SURPRISE! April Fools’ Day in Architecture

When Grand Visions Become Broken Promises

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I’m curious about the ways “promises made, promises kept” rings in different parts of our lives. It’s an obvious topic in politics, and a huge one. But does it also apply in our other society-level engagements that may have ripples, even tidal waves, that are just as big? I’m exploring how the parts of the world that architects and architecture impact fit into that.

To begin, to frame the question, perhaps in a somewhat odd way, we have a rather perverse day, a date that repeats every year, a date that is designated a holiday, a date that in and of itself seduces and disappoints us. As an annual “holiday,” it promises time off, but “sorry, no, we were just kidding.”  Promise not kept. 

It’s “April Fools’ Day,” a mark on the calendar that’s traditionally a prompt for pranks, mostly simple, even simple-minded ones, for “fooling” people, drawing them into hopes that then get dashed. Warner Brothers’ cartoons are full of characters fooling each other, pulling the rug out from under them at the last possible moment, snatching away the possibility of avoiding an Ouch! As watchers, it can be funny. As participants in the dramas of real life, it’s not quite so much fun. “That fancy car is half-priced for you, and just for you, and just today….. Want it?” Sorry!….that was yesterday! April Fools!” April Fools’ Day is the premier, ultra-example of promises made, promises broken.

I’m reminded of an old joke: A doctor tells a patient, “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?” The guy says, “Good news.” “Well, the good news is that you have one day to live.’’ “That’s the good news??.... What’s the bad news?” “Well, I forgot to tell you yesterday.” 

When it comes to promises made, promises kept, architecture isn’t immune to the subject, the criticism, or the implicit obligation to keep promises made. One example is “Futurama,” an exhibit in the 1939 World’s Fair in New York, inviting visitors to believe in a future just 20 years away, when cities and suburbs designed for cars would be perfect environments for people. The cars came. The perfection didn’t. 

Twenty years isn’t very long to accomplish “miracles.” Imagine promises being made today that would come due in 2045. How about the fight against climate change, just for one? Or the fight to defeat cancer. Or establishing colonies on Mars? Those promises have already been eating up the clock for decades. Though there has been real progress, those promises have yet to be fulfilled.

So, back to 1939. The sponsor of Futurama, which was a huge multi-sensory event that was featured in the major magazines of its time, that epoch’s social media, was none other than General Motors, the colossus of  car-makers, was selling a future that worked very well, for General Motors anyway. 

“Futurama” was the stuff promises are made of. It was designed by Norman Bel Geddes, actually an industrial designer, who was sharing his vision of an ideal architecture of the future. His vision wasn’t unique to him.

In part, he was “quoting” some surgically disconnected pieces of the dreams of actual architects. Le Corbusier, for one, with his usual mixture of good and bad ideas, dreamt of tall apartment towers surrounded by green space, not highways. He was also quoting a 1920s movie, Metropolis, where the idea was more radical, with elevated freeways between buildings and biplanes cruising above highways. I guess General Motors wasn’t in the airplane business.

Fast forward twenty years to 1959, the promised date for Bel Geddes’ and GM’s vision. We, the April Fools at the end of Futurama’s twenty-year vision, repeated every twenty years since, have found that driving is no panacea. The promise was not kept. Instead, the places we love the most turn out to be the ones where we can walk, where we can pause, where we can engage more slowly. It’s walking, not driving, that brings us pleasure, brings us together, in neighborhoods, towns, and cities.

What can architecture do about it or, rather, what can architects do about it? It’s a simple question with a not-so-simple answer. Most architects aren’t developers or land-use legislators, but we can put a bright light on alternatives to car-dominated design with the design of places that people love, places where the car isn’t king. And we do both. The results are mixed, and not always because developers reject ways to make more humane environments.

To the contrary. In plenty of cases, “beauty sells,” as my architectural practice partner and I used to say to each other. The conditions that promote livability can be big parts of the beauty that sells.

Developments with what are now called “amenities,” are actually integrating the previously ignored core elements that we need for our health and wellbeing, spaces that go beyond the square footage of our individual apartments or houses or offices or shopping malls. Think of the spaces made and the dollars spent to attract people to developments. “Amenities” turn out more and more like essentials. There is profit in helping people enjoy life.

Architects who engage with their developer clients early in the process sometimes influence how those projects are shaped. Advocacy matters as well. Architects can put our values into action, to advance the case for livability when the public comes together to consider big decisions about projects or about the rules that govern projects. Architects can serve by designing well and by advocating for wellness. “Amenities” can be built into streets and neighborhoods at all levels of income and advantage.

There are big obstacles. Most of the design ideas that enhance livability take place in “public space,” beyond the property lines. At least in more developed countries, we operate in a world of property lines and laser-attention toward making the most of every square foot. Some of the spaces we want to enhance are between the properties, on the sidewalk or the street, or even the alleyways behind buildings. All of those are getting more and more attention.

And, particularly in larger projects, but not exclusively in those, areas within private property are being transformed to be life-enhancing connective tissue for us to savor in our busy lives. 

Among the chief proponents for livable cities is a Danish architect and urbanist named Jan Gehl. His writings and thoughts on the subject of public space and livable cities are not gold, they’re platinum. Another place to learn more is from the “New Urbanism” movement. They are thoughtful advocates for making the most of our livability opportunities.

Can those thoughtful observers and rational thinkers, along with other architects, partner with other citizens to make humane promises that can be kept? It is a matter of joint will, given promise with advocacy at every level, from families to governments.

With you in curiosity,

Milton Shinberg