Embracing Adaption

Illustrating the case for reuse, HOK’s renovation of the historic Moss US Courthouse in Salt Lake City achieved 50 percent energy savings, 30 percent reduced water usage, 59 percent reduction in embodied carbon, and $6 million annual savings in lease costs by renovating the existing building rather than constructing a replacement. An extreme example, a 2015 study published in the journal Environmental Science & Technology found that buildings in China last, on average, only 23.2 years before demolition. Researchers calculated that extending the average building lifespan from 23.2 to 50 years would allow China to each year save energy, carbon, and material resources equivalent to the entire environmental footprints of Belgium, Mexico, and Italy combined. A 2005 study by Eduardo Peris Mora estimates that extending a building’s lifespan from 50 to 500 years similarly reduces its overall environmental impact by a factor of ten. 

Unfortunately, the building industry today operates much like fast fashion: Although Texas cities do not consistently track demolition dates or maintain comprehensive demolition data, anecdotal evidence suggests that most buildings in Texas are demolished after only 30 to 60 years and rarely survive to 100. 

Authors Appu Haapio and Pertti Viitaniemi, in their 2008 article published in the journal Environmental Impact Assessment Review, define a building as obsolete if it no longer meets current requirements or expectations. This definition, however, invites a critical examination of what those requirements and expectations truly are. Demolishing a building solely for reasons of image or symbolism is an insufficient justification. Buildings often feel inseparable from our collective history, and their loss can be painful, as if a connection to the past has been severed. Adaptation offers an opportunity to breathe new life into existing structures and maintain cultural continuity.

Embracing adaptation of existing buildings also creates a richer lived experience for occupants. As a building’s program changes—when, for example, a factory becomes housing and later a classroom—each transformation adds layers of meaning. The visible traces of original architecture foster a connection to the past, while thoughtfully integrated new interventions can elevate the whole, achieving a rich, enduring quality that new construction alone simply cannot match.

In the Neues Museum by David Chipperfield Architects, the architects repaired and modernized the 19th-century building, which had been damaged during the bombing of Berlin and left to decay during the years of East Germany. New architectural elements were carefully integrated with the historic fabric, neither replicating the original construction nor concealing it. As a result, visitors to the Neues Museum experience a simultaneous connection to past, present, and future. It is buildings like this—ones that adapt, change, grow, and improve over time—that endure for generations.

Embracing adaptation represents a fundamentally different approach than preservation. Preservation aims to turn architecture into museums of the past, freezing materials, assemblies, and finishes in time to the greatest extent possible—even when doing so produces uncomfortable spaces, perpetuates energy-intensive buildings, or institutionalizes historical mistakes. Adaptation, by contrast, looks to the future. It retains what remains valuable from the past while updating, repairing, maintaining, remediating, expanding, and critically improving buildings and spaces to infuse new life into existing structures.

Designing with future adaptation in mind is a key strategy for extending a building’s lifespan. Principles outlined in the AIA document Buildings That Last: Design for Adaptability, Deconstruction, and Reuse include clear spans, flat floors, robust structural systems, durable materials, and the use of mechanical fasteners. Universal proportions and good daylighting are also essential in design when considering future adaptation. In contrast, highly bespoke design elements tied to a single, specific program limit future flexibility.

A quintessential misunderstanding of adaptability is exemplified by Richard Rogers’s 1986 Lloyd’s of London building. The project was won on promises of maximum flexibility, to be achieved by placing all services on the exterior and relying on custom components that could theoretically be plugged in and out over time. In practice, the building employs the opposite of universal proportions and strategies for adaptation, becoming instead a frozen monument to an idea that never worked. Placing distribution systems, such as ducts and lifts, on the exterior of a building does not save space and instead subjects them to the elements, creating ongoing maintenance challenges for building owners. By 1988, just two years after the Lloyd’s tower opened, three-quarters of its occupants reported a preference for their former 1928 building across the street.

Every day, architects confront the tension between what appears good for us in the moment and what is advantageous for us over time. The true skill and value of the profession should lie, not in the production of striking imagery, but in the ability to anticipate, evaluate, and clearly communicate how design decisions will affect clients, communities, and humanity in the long term. Despite this, design awards programs—including those of the AIA and its chapters—continue to privilege stunning visual imagery over work that demonstrably advances people-centered performance, durability, and sustainability.

New approaches to building across scales—from detailing to structural assemblies to urban planning—can significantly extend buildings’ lifespans. Mechanical systems, for example, typically last only 10 to 20 years, and future technologies are inherently uncertain. Designing buildings with sufficient space and capacity for upgrades allows systems to be replaced without wholesale disruption. Similarly, while sealant joints may last up to 25 years, a dual-line sealant strategy can protect the interior joint from damaging agents like ultraviolet exposure, moisture, and thermal cycling, potentially extending its service life indefinitely. Fully exposed roofing membranes typically last only 20 to 30 years, but an inverted roofing membrane assembly protects the membrane from UV exposure, thermal cycling, and exposure to water, allowing roof assemblies to perform for 100 years or more with minimal maintenance. Buildings can be designed for extraordinary longevity, but doing so requires a collective ability to understand and articulate the long-term value of these decisions.

Styles and fashions—which are driven by taste rather than performance—tend to last about 30 years. Buildings designed primarily around fashion are often perceived as outdated, underperforming, and ripe for demolition when they reach this critical 30-year mark. Yet when a building reaches 100 years, something magical happens. Its performance has proven durable, and cultural perception changes: What once seemed unfashionable becomes culturally valuable and is seen as worth keeping. 

Dallas City Hall, designed by I.M. Pei and Partners and opened in 1978, perfectly embodies this tension. At the time, Brutalism—homogenously constructed of concrete with a distinctly sci-fi sensibility—was all the rage. It signaled progress and optimism for a city eager to reframe its image in the aftermath of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

It is difficult for us now, in 2026, to remember that Brutalism represented the height of architectural fashion from roughly 1950 to 1980. Like all styles, however, it eventually fell out of favor and came to be widely regarded as tacky. Today, preservationists argue for freezing Dallas City Hall in time as a museum of Brutalism, while others see it as foreboding, uncomfortable, poorly insulated, leaky, and therefore deserving of demolition. Neither position, however, offers a sustainable path forward.

The alternative is to embrace adaptation. Brutalist buildings almost universally have strong structural bones; what they lack is modernization. By wrapping them in fluid-applied water-resistive barriers, insulation, and cladding, these uncomfortable energy hogs can be transformed into high-performance buildings capable of lasting for generations. Yes, this approach would change the exterior appearance. That is a tradeoff worth accepting, because thermal comfort, healthy indoor air quality, durability, and energy efficiency matter more. The original Brutalist sensibility can still be experienced from within.

By around 2050, any surviving Brutalist buildings will be more than 100 years old and, as history suggests, widely beloved. It may be difficult to imagine Brutalism as timeless only 25 years from now, but the signs are already there. Stores now sell calendars filled with images of Brutalist buildings from around the world. Teenagers follow Brutalism-focused Instagram accounts. A recent hit film was titled The Brutalist. Nostalgia for the style has already arrived.

An example of embracing adaptation at the community level can be seen in vernacular Middle Eastern villages, where flat roofs allow homes to grow vertically as families expand. As a result, one can look at the landscape of the village and see its past, present, and future all at once. The vernacular architecture possesses a sense of layered history and continuity because of the way it grows organically over time. 

A similar philosophy underpins Chilean low-income housing projects designed by architect Alejandro Aravena’s firm ELEMENTAL. These projects provide only essential infrastructure, allowing residents to complete, modify, and expand their homes over time. They remind us that architecture is not a static object to be admired, but the framework for life.

How, then, can we learn to assess architecture through the lens of endurance rather than short-term faddishness? Are proposed changes driven by performance upgrades or merely by novelty? Style and fashion are inherently short-lived, which may be more acceptable for clothing, interior finishes, and other shorter-term investments. But for buildings, if we want them to make it to that magical 100-year mark, we must prioritize people, performance, and durability—allowing design excellence  to emerge not from image, but from meaningful, adaptable use over time.