one of them.

Bjarke Ingels and his team have found a way to bring a rare kind of playfulness into architecture, and scale it up without losing its soul. Their buildings feel imaginative and spontaneous, yet grounded and coherent. They don’t try to be precious or exclusive—they just make good ideas 𝘣𝘪𝘨.

BIG’s projects have a childlike curiosity baked into them. They’re fun, clever, and approachable—never pretentious. That’s a rare achievement. While architects like Foster, Hadid, or Piano deliver technically brilliant and refined work, their buildings tend to sit on a pedestal—complex, admired, but distant.

BIG does something different. Their work is 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲, 𝗰𝗼𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿, offering bold solutions that feel natural, even inevitable. They manage to translate clarity and creativity at scale, all while keeping that spark of joy alive.

𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗻: design doesn’t have to be complex to be meaningful.

𝗣𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁, 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗳𝘂𝗹.

BIG proves that architecture can be both visionary 𝘢𝘯𝘥 welcoming—and that’s something worth learning from.

A new design mantra I’ve been thinking about: one gesture, one material.

There was a time when buildings were conceived as a singular response to a singular purpose. The material wasn’t an aesthetic choice—it 𝘸𝘢𝘴 the building. One material did it all: form, structure, expression.

Today, I’m thinking about this less as a construction approach and more as a visual design philosophy.

Too often, design becomes a collage—steel meets wood meets cladding meets glass. Layer after layer, system after system. We’ve streamlined inefficiency with incredible sophistication, yet the results are often more complex, more costly, and more fragile.

What happens when we strip it back to one clear move and one honest material?

It’s not about minimalism. It’s about clarity. Purpose. Restraint.

𝗢𝗻𝗲 𝗴𝗲𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲, 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗹.

Because the strongest designs don’t just look intentional—they 𝘢𝘳𝘦.