The Architecture of Perception

In The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses, Finnish architect and theorist Juhani Pallasmaa wrote, “To experience architecture in a deeply human way is to touch it with all the senses, not just the eyes.” In an age dominated by screens and engineered distractions, the invitation to inhabit space fully—with skin, breath, memory—is not merely poetic; it is urgent and essential. Architecture is more than what we see; it is how we feel, hear, move through, and remember space. It is scent trapped in limestone on a hot Texas afternoon. It is the echo of footsteps in a long corridor, the hush of filtered light, the brush of rough brick under fingertips. Our built environment speaks not only to the eyes but to the entire body.

This issue of Texas Architect explores the architecture of the senses and how thoughtful design can activate, soothe, or recalibrate our sensory lives. We now understand more than ever about the biological mechanisms that underlie our experience of space. The hippocampus, for instance—long associated with memory—is deeply involved in spatial navigation and environmental awareness. Our sense of orientation, of “being somewhere,” is not abstract; it is built into the architecture of the brain itself.

Mirror neurons fire when we witness movement or emotion, allowing our bodies to resonate with the gestures of space—an arched ceiling can inspire awe, while a low, compressed hallway might raise heart rate and tension. The vestibular system, responsible for balance and spatial orientation, responds to shifts in ceiling height, the steepness of a stair, even the rhythm of movement through a room. Our bodies are not passive in architecture; they are constantly decoding and reacting.

This neurobiological perspective carries powerful implications. Designing for neurodivergence—particularly for individuals with autism, ADHD, or sensory processing differences—requires recognizing how intensely some bodies perceive sound, color, motion, and texture. A flickering fluorescent light that might go unnoticed or seem like a minor nuisance to many can be overwhelming for others. A chaotic floor plan may cause disorientation. True accessibility must also encompass sensory inclusivity.

Sensory pollution, especially in urban contexts, presents another side of this conversation: the overabundance of input. Noise, flashing signage, digital clutter—the detritus of the attention economy—can flatten our relationship to place, making it harder to locate calm, clarity, or connection. Architecture, then, becomes an act of curation. What do we want to amplify? What do we need to quiet?

Even the experience of holding this magazine is a kind of architecture. The weight of the paper, the scent of ink, the texture of the cover stock—all conspire to draw your attention back to the physical world. Good design often disappears into seamless function—until it chooses to disrupt. What happens when  the layout surprises your hand or eye? These moments echo the architecture we feature: spaces that awaken the senses precisely by refusing to go unnoticed.

The projects in this issue are not just visual objects—they are sensorial experiences, designed to be felt as much as understood. They recognize that the body is an instrument, and that space, like music, must be composed. In a world of constant input and fractured attention, our environments still have the power to bring the nervous system into harmony and restore us—to sensation, to awareness, to the present moment.

— Anastasia Calhoun, Assoc. AIA, NOMA