Architects – they’re just too easy to hate

Ah, the architect. The architect is one of those figures we all love to hate, perhaps even more than journalists (newspaper hacks!) and politicians (or, in America, lawyers). The architect has always been seen as a rambling posh type, a greedy complicator of matters, a vain person who can’t even draw a window yet still claims to be an artist.

It must be noted that the architect invites such scrutiny; he is the most prolific purveyor of interviews and statements, his ego is as inflated as his concrete, and he never misses an opportunity to dish out prophecies that never come true (as with Covid, those who theorised that we’d all end up living in villages: only the ‘Famiglia nel Bosco’ – the horizontal one – actually did so, and we’ve all seen how that turned out). And whenever possible, the architect strikes a pose: like the sinister Rem Koolhaas in his leather coat, a bit like Inspector Derrick; the cool Ratti of the Biennale; Boeri of the Triennale; the Formafantasma lot, all dressed in Prada, and before them the bombastic Bruno Zevi right up to Fuksas (immediately transformed into ‘Fuffas’ in parodies). A follower and creator of ‘trends’, he has been the object of ridicule for as long as ridicule has existed.

A reflection on the vast phenomenon of ‘architect shaming’ – I imagine the term exists – comes from Gabriele Neri, associate professor of History of Architecture at the Polytechnic University of Turin, who, in a book published by Casagrande in collaboration with the University of Mendrisio – where an exhibition on the subject was also held – analyses this broad phenomenon in some detail. In "Satira dell’architetto", the book traces the history from the sixteenth century to the present day to show how this figure has always been held up to ridicule. Whilst Tom Wolfe wrote "From Bauhaus to Our House", many years earlier Flaubert, in his "Dictionnaire des idées reçues" under the entry ‘Architects’, had already declared: ‘All imbeciles. In houses, they always forget the stairs’.

But we can go back much further, at least as far as the sixteenth century, when Philibert de L’Orme’s allegory of the good and the bad architect began to clarify what was liked and what was not about this ever-hybrid figure – neither fish nor fowl, not entirely creative but never entirely technical (or, in the Lombard variant, ‘tènnico’). For, alongside the eulogies and hagiographies, a regular dose of derision also appears. Whilst, on the one hand, the greats are immortalised on every conceivable artefact – such as Giulio Romano painted by Titian, Louis Kahn photographed by Cartier-Bresson, Brunelleschi leaving his mark on Santa Maria del Fiore, and then there are films and novels (such as "The Fountainhead", inspired by Lloyd Wright, or the recent "The Brutalist"); and even on banknotes, such as Le Corbusier on the Swiss franc and Bernini on the old fifty-thousand lire notes, we also have a parallel and constant stream of mockery. 

One of the earliest surviving caricatures is that of François Mansart (1598–1666), one of the most celebrated architects of seventeenth-century France. He was the architect behind works such as the Hôtel Carnavalet in Paris, as well as the mansard roof that bears his name. Mansart is mocked in a caricature depicting him riding a mule, sheltered by a large parasol. The drawing, dated 1 May 1651 and attributed to the painter and engraver Michel Dorigny, was published alongside a pamphlet intended as an attack on the famous architect, who wielded considerable power at the time. Mansart was renowned for his constant alterations to ongoing projects, his luxurious and frivolous lifestyle, his ‘star-like’ demands (the term ‘starchitect’ had not yet been coined) and his arrogance, which alienated important clients; furthermore, the flippant manner in which he dealt with financial matters exposed him to accusations of corruption. The pamphlet, entitled "Mansarade, ou portraict de l’architecte partisan", opens with a ‘sincere warning’ addressed to those undertaking building projects, cautioning against the fraud and ruin caused by an ‘enemy of the Arts and Sciences’ and a ‘minister of avarice’.

Whilst Mansart is depicted riding a donkey, centuries later, in 1930, Walter Gropius was portrayed in "Deutsche Bauhütte" – a German newspaper linked to the right wing and opposed to the development of modern architecture – riding a dromedary. The cartoon shows Gropius striding forward dressed as a bishop, with a cigar in his mouth and two sacks full of money in his arms, against a backdrop of the much-maligned new buildings, which already show worrying cracks (whilst the sacks of money refer to the generous public funding the star architect had secured).

Halfway between the two eras, in 1824, here is a little man perched on a bell tower: the caption reads "Nashional taste". The little man is the famous John Nash (1752–1835), a favourite of George IV and the architect behind Regent Street and Buckingham Palace. The artist is George Cruikshank, one of the greatest English illustrators of all time, and he depicts Nash on the spire of All Souls’ Church in Langham Place, which Nash had built a few months earlier in London and which was, at the time, the subject of heated debate.

Neri is far too erudite to include (I’m putting myself forward for a booklet, or I’ll pass the idea on as a new one to a PhD student) a chapter on the satire of the architect in Italian comedy films, from Pozzetto (who often plays an architect, engineer or bricklayer in his films) to the Vanzinas (filmmakers who, incidentally, pay close attention to the accurate reconstruction of public and, above all, private spaces). In their films, there is always a designer who delays the work, is exorbitant, and stands in the way of the homeowners’ desires: from the one in "Vacanze di Natale 2000" who failed to get the chalet ready in time for ‘the New Year’s Eve party’ (‘what are you, Renzo Piano?”) to the one who charges exorbitant fees to the aspirational couple who have finally settled in Parioli in the seminal "Le finte bionde", right through to "Fratelli d’Italia", where Christian De Sica is mistaken for Raoul Gardini’s son and ends up on a prestigious yacht. Only one scheming architect suspects as much; his name is Gianluigi Busini Chigi (a clear reference to Busiri Vici, a large and well-known Roman family of architects). But Dino Risi used to call them ‘Abusivi Rici’ instead, because of certain holiday homes they had in Circeo. 

  For their part, architects do not always have it easy. They are plagued by perpetually dissatisfied public and private clients, racial laws and various forms of persecution. misunderstandings and, indeed, even ridicule, as recounted in another recently published book, "Vite stravaganti di architetti", by Manuel Orazi, published by Giometti & Antonello, which brings together forty-one portraits of architects, from Carlo Mollino to Philip Johnson, from Yona Friedman to Gae Aulenti, some of which have already been published in a different form here on Terrazzo.