The Atmosphere of Place

When I moved to Austin in my early 20s, I learned to recognize the work of architects by what stuck out in the built environment. After living in far West Texas for the better part of two decades, however, my perspective shifted. I began to gravitate toward architecture that best fits in with its surroundings, that captures the spirit of a place in its history, culture, and atmosphere. 

I know I’m not alone in this feeling of apprehension—one that began to surface in the cultural zeitgeist around the mid-20th century as a reaction to modernist practices. And while our appetite for glass towers that showcase sophisticated technologies and speculative urbanism seems endless, many architects are turning their attention to more traditional approaches to placemaking. At a recent meeting of this magazine’s Publications Committee, the editor, Ana Calhoun, noted something that caught my attention: several recent project submissions were slick reinterpretations of barns and sheds—vernacular echoes reaching beyond the typical architectural lens. We even reviewed a preservation project for Willie Nelson’s fictional Old West town, Luck, now a destination in its own right just beyond the asphalt sprawl of the Austin metroplex. Luck, like many event venues and town squares across the state, offers a kind of respite from the modern strain on our communities. 

Technology—long a driver of innovation in architecture—does little to help us create the character and authenticity of place that people seek in the built environment. If modernism’s strength was its insistence on change, its weakness was an eagerness to erase the past. As a result, many people—including architects—gravitate toward places that evolved before the modern world imposed itself, eroding histories and cultural memory. In this context, it’s easy to see how nostalgia takes root and finds expression in barn tin and shiplap. But how can architects participate in cultivating authentic places without resorting to vernacular fetishism, stylistic revivalism, or an anti-modern stance? This is an exceedingly complex question, but one I’ve been working to answer in my own way by looking closely at contemporary projects that are responding to these concerns in thoughtful, compelling ways.

In West Texas, architectural projects are fewer, but there is also less sprawl and fewer chain businesses. The landscape dominates, and buildings mostly do well just to put on a brave face while surviving the spring winds, summer storms, and arid intensity of the sun. The environment is the driving force that shapes these buildings, and this changes the impetus behind their designs, making them more austere, robust, and integrated with their surroundings. 

Beyond the urban-rural divide between places like Austin and Marfa, there is a fascinating modulation of tone in the atmosphere of both—an atmosphere to which architecture can respond. At its best, the built environment acts as a bridge between landscape and culture, a vessel of memory and mystery that echoes the past while telegraphing the future. Architecture serves as both a receptor and generator of the atmosphere of place, first evoking a feeling and only later becoming a crafted work of invention. When architecture is properly attuned to its surroundings, it resonates naturally within the environment, as though it belongs.

The built environment functions as a feedback loop of identity and meaning. Communities with the strongest sense of identity often have a defining architecture that reminds them of who and where they are, and people from all walks of life also tend to enjoy being in those places that express clearly defined identity. It is no surprise that as modern development flattened the architectural specificity of places, the social fabric has been affected as well, making the most distinctive places so popular that few can afford to live in them. 

But people need meaningful connections to the places they live. Architects can play a powerful role in this, broadening the scope of each project to engage with the collective imagination of a community, helping it reimagine and better understand itself. This requires a social perspective—though not an obsequious one—where individual architectural efforts subtly shape the tone of a place. Since an atmosphere is influenced but not controlled by any particular element, it accretes over time. It is a shared canvas that is always evolving. 

The previous century focused largely on the modernization and standardization of cities and towns. The vast availability of natural and economic resources fueled rapid growth, often at the expense of considering the uniqueness of place. Architects seeking influence gravitated toward universal and standardized solutions, while developers worked to meet growing demands with greater efficiency. The new world that emerged, however, now struggles to recognize itself. 

While modernist architecture and planning are not solely responsible for this shift, the drive to move beyond historical styles and align with industrial and corporate priorities often clashed with the needs and desires of people and communities. Today, urban planners advocate for mixed-use spaces, higher density, and green areas, but the alienating effects of modern planning are difficult to counteract. Meanwhile, developers continue to create sprawling, placeless exurbs and shopping centers, and architects keep designing scaleless glass towers suited to any urban environment and randomly placing modernist homes in long-established, traditional neighborhoods, further disrupting coherent and distinct notions of place. 

Communities are increasingly turning to their historical fabric to define their identity. Walkable business districts, affable neighborhoods, and historical homes are becoming more valued by both residents and architects. In places where these elements are absent, designers and developers more in tune with market preferences often create imitations of historical styles and vernaculars—ranging from the ubiquitous McMansions to chic-modern “farmhouses.” A refined nostalgia sustains an industry that endlessly recycles elements of mid-century modernism and is now moving into Postmodern interior design. Town squares, once abandoned in the 1980s, are being revived in small towns and are now anchored by brewpubs, distilleries, and “shoppes”—all dressed in shiplap and barn tin. 

Such nostalgia is likely related to a shared sense of placelessness in the modern world and a desire to reconnect with a more authentic identity. Technology gives us unprecedented access to knowledge, communication, comfort, and health. With notable exceptions, we generally have more freedom and resources at our disposal than people throughout history. Yet, fundamentally, life is no easier than it was 5,000 years ago. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair,” the Weird Sisters chant at the outset of Macbeth—and so it is. The human capacity for desire, longing, and pain imbues existence with a bittersweetness we all know well. We are constantly betrayed by our deepest desires (and those of others), which must be mediated and postponed time and again, while ecstasy and bliss are fleeting and often destructive. Regardless of our stations in life, we all share common states of anxiety and anticipation. Life is lived moment to moment, focused on our loves, labors, plans, and fears—none of which are fully within our control. 

Architecture has evolved alongside humanity, serving the human condition. It emerged naturally from landscape and culture, creating a sense of place and order within the exaltations and tragedies of life. It is on this level that the architects of place stake their claims. Architectural historian Vincent Scully pointed to the Puebloan peoples of the Southwest as an example of a culture with fully integrated architecture. The elemental geometries of stacked and subterranean structures at Chaco Canyon and Taos Pueblo have long captivated architects for their poetic relationship to the landscape. However, Scully connects these forms to the mythologies and rituals that shape a shared sense of identity and place in the universe. As Scully wrote in Pueblo: Mountain, Village, Dance (1975): “All human construction involves a relationship between the natural and the man-made. That relationship physically shapes the human cultural environment.” If cultural identity is deeply tied to architecture, then architects are active participants in the broader cultures in which they work, whether they acknowledge it or not.

All buildings and sites carry emotional, as well as political, significance that filters into our lives. We feel their impact more deeply than we can articulate, and our intuitions are often more accurate than any architect’s manifesto or press release. People may tell architects what they want their buildings and sites to represent, but the true essence of a work is revealed through the cumulative effects of its geometry, materials, and relationship to its surroundings. In other words, buildings inevitably reflect the agendas of their designers and makers.

We feel the aching pathos of Le Corbusier’s Chapelle Notre-Dame-du-Haut at Ronchamp just as strongly as we sense the corporate bathos of a Walgreens. A Walgreens generates its own atmosphere of placelessness and anonymity, eroding the unifying potential of place. It is blind to its surroundings and uncommitted to its architectural presence other than as a branding exercise. But replacing every Walgreens with a Ronchamp doesn’t solve the deeper issue, which demands an informed interpretation of a place and time, a gesture of love and ingenuity that both defines and transforms a collective reality. Every architectural project is an opportunity to psychically enrich a community’s sense of itself and expand its emotional connection to the world around it.

Even commercial buildings are well-positioned to create a shared sense of culture. Many businesses employ charismatic and exuberant architecture in service to their commercial goals. The Googie architecture of the West Coast and some of the roadside motels along Route 66, for example, skillfully communicate a playful and symbiotic agenda. We find a similar spirit in Michael Hsu’s restaurant designs in Central Texas, where playful forms serve as landmarks in the region’s psychogeography.

Architects have long been obsessed with agricultural and industrial vernacular, and for good reason. These buildings embody the tension between technology, landscape, and fundamental human needs. Even modest agricultural structures in West Texas carry a certain resonance. A few examples from around Coyanosa similarly express an authentic atmosphere of place without romanticizing it. They do not aspire to fit in with their environment; rather, their necessity and economy allow them to integrate seamlessly, without sentimentality. They are industrial buildings that also happen to function as sculptures in a landscape, and their evocative qualities are often amplified by their isolation, which sets them apart from their commercial cousins in town. 

Not far to the south of Coyanosa is Marfa, where artist Donald Judd (1928–1994) decamped to in the 1970s and converted a number of historic buildings and houses into art spaces, studios, and living quarters—many of which are now listed on the National Register of Historic Places. These buildings are integral to the fabric and history of the town, which dates back to the construction of the railroad in the 1880s. By the time Judd acquired them, many of the buildings were already old and some had been abandoned. He preserved and refined the industrial and commercial qualities of the exteriors, which were relevant to the town’s historical and cultural life, while capitalizing on the spacious interiors to create environments that suited his personal and professional needs. Though thoroughly transformed in concept and function, the buildings remain true to the history and spirit of the place.

It is hard to think of an architect with Judd’s sensitivity and convictions about the work and labor of others relentlessly pursuing his own agenda in the way he did. But Judd kept good company in his partnership with Lauretta Vinciarelli (1943–2011), the Italian-born architect whose ideas, drawings, and designs influenced his thinking, his furniture, and the development of several of his Marfa properties. 

Vinciarelli came of age in the years following the Second World War, when Neorealism emerged focusing on vernacular forms and seeking alternatives to modernist rationalism, which had been co-opted by the fascist regime. She brought these ideas with her to Columbia University in the late 1970s, where she led studios examining vernacular typologies and emphasizing history, nature, site, and traditional building techniques.

Vinciarelli’s work focused on access to sunlight, air, and space—concerns shared with modernism but explored in a way that did not disrupt the urban fabric. These ideas no doubt influenced Judd’s architectural projects in Marfa, but they also reflect a broader architectural movement that considers its surroundings as much as its own program and design priorities. They speak to a more radically local design ethic, one that builds upon the existing character of a place while introducing new elements and ideas. 

These days, it’s easy to spot buildings in the small community of Marfa that have been altered or expanded by architects. Often, these additions clash with the town’s atmosphere of remoteness and distract from its stoic patina. But Judd’s buildings are seamlessly integrated into the fabric of town, their reorientation betrayed mostly by reputation or an immaculate quietness in the heart of town. This approach works well as an example, though not necessarily a model, since every place has its own unique conditions and needs, and most require new buildings to coexist alongside the old ones. 

The Pearl Brewery development in San Antonio stands out as a thoughtful and successful example of the reinvention of a site. Rather than reflecting the city as it was—diffuse and sprawling—it envisions what the city aspires to be. Occupying an abandoned industrial complex and featuring new buildings that echo the density and materiality of historic structures, the Pearl creates an atmosphere charged with layers of history, structure, program, and people. Factories, with their mysterious inaccessibility, hold a certain allure, and there is something thrilling and decadent about situating a luxury hotel amid the remnants of industrial production. It’s stagecraft, but of the kind our cities need most—spaces that invite exploration and lingering. And, more importantly, people use it. There are free outdoor movies, food markets, and an outrageous number of restaurants that stay busy even on weeknights. Its atmosphere may be surreal, but the reality of its transformation is inspired.

In Mexico City’s La Condesa neighborhood, there is no need for urban mimicry. First-time visitors might easily mistake it for a European capital as they stroll along blooming pedestrian thoroughfares surrounded by a vibrant mix of historical, Art Deco, and mid-century modern buildings that line the sidewalks at the scale of treetops. The old and new seamlessly coexist in a relaxed yet stately atmosphere of urban sophistication. “No one was building in Condesa 30 years ago,” says architect Javier Sánchez, principal of JSa Architecture in Mexico City, who designed—and often developed—a prolific number of new residential buildings in what has since become one of the city’s most fashionable and sought-after areas. The best-known of these is the Condesa DF, a Grupo Habita boutique hotel housed in a 1928 French neoclassical apartment building, whose deft deployment skillfully blends historical and modern elements to echo the neighborhood’s spirit.

Most of the firm’s work in the area, however, consists of residential buildings on infill sites, either singularly or in clusters that gradually expanded over decades as additional properties were acquired. Their concrete and glass facades are ordered yet more finely scaled and complex than their midcentury brethren, with shifting sections, integrated patios, and expansive glazing. Interior units are both vertically and horizontally integrated, creating differentiated spaces that are quite unexpected, indoors and out. Charged with ideas and design experimentation, these buildings don’t feel egotistical, and a low-key elegance ties each project to the next.

From the street, the buildings are confidently differentiated from their neoclassical and early modern neighbors without breaking with their tone. This, I suspect, has to do with their human scale on every floor and the density of detail in the facades—something other contemporary architecture in the area often lacks. These buildings strike a balance, fitting in while asserting the values and needs of their time, and offering unique visions of urban living. They do not seek undue attention from the street but always reward it, exuding a confident, seductive charm in a sophisticated city touched as much by its indigenous history as its colonial one. 

Texas history unfolds along a continuum of conquest and reinvention. The state’s image of itself is often crafted from myth, frequently at odds with the facts. This makes it both dangerous in its distortions and a rich territory for creative exploration. Texas is unafraid to use architecture to serve its ambitions, whatever they may be. San Antonio, with its deep heritage of influential design and planning—from O’Neil Ford to the River Walk—also serves as the keeper of Texas’s most powerful mythological site. It’s no surprise that architects here are particularly attuned to the Spanish missions and Hill Country vernacular, developing a unique architectural identity rooted in the region’s history. Architect Michael Imber, FAIA, of the eponymous Michael G. Imber Architects is in the business of creating environments that evoke histories, eras, and places that seem to exist in universes parallel to our own. 

A native of West Texas, Imber grew up amid the arid landscapes and haunting remnants of the region’s past, cultivating a love of vernacular architecture and the work of the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression. He’s quick to point out that the CCC architects—who created what is now considered quintessential Texas vernacular—were classically trained and not originally from Texas. But they absorbed the feeling of the landscape and the materials at hand, producing their own interpretations of vernacular design that continue to resonate with the places where they built. This ethos of adaptation and respect for context seems to serve as a guiding principle for his own practice.

Imber’s early work experience with classical buildings in Washington, DC, has significantly influenced his style and client base to this day. However, he seems most in his element working in remote natural landscapes, where he can take time to sketch and paint watercolors of the terrain along with his nascent architectural ideas. These drawings and paintings are used to conjure and convey the essence of a project while also guiding the formal and structural strategies that later develop into digital models for construction documents.

The simultaneous mapping of landscape and atmosphere throughout the design process strikes me as especially effective in uncovering and manifesting the true purpose of an architectural project—its poetic and emotional presence within a given environment. Imber connects the ability to render reality in an impressionistic way with the ability to creatively transcend it.

“We can return to a singular landscape and see something new, something different, time and time again,” wrote Imber in his book The Art of the Architect. “We see it how we wish to see it. We shape it to our own perceptions: to our ideas of composition, color, and relationships of the parts to the whole; and the landscape’s relationship to us and our culture. In other words, drawing helps us to understand the surrounding world and in turn, shape it.” 

Imber’s most meticulously crafted buildings strive to appear timeless and authorless, as if they could have existed for a century or more. The effect is achieved through a commitment to composition, natural materials, and craftsmanship—structural stone vaults, timber trusses, sculpted chimneys, and massive buttresses, all paired with refined porticos and sitework that blend seamlessly with the landscape. They are like uncanny fever dreams—majestic, beautiful objects of wonder.

These works aren’t for everyone, but then again, what singular creation ever is? The hope is that architecture captures the atmosphere of a place with a distinctive voice, something both Imber and JSa accomplish in their respective environments. Architects tend to evaluate their work on the basis of form, space, materials, and delight. But I suspect that architecture’s true significance lies in its contribution to the feeling of a place and its production of realities that become shared within and between communities.