These words emerge out of a long time immersed in the world of Jorge Luis Borges; mesmerized by mirrored labyrinths and mystical preludes, struck by duplicity and infinitude, it felt only natural to bring into light an interpretation of my favourite - and utterly architectural - short story, “The Library of Babel”, which begins with a clear premise: the Universe itself is an immense library.

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The Library of Babel

This Universe is carefully and extensively depicted: a Library composed of an indefinite, perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries.

Four sides of each hexagonal gallery are covered by bookshelves; the remaining sides connect to adjacent galleries, creating a seemingly endless continuity, amplified by mirrors oddly placed in the corridors, whose function is suspiciously unclear and often interpreted as an affirmation of its finitude. From the ventilation shafts at the center of each gallery hangs a thickening mist of uncertainty, an unclear view over the Library’s true extents and purpose.

Indoor space is scarce for the librarians, who are left with two small cubicles to inhabit, one of them designed for sleeping while standing. Through the narrator’s words, we’re exposed to the maddening condition into which their lives unfold: born and deceased in the same hexagon, fated to spend their youth in the pursuit of a book, a catalogue of existence.

However, the contents of the Library are as misty as its premises. The uncanny catalogue contains every book ever written and all those yet to be, including volumes devoid of words, and others whose titles bear no relation to their contents, mere exercises that exhaust every possible combination of letters, spaces, and punctuation.

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The perfect geometry

Within this picture, it is tempting to look closer and search for answers - are the librarians the only inhabitants of this world? Why would the library be built in this pattern? What exactly is its function?

At first, it seems to be the work of a divine architect inhabited by the untamed human existence. Its mystical condition was hinted at in the narrator’s first axiom - “the Library exists ab aeternum”. The Library’s efficient design may be the result of perfect geometries, which materialized as a “necessary shape of absolute space.” The glow of zenithal lights seemed to suggest a quiet, but vigilant presence of a deity.

In geometric delight, I found myself rejoicing in the strength of this interpretation. Such a delicately crafted system seemed beyond reach to mankind.

​It was then that I was faced with these words:

The galleries were just about the height of a man.

This seemingly innocent sentence caused my carefully constructed argument to tremble, unsettling it with doubt. Surely a building of this magnitude would be comparable to the Tower of Babel, a superstructure built to reach enormous heights.

But then, why would this structure,the work of a sneering deity, be so common as to be measured against an average human height?

Such an economy may have a practical justification, but it had irreversibly undermined my vision of epic grandeur; instead, it led towards material constraints, the limits imposed by the tangible nature of brick, mortar, and human hands.

Perplexed, I turned to further research; coming across Autobiographical Notes by Borges, published in The New Yorker, I read about his years working in a library. In it, he addresses the complexities of a bureaucratic system as, hired to catalogue the Library’s collection, he states that “The collection, however, was so small that we knew where to find the books without the system, so the system, though laboriously carried out, was never needed or used.”

Therefore, this systematic work proved redundant in the face of everyday use; and wouldn’t that obsolete system, which adds but a layer of unnecessary labour, resemble the organizational strictness of the shelves of the Universal Library, whose mischievous temper librarians seemed fated to obey? Tired humans, subjugated to the tyranny of books, which resist any attempt to be catalogued.

If so, what if the Library were not divine architecture, but bureaucracy mistaken for cosmology? What if my first interpretation was wrong, and this omnipresent library was only the nightmarish construct of a bureaucratic system, whose foundations were not cosmic spheres but standardised and regimented administrative structures? An organizational matrix devoid of purpose, based on a paradox between extreme order and apparent meaninglessnes. Its infinitude would then arise not from the cosmos, but from endless repetition, an efficient hive impossible to defeat or defy.

The perfect system

Bureaucratic architecture rarely communicates transcendence through ornament or monumentality; instead, authority is asserted through repetition. Endless corridors, identical rooms, and standardized structures populate the imagination of authors who have translated bureaucracy into narrative. In Borges’ Library, the hexagon is the symbol of the perfect system - and the perfect system generates a distinctly modern anxiety, the fear that what was initially designed to facilitate processes might ultimately overwhelm the human beings subjected to it, as the system reaches a scale that exceeds human comprehension.

To the librarians, the hexagons constitute the entirety of experience; that is why they search and find clues that assert its cosmological vision.

From the shafts, the clouds had progressively dissipated, as I read the following words:

My Kafkian story “The Library of Babel” was meant as a nightmare version or magnification of that municipal library, and certain details in the text have no particular meaning. The numbers of books and shelves that I recorded in the story were literally what I had at my elbow: Clever critics have worried over those ciphers, and generously endowed them with mystic significance.

​Jorge Luis Borges, Autobiographical Notes, The New Yorker, September 12,1970

​As defeated as a pilgrim librarian, wandering endlessly in search of meaning, I closed my notebook. From this existential drift, I have produced these writings - symbols of nothing more than a combination of nonsense, bound to the intriguing shelves of a distant Library.

Hawkins and the Small-Town Paradox

An attentive spectator may recognize familiar patterns: the romantic comedy’s successful professional who leaves the big city and returns home in search of belonging; the retired detective who moves to the countryside and comes across one more case to solve; the quiet village concealing a collective secret. These narratives are built on a shared spatial imagination of the small town, relying on its common traits to fulfill narrative intentions.

The nature of small towns as places of community and refuge turns them into narrative artifacts that offer a double possibility and tension: the promise and enchantment of a simpler, happier life, and its counterpart - the disappointment of finding oneself stagnant in a predictable environment, often triggering a desire to escape.

Stranger Things introduces us to Hawkins, a fictional town in the state of Indiana, USA, as the embodiment of this tension. The so-called “cursed town” quickly ascends from the backdrop to the spotlight, detaching itself from a passive role and imposing itself as an epicenter of paranormal activity. In each season, Hawkins grows and reacts, evolving from an apparently calm community into a scarred, security-sealed, militarized area stricken by otherworldly phenomena.

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Space as Medium: The Physical Dimension

Throughout the show, Hawkins is presented as a double-sided town, structured according to a logic reminiscent of board games and role-playing environments. One layer corresponds to lived reality, while the other - the Upside Down - serves as a vessel to other universes and materializes as its compositionally identical, yet distorted, negative. A fragile, porous boundary separates the two realities; narrative tension arises precisely when this boundary fails, allowing creatures from other realities to infiltrate and contaminate the real counterpart.

The manifestations of this spatial intrusion vary from season to season.

In the first season, the bleeding is noticeable in proximity to Hawkins Lab, as a consequence of the experiments taking place inside. The first visible sign is environmental decay in nearby areas, such as the rotting pumpkin patches.

By season three, the affected area expands, allowing the Upside Down to emerge through liminal thresholds such as basements and abandoned warehouses. These marginal, neglected infrastructures become privileged points of access, operating under a different spatial logic than the everyday environment surrounding them. Their apparent banality masks their function as operational headquarters for hostile, invading forces.

By the later stages of the narrative, a new shift occurs, as the presence of the hidden dimension becomes increasingly apparent. The whole town cracks and splits under the growing power of these forces, carving a visible rupture into the landscape. The two realities become physically connected through portals appearing at specific points across Hawkins.

The effectiveness of this spatial strategy is amplified by the small-town condition itself. Tending toward spatial and social hermeticism, smaller communities are more likely to have reduced external visibility and contact. Fewer external collisions lead to fewer disruptions, favoring an environment in which anomalies can persist without immediate exposure.

Hawkins Lab exploits this condition, operating within a controlled spatial system that minimizes external interference. Such concealment would be significantly harder to maintain in a large urban center characterized by mobility, density, and constant surveillance. The spatial mechanism functions as a closed system in which urban form, isolation, and liminality collaborate to sustain secrecy.

Space as Reference: The Social Dimension

The social fabric of a close-knit community plays a crucial role in the series’ narrative development. Smaller communities are usually bonded by familiarity - places where neighbors not only recognize each other but also share affective bonds and common routines. The impact of mysterious occurrences, such as those portrayed in the series, would be unlikely to go unnoticed under these circumstances. Violent events provoke a collective, emotionally charged response, mobilizing citizens to investigate, speculate, and seek justice on their own terms.

On a positive side, the protagonists also experience the privileges of growing up in a small town. The freedom to roam through forests unsupervised, the adventure of riding a bike to a friend’s house at night, and the boredom that sparks exploration - unstructured space allows the natural flourishing and deepening of friendship bonds.

As we follow them from childhood into adolescence, we recognize their internal conflicts reflected in the surrounding space: lingering feelings of inadequacy, confinement, and the difficulty of being understood in a place of limited references. Eleven’s departure from Hawkins, riding the bus, becomes the physical expression of this feeling - the representation of outgrowing a confining space.

In parallel, Hawkins itself lives its adolescence through the emergence of Starcourt Mall. In a turn towards postmodern development and consumer culture, it revitalizes the town with novelty, attracting visitors to a new form of social interaction. The mall marks a new phase in the town’s life, catalyzing its visibility and narratively placing it on the path towards maturity.

Space as Tension: The Psychological Dimension

In Stranger Things, space carries a strong psychological component. The emotional attachment that the characters share with Hawkins ultimately becomes physical, as an imposed quarantine prevents escape, transforming the town into both an emotional anchor and spatial prison.

Henry Creel’s house emerges as a crucial architectural landmark and focal point within this psychological landscape. Its design provides subtle temporal clues, revealing a structure rooted in an earlier era and visibly out of sync with the 1980s setting. Its furnishings, alongside Henry’s clothing, suggest a subject suspended in time, disconnected from social and historical progression. This temporal dissonance informs the viewer that he is operating within a memory.

The house also becomes the fabric from which he reconstructs his psychic world, based on memories of his childhood home. Fragments of domestic space are recollected, distorted, and reassembled, transforming personal memory into architectural form. The house consequently becomes the psychological center of the narrative, finding its parallel in Hawkins Lab on a spatial plane.

Other home-associated objects, such as Christmas lights, are withdrawn from their primary sphere - as conveyors of a warm, familial atmosphere - and transformed into signals of danger. This unease is further intensified by the contrast between an apparently calm, safe community setting and the constant threats destabilizing it, gradually building the horror narrative.

In the end, the mediatic allure of small towns lies in the narrative opportunities offered by their dual nature - suspended between belonging and isolation, tranquility and boredom, possibility and limitation. They mirror the very own contradictions of human nature. Stranger Things amplifies these tensions and mirrors this duality, unexpectedly merging horror with the coming-of-age genre. In Hawkins, danger is gradually overcome - reminding us that few threats can overcome the resilience of close-knit communities.

Beneath the whimsical, pastoral landscape of the Shire - home to our dearest Hobbits - lies a profound architectural intelligence: an understanding of comfort, craftsmanship, and spiritual connection to the earth. This essay explores what architects and designers can learn from Tolkien’s small folk, and how their humble burrows continue to inspire sustainable design today.

In The Lord of the Rings, we are introduced to the Hobbits - small-statured, brave-hearted people who live in cozy homes nestled within the hilly landscape, discreetly covered with greenery or rammed-earth roofs, almost invisible if not for their distinctive round doors and windows. Their dwellings are not only the result of aesthetic charm, but of an evolved relationship with land and climate.

These creatures are fond of comfort, earthly pleasures, and rituals - enjoying the simple act of sitting outside, smoking their pipes, and having six meals a day. Their homes reflect this introspective nature: lush gardens, warm interiors, organic nooks, and thick earthen walls that offer refuge from the wider world.

As Tolkien explains, their dwellings reflect a gradual evolution: once living entirely underground, the Hobbits learned from the Men of the West to build with timber and brick, expanding their homes above ground. Yet, even as they rose to the surface, the spirit of the burrow remained - an idea long intertwined with the very concept of home: a place of shelter and protection, rooted in the most basic biological need for safety.

Living underground and building with the climate

The idea of dwelling beneath the earth has recurred throughout architectural history, from ancient times to the present. Humanity has long been compelled to build below the surface, either for religious, defensive, climatic, or environmental reasons.

In Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings worldbuilding, we find variations on this theme reflected in the dwellings of different peoples. The Dwarves’ Mines of Moria, for instance, are monumental stone structures carved directly into the rock, which perhaps could have been inspired by real-world precedents such as the monolithic churches of Lalibela in Ethiopia, or the underground 4th-century limestone churches of Saint Émilion in France, both examples of how architecture can blend in the geological landscape.

Domestic dwelling underground has also proven to be a valid response to extreme climates. The cave houses of Guadix, in Andalusia, Spain, showcase striking similarities with the landscape of The Shire; dating back to the Moorish period, they remain one of the largest settlements of their kind.

Originally designed to adapt to the region’s harsh weather, these houses can be considered early examples of bioclimatic design, long before the term was established. Soil stabilizes temperature and moderates extreme climate conditions, keeping homes comfortable throughout the year. In a region that reaches high temperatures, such as southern Spain, this is a valuable asset.

As the climate keeps changing and extractive systems prove fallible, architects are increasingly returning to local solutions and to the environmental lessons learned from vernacular architecture - using local, natural materials, passive environmental strategies, and maximizing comfort with minimal resources. Practices that were once born from necessity and deeply rooted knowledge are now revalued by their ecological intelligence.

In Tolkien’s worldbuilding, the Hobbits exemplify a way of living deeply rooted in the natural landscape, reflecting a pre-industrial sensibility characterized by a communal relationship to land, and a notion of time that is mostly seasonal and attuned to the earth’s rhythms.

This raises an interesting question:

Could Tolkien’s worldbuilding be read as a synthesis of the ecological wisdom architecture now seeks to recover?

The Shire meets sustainability

The world Tolkien imagined may feel distant, yet the questions it poses feel urgent today. As we face rising temperatures, resource depletion, and fragile ecosystems, the architectural discipline is being asked to rethink its relationship with the natural world. Many of the planet’s ecosystemic sources, from which we draw materials and nourishment, are receding under the pressure of continuous extraction.

Contemporary architectural practices are revisiting the legacy of the 1970s ecological movements, seeking forms of building that restore balance and cultivate reciprocity with the land.

Against this backdrop, the return to vernacular building methods goes from simply nostalgic to acquiring an ethical dimension. Climate-conscious building techniques - such as earth construction, mud-brick walls, cob structures, and the use of clay or lime plaster - reintroduce materials that are abundant, low-impact, and locally attuned. These methods embody forms of intelligence refined across generations, where architecture responds to climate, geology, and the rhythms of daily life. They propose an architectural mindset aligned with the deep ecological ethos: take only what is necessary and within the land to offer, and give back as much as one can.

Yet Tolkien’s vision offers another vital insight: the essence of dwelling in itself, as a sense of not just being in a place but belonging to it - homes shaped by habits, relationships, and time. This belonging reflects itself, in turn,back in the physical space, as the latter seems to contain the essence of its inhabitants; a perspective increasingly relevant in a culture that often emphasizes object-driven design.

Lessons from the Hobbits

Drawing a parallel between fiction and reality, what can contemporary builders learn from the Hobbits?

1. Read the territory

Build with the landscape, not against it. Use natural slopes, variations, and orientations to guide form and layout, seeking harmony and integration.

2.Connect with your surroundings

Prioritize natural insulation, daylight, and porous thresholds that blur the boundary between indoors and outdoors. This strengthens the feeling of being in and belonging to a place.

3. Use resources wisely

Choose materials that are local and abundant, and opt for reclaimed when possible. Prefer organic, regenerative materials over highly manufactured ones. Consider not only the material itself, but its full lifecycle and ecological footprint.

4. Break from the standard

Explore curved lines, organic geometries, and intimate scales that foster belonging. Let interiors feel warm and human-centered.

5. Embrace an earthy colour pallette and texture

Let natural tones, imperfect finishes, and tactile materials bring depth and authenticity to living spaces.

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Finally, the secret: how to live like a Hobbit

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Besides architectural strategy, Hobbits can bring us a much gentler reminder - to cherish our homes, cultivating comfort, pleasure, and ritual. They remind us of the joy found in the everyday- sitting in a garden, tending to plants, cooking, and gathering. Their interiors, cluttered with memory-rich objects, reject perfection in favour of belonging. This aligns with the ethos of slow living: a resistance to disposability, an embrace of the handcrafted, the communal, the grounded.

Buildings endure when they are woven into daily rituals, cared for across generations, and experienced as extensions of life rather than as isolated objects; therefore, sustainability can be interpreted not only as a technical, but also as a cultural act.

As architecture moves toward a future that must reconcile beauty, ecology, and emotional resonance, the lessons of the Shire feel increasingly relevant. To live like a Hobbit is not to retreat from the world, but to live more attuned to it , rooted in the joyful, grounding rhythm of home.

Architecture often finds its most urgent purpose in the collapse of failing systems.

Failure and reconstruction are inherent to the process of building and the development of human settlements; throughout history, human beings have shaped their environment in response to evolving physical needs, social structures, and political ideas, in cycles of growth and obsolescence.

Transformative periods often call for a renewed perspective, elevating the optimism inherently required in any act of building to a higher plane. At the heart of building, there is always an ambition to reshape our surroundings according to an ideal, a vision of a different world. This is noticeable in every intervention on the built environment; even a small renovation is an expression of a desire for beauty and a commitment to care. Such visions, even if utopian and ultimately unattainable, are guiding principles in our decision-making.

In this article, we will explore how challenging moments have become catalysts for architectural imagination, enabling new ways of thinking and making. Wars, natural disasters, and other violent upheavals are life-changing events that shake intellectual, moral, and aesthetic foundations, often unleashing profound individual and societal transformation. At those times, the role of architecture beyond the act of constructing buildings intensifies: it becomes a projective, critical, and potentially transformative cultural act. As both a political and creative discipline, architecture must respond to the zeitgeist and embrace its influence in the development of future societies.

The architectural toolkit carries both the capacity for imagining and the means for translating that imagination into real-world endeavours - either as gestures of hope, or as escapes in times of crisis.

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Exponential Creativity: a theory of imagination by Bruno Munari

To understand how adversity can spark imagination, we’ll first have to understand what exactly imagination is - for that, we’ll turn to Bruno Munari’s theory of creativity. According to it, imagination is the mental operation that associates seemingly unrelated elements, endowing them with new attributes and meanings. This process draws upon our referential universe - our lived experiences, memories, and perceptions. Therefore, the more diverse our experiences, the richer our imaginative capacity.

Creativity is described as the convergence of fantasy (the creation of things that do not and may never exist) with invention (the creation of new things with a functional or practical purpose). Architecture often sits at this intersection: a field where practical constraints meet future visions. Such a professional framework, paired with the experiential intensity of a life-changing event, has naturally led to changes in perspective in times of crisis. When faced with adversity, many architects respond by applying their professional abilities to the creation of new models - whether through idealistic approaches, or through practical reforms. Both methods, though distinct, remain essential references for thinking about architecture in times of rupture.

We will look into the legacy of three great architects whose trajectories were shaped by war - Bruno Taut, Walter Gropius, and Yona Friedman - to understand how their experiences translated into architectural production.

Beauty as an antidote to war – the perspective of Bruno Taut (1880-1938)

Bruno Taut was already engaged in socially conscious architecture when the First World War broke out. A pacifist, he refused military service and joined groups that were active in questioning the artistic and social functions of architecture. The experience of the conflict affected him profoundly, culminating in his breakthrough publication Alpine Architecture in 1918 - the year marking both the end of the war and the height of Europe’s devastation.

His disbelief in material and technological advancements - that he deemed responsible for the fabrication of weapons and machines that destroy humanity - led him to take a break from practical architectural work, filled with material constraints and political entanglements, and dedicate himself to drawing and writing.

If until the war he had used drawing mostly as a method for architectural projects, at that point, he recognized the potential of his talent as a tool for activism - and he used it, not as an escape from reality, but as a means to create better ones. He responded to the war by channeling his artistic talent into a new cause.

His work looked to translate the inherent struggles of the human condition through fantastic drawings and writings of visionary utopian landscapes, where aesthetics and religion were embraced as the true, meaningful human experiences.

Alpine Architecture sets the portrait of a mountainous landscape, upon which crystalline, structureless buildings sit, as majestic, cathedral-like spaces of contemplation. They are assigned with no practical function, and no technical impairments; they were purely imagined as an aesthetic experience, places of spiritual elevation unbound by function or politics.

He asserted the feasibility of his alpine dream with a redirection of collective efforts - instead of wasting lives and funds in war endeavours, nations should abandon utility and eradicate conflict through cooperation in building, rather than destroying.

He explained the book as an antidote to war. To him, beauty became a form of resistance; it offered the possibility of liberating humanity from monstrous actions and reconnecting it to the deep living experience. The world would be redeemed through art - a spiritual encounter ignited by an awe-inspiring landscape and collective artistic endeavour.

Bruno Taut’s response to war was not to rebuild what had been lost, but to imagine a radically different world, one where architecture would unite humanity through wonder.

His vision was often dismissed as naive and idealistic; however, to those critical voices, he posed a question:

Impractical and unusable – but are we made happy from utility?

(Bruno Taut, Alpine Architecture)

Adaptation to changing times – the perspective of Walter Gropius (1883-1969)

Walter Gropius had started his own architectural practice, along with Adolf Meyer, a few years before the war. His previous experience working for Peter Behrens had included a comprehensive approach not only in architecture but also in design, designing both buildings and brand identity materials for clients. This experience equipped him with a solid understanding of marketing and business and a holistic vision of the architectural panorama.

He had already foreseen the need for a reform when, while still serving in the military as a soldier, he wrote to the Grand Duchy of Thuringia, with recommendations for a school that could provide artistic guidance to industry, addressing the problems of industrialisation in a society that was changing at a fast pace.

Shortly after, he would come to recognise a post-war shift: large commissions became rarer, young architects were organising in activist groups, and art’s role in society was being questioned. In a traumatised world with scarce resources, the ornamental elitism of traditional art no longer fit; affordable, functional solutions were required.

His vision was to unify the visual arts and architecture, promoting collaboration through workshops and a return to trade skills. He had the opportunity to fully develop it in 1919, when he became the founding director of the Bauhaus in Weimar. By merging the Academy of Fine Arts with the School of Arts and Crafts, Gropius redefined architectural education and fostered collaboration between artists, craftsmen, and industry.

The objects produced in the Bauhaus were characterised by geometric forms, primary colours, and simplicity. They were easily scalable and mass-produced, and fit for modern life and everyday people. In a turbulent time, offering standardized, systematic solutions helped achieve a maximization of resources that were already scarce.

The Bauhaus’ history is long and vast, and subject to a deeper essay; it does, however, intertwine with that of its creator, whose belief and vision for the future would forever change the architectural paradigm.

When faced with adversity, Walter Gropius foresaw and embraced the spirit of his time, actively advocating for change through practical reform, while leaning on form and function as tools to redesign a damaged world.

Embracing uncertainty – the perspective of Yona Friedman (1923-2020)

From an early age, Yona Friedman was acquainted with survival and resourcefulness. Born in Hungary, he fled during the war and lived as a refugee. His nomadic experience exposed him to the mutability of life, the scarcity of resources, and the limits of trusting architecture as a permanent refuge. He refused the mainstream approach to architecture as building for eternity; his perspective of architectural work was that of a continuous improvisation, shaped by trial and error.

Migration and reconstruction became recurring themes in his work, culminating in his architecture mobile concept and the idea of Ville Spatiale (the spatial city) - a continuum of posts above ground that would define empty space, where modules would be freely combined, that he describes as:

A structure having no floors, no walls, no roofs, nor any preconceived containers or shapes; that is the Ville Spatiale.

(Yona Friedman)

Unable to formally enrol at university as a Jew during WWII, Friedman attended any classes whose teachers allowed him in, including physics. There, he became acquainted with the uncertainty principle, which profoundly influenced his architectural thinking.

Unlike other architects who focused on gathering control through systems and planning, the fabric of Friedman’s architectural production was the unpredictability of life itself - as he put it, “a continuous improvisation”. He believed in the human ability for self-construction and for making decisions about the built environment, if provided with the right information and choice. His willingness to remove the power from the planner and give it to the user placed him close to libertarian ideals and inspired many architects to come, such as the incremental design of Elemental.

In an interview with Vladimir Belogolovsky, he explained:

You know, I am the product of the Second World War. I was only 21 when the world changed drastically. Everything I was taught at school did not work. I was in the resistance in Budapest at the end of the war and was taken as a prisoner by the Gestapo. But I survived. The winter was brutal. There was no water, no electricity, no heating. Windows had no glass. There were one million inhabitants and people survived. I realized then that our habits and customs are very fragile. So I thought about finding a certain autonomy, and autonomy comes with improvisation. (…) In architecture, the whole idea should be to find ways to adapt to reality. This idea came from my own reaction to the catastrophe.

(Yona Friedman)

In his view, architecture alone could not “create a world”; this task could only be achieved by relying on imagination and critique equally. He did so by embracing adversity and the unpredictability of life in order to face it, challenging the conventions of space, time, and gravity, allowing architecture to expand beyond mass and materialize through the inputs of those who lived in it. When faced with adversity, he responded by cherishing human nature and fighting the perceived immutability of structures, all while building with the fabric of life itself.

Contemporary optimistic landscapes

Architecture’s engagement with adversity is as much about rethinking society as it is about reimagining space. Adversity can trigger a variety of responses, from artistic questioning to systemic educational reforms to developing new frameworks.

In the face of today’s overlapping global crises - wars, environmental challenges, mass displacement, and the aftermath of a pandemic - architecture retains its vital role as a generator of questions, scenarios, and possibilities. The architectural imagination is continuously reinvented, fueled by surroundings that act as both warnings and opportunities - places to regenerate, coexist, and resist.

Our present challenges are prompting contemporary architects to imagine new spatial and social arrangements, such as:

• Politics of degrowth and repair: circular construction strategies and sustainable practices are a direct, active response to the confrontation with ecological crisis and the flaws of linear economic models for the built environment;

• Community development: an increasing number of architectural interventions aim for growth at a local scale, adopting context-based solutions that promote regional economic development and agency, against a trend of globalization and standardized solutions;

• Adaptive reuse: the shift from industry to tertiary and quaternary economic sectors in recent decades has left empty lands behind. The reintegration of these places (mostly, post-industrial ruins and urban voids) in the urban fabric is not merely aesthetic recycling, but a redefinition of values;

• Alternative housing models: the current variations in population, mass displacements, and economic pressures have been pressing architects to rethink housing models, adapting them to ongoing societal changes.

Optimism, in this sense, exists in every idea or action that seeks to leave the world better than before, questioning the status quo and seeking better life conditions for generations to come.

Learning from the architects who endured challenging times and whose work became a symbol of resilience and resistance, we should become better equipped to trust our own capabilities while designing for an ever-changing and unpredictable world.

Imagination can offer escape, critique, repair, or possibility, but every small action transforms adversity into intention, opening the system to the possibility of building differently. At times when systems collapse and one is forced to look inwards, the words that Bruno Taut wrote to his brother Max, back in 1918, may still resonate:

How loathsome politics now are!

But I shan’t run away, my radiant world lives within me.

(Bruno Taut)

References:

Barnstone, Deborah Ascher - Bruno Taut and the First World War, Athens Journal of History, 2015

Belogolovsky, Vladimir - Interview with Yona Friedman: “Imagine, Having Improvised Volumes ‘Floating’ In Space, Like Balloons”, (https://www.archdaily.com/781065/interview-with-yona-friedman-imagine-having-improvised-volumes-floating-in-space-like-balloons)

Friedman, Yona - L’Architecture Mobile, Eclat, 2021

Munari, Bruno - Fantasia, Edições 70, 2024

Schutze, Petra-Lamers (coord.), Teoria da Arquitectura, Taschen, 2006

Taut, Bruno - Arquitectura Alpina, Ed. Círculo de Bellas Artes, 2011

https://hiddenarchitecture.net/alpine-architecture/

In the turbulent territory of Middle Earth, an Arcadian landscape lies by the river — a fertile, graceful valley sheltered by the slopes of the Misty Mountains. Nestled within it, interwoven with the trees, is a village, in communal proximity with the landscape.

This village is Rivendell. Secluded from the perils of Middle Earth, it is a haven for the Elves, embodying the utopia of a life lived in natural harmony, founded on the wisdom of a civilization that has endured through many eras and mastered the secrets of the natural world.

Originally from Germanic mythology, the depiction of Elves varies across Scandinavian, Anglo-Saxon, and Germanic traditions. J.R.R. Tolkien’s Elves share physical similarities with humans; however, they are semi-divine beings, gifted with eternal life and profound wisdom, custodians of the primordial languages of Middle Earth. Their almost-divine nature finds a parallel in their ethereal, white-toned stone dwellings they inhabit, structures that reflect their perpetuity, rationality, elegance and even a certain detachment.

Rivendell’s built environment draws inspiration from and becomes enmeshed with the rational geometries of nature. Finely engineered structures, often featuring colonnades and arches, welcome light through delicate, intricately detailed decorative elements, shaped organically to mirror the natural world.

Its predominant architectural style is, unsurprisingly, Art Nouveau, as this turn-of-the-century style was deeply inspired by nature, translating the organicity of life into flowing shapes and ornamental richness.

Art Nouveau can be contextualized as the beginning of the modern movement, marking the transition from the 19th to the 20th century. It descended from the Arts and Crafts movement, emerging in opposition to the revivalist trends of classical and Gothic styles (in the forms of Neoclassical and Neo-Gothic), which had dominated the previous centuries.

Even though Art Nouveau was a reaction against established canons in architecture, it was deeply rooted in the Gothic movement. The appreciation for nature was first embodied in Gothic designs - in this style, mostly used in religious buildings, columns often assumed the shape of trees, symbolic manifestations of the sacred in nature. Under the light of this style, structures gained elegance and verticality, based on rational geometries that became more efficient, rejecting the mass and staticity of classical composition.

During the Gothic Revival period in Europe, roughly during the 19th-century, its expression evolved in response to material innovations, primarily through the replacement of stone with steel structures and glass finishes, leading to the development of Modernity’s language.

Its accidental precursor was Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, a 19th-century architect whose work was crucial to the development of a structural paradigm later adopted as the basis of the modern movement: the principle of “structural honesty”, materialized in the separation between the skeleton (inner structure) and the envelope (outer shell) of buildings — a technical innovation that allowed for material economy and the vertical expansion of modern buildings. His vast expertise in the restoration of medieval heritage led him to argue that the Gothic architectural style was the closest to perfection, well-anchored in rationality and efficiency, and should serve as the foundation for a style liberated from classical canons.

The structural lessons from past styles, combined with the material innovations made possible by the Industrial Revolution at the turn of the 20th century, converged to create ideal conditions for the structural liberation of buildings. Freed from technical constraints, the democratization of architecture was finally possible.

Art Nouveau flourished as the first architectural style of Modernity and a break from traditional standards, rooted in the technical innovations of glass and steel. Its ornamental and decorative aesthetics marked a transitional phase, as subsequent styles progressively moved towards an abandonment of decoration in favor of functionality.

Glass became a symbol of a fairer, renewed, utopian world - as seen in Bruno Taut’s Alpine Architecture, an imagined landscape where mountains would be covered with glass structures.

His colleague, artist Paul Scheerbart, has even claimed:

The replacement of brick with glass in architecture will radically transform the world and elevate human culture to a higher state.

John Howe, who translated, with Allen Lee, Tolkien’s vision into visual forms for Peter Jackson’s film trilogy, has pointed Grindelwald, Switzerland, as a possible inspiration for Rivendell.

In Barcelona, under the name of Catalan Modernism, Art Nouveau flourished through the work of Antoni Gaudí. The architect drew inspiration from the colors and forms of nature to create architectural works of profound symbolic meaning. He applied organic lines to Gothic-inspired structures, decorated with mythical figures, stone, shells, and stained glass or mosaics. The columns of his Sagrada Familia Cathedral blossom like monumental trees, inviting visitors to reflect on the sacredness of life and nature, the interconnectedness of beings and spirit — to experience and revere the Divine in the details of existence.

Could the Sagrada Família have inspired Rivendell? We can only speculate. However, it is undoubtedly due to this expressionist celebration of shared commons and nature as a holy entity that Art Nouveau has had such an influence on the world-building of the Elves in The Lord of the Rings, given their status as creatures beyond humanity, below the divine. Yet, it is also interesting to note that its predecessor — the Gothic style — was regarded by many 19th-century architects as the true German architectural style, deeply embedded in the cultural context in which J.R.R Tolkien lived and from which he drew inspiration, fruit of his profound knowledge of the myths and aesthetics of Northern Europe.

Beyond aesthetics, the architecture of Rivendell communicates a deeper philosophy: a commitment to coexistence, respect for the natural cycle, and a spiritual reverence for life itself, spatially translated in the harmonious relationship between the built environment and its surroundings.

The lightness, harmony and openness of Elvish dwellings can also be analyzed in contrast with other Middle Earth peoples’ habitats, highlighting the most prevailing traits of its inhabitants: the Dwarves’ dark, solid, rock-carved halls of Moria reflect their intimate connection with the earth and craftsmanship, while the Hobbits’ cozy, rounded homes express comfort and the pleasures of domestic living, grounded in the simplicity of a bucolic existence.

This differentiation showcases how architecture can be an active agent in world-building, transcending mere function and becoming a language of ideals and culture. In The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R Tolkien became the architect of a brilliantly constructed world, in which readers are invited to appreciate the variety of forms of living and the reflections of our own cultural heritage.

The foundations of power are grounded in hierarchical organization. Within a network of unequally distributed forces, spatial limits are an indirect form of communication, informing those in the network of their relative position and expected behavior. Architecture is a powerful tool for conveying hierarchy through space, becoming the medium through which it is materialized and made tangible; borders, walls, levels, and scale are devices of separation. The social contract that we’ve (not) signed up for always requires a certain degree of monitoring, and all spaces- even those created to promote freedom, such as public squares- are designed to orient and regulate human interactions.

How is power spatially translated in Severance?

From the site selection to interior design, the series offers clear clues about the power web that Lumon has constructed.

Geographical presence

From the imposing headquarters to its various outposts spread throughout the territory —employee housing, Lumon’s school, a satellite city built around an old factory—Lumon’s spatial network extends well beyond the office. Its presence influences urban planning to the point of creating an entire city around its industry, raising generations within its ideological framework.

Centrality and Scale

At the building scale, Lumon’s majestic headquarters can’t be overlooked: approached via a symmetrical parking, its glass façade of monumental height is a glory of modern times, an homage to science and progress. The building itself signals importance—as employees park their car and walk to the entrance, such as the processional streets leading to historic plazas, the central, majestic structure originally designed by Eero Saarinen evokes awe and respect, echoing the formal strategies - centrality and axiality- adopted in the positioning and layout of governmental or religious buildings and monuments, highlighting the focal point at the end of one axis or at the crossing of multiple. This is an intentional gesture that places in evidence who or what is valued by the users of the space.

Materiality

Materials like glass, steel, and cast concrete are symbols of technical progress, but while the building’s glazing façade may make it appear modern and open, glass walls are also transparent limits - they allow constant sight and surveillance over the building users, encouraging composure and reinforcing adequate behaviour. They are a tool of indirect surveillance and self-regulation. After all, how would you behave if everyone were watching?

It is no coincidence that Lumon’s headquarters evokes the optimistic language of mid-century modernism. Glass, light, symmetry—all hallmarks of a movement once associated with progress and democracy—are repurposed here into tools of subjugation.

Perhaps, Lumon’s most profound display of power is the creation of green pastures inside the building, an ecstatic triumph of science over nature.

This architectural betrayal is key to the unease of Severance. The building is promising a better world, but delivering the opposite. In this sense, Lumon’s world is not a break from the past but its logical extension: a utopia that has fallen into dystopia, without altering its aesthetics.

Anonymity

Lumon’s interiors tend to erase and avoid all signs of individuality. The custom tokens that employees receive are given to reinforce good behaviour towards the company, and can be easily manipulated, such as the photos that are altered to remove past employees.

This is part of a deliberate strategy to alienate innies from their identity and any sense of past or future - for the innies, all that exists is an architecture of eternal present, they are forever trapped in a limbo of fluorescent lights.

This erasure of self within the architectural environment reinforces the innies’ identity as corporate tools, contributing to an environment of control.

Functional Layout

The functional layout of the building communicates hierarchy. The "innies" are required to descend underground, physically positioning them at the bottom of the corporate structure. By placing the severed floor in the first basement level, Lumon isolates its workers from all external information, without any visual connections to the outside or any sense of location. Like a modern Dantean descent, secrecy and apprehension intensify with each lower level; the deepest basements hold the most secret experiments, hidden from plain sight.

In contrast, those who rank higher in the hierarchy, such as those in management positions, have access to natural light and outdoor access. Helena Eagan, heiress to the Lumon empire, lives in a contemporary glass house with a panoramic view. When her troublesome innie says, “See you at the equator,” she may be referencing the threshold between the basement and ground level—a metaphorical horizon of freedom.

Lumon’s reverence for its founders is spatially translated in the Wing of Perpetuity—a space of monumental scale and scenic lighting that glorifies its legacy.

Emotional landscapes

At Lumon, innies are given predictable routines and tasks. Space is interwoven with rewards or punishments based on workers’ performance - if an innie is well-behaved, he may experience joy in the Wellness Room, but if he crosses a line, it is likely that he will have to face the dark corridor that leads him into the Break Room. Fear is etched into the architecture, for example, in the narrow, dark hallway that leads to the elevator and haunts Irving’s dreams - too tight for more than one person, uncomfortably tall, and dimly lit.

Humans are wired to prefer proportionate spaces; extreme height, cramped width, and sharp angles are unsettling to our perception. In the real world, architects like Daniel Libeskind are able to masterfully manipulate space to evoke emotional depth, particularly in spaces of memorialization, where architecture becomes the mediator of past and present. His Holocaust Tower at the Jewish Museum in Berlin—a void lit only from above that culminates in a dead-end —creates a visceral sense of despair, where the faint light conveys faith and hope that feels unreachable.

In the series, the emotional landscape is limited by a disorienting maze of white walls and fluorescent lighting, in which confusion only deepens as the rooms apparently shift locations, or when uncanny objects like balloons or paintings appear inexplicably. History’s authoritarian leaders understood the role of spatial manipulation in instilling anticipation and heightening authority. Long, winding corridors leading to rooms of authority can be a means of discouraging potential attacks and increasing obedience, for the longer one walks towards something without a clear sense of direction, the more defenseless and vulnerable one becomes.

Innies were, before the Innie Uprising, mostly unaware of what was beyond their department at Lumon. Riot began when they started roaming - the awakening of their critical judgment towards their condition is simultaneous to the advancements of their territorial exploration. In this scenario, Resistance is a conscious choice of refusing to let oneself be misguided, and it starts with the painstaking efforts of its precursors - Petey and Irving - to understand and map their environment, by trial, error, and memory.

Surveillance

In Severance, physical and digital surveillance are combined to create a dystopian system. The computer room - much like the Big Brother or the panopticon- is the primary control center, an invisible entity that monitors subjects invisibly and that only shows itself through voice. The implant chips are the ultimate surveillance tool: tying a worker’s location to their personality and memories, effectively dividing their identity.

Surveillance extends beyond the office. Workers live in company housing, watched by neighbors and superiors. Inside, even subtle mechanisms like corridor lights that activate with motion serve to reveal anyone trying to escape. The building itself becomes a sentient informant. When threatened, the red warning lights begin to blink.

In conclusion, the manipulation of physical (and digital) space can reinforce hierarchical behaviours. In the series, a hyper-controlled environment is staged to condition Lumon’s employees to comply with rules and avoid dissonance.

Architecture can be more than a passive background of daily existence - sometimes, it becomes an agitator, a spy, or a tyrant.

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As a passerby strolls down the street, his senses are continuously interpreting the physical world around. The architectural experience is, fundamentally, a sensory encounter between the subject and external objects: through sight, the passerby perceives a street light; through touch, he senses the unevenness of the pebble-covered ground. He can hear the hum of traffic, voices, and maybe even birds overhead. A familiar scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery or an unusual fragrance may hold his attention. These sensory hints, in turn, help the passerby locate himself in space, offering a sense of his own body and presence. Buildings provide a reference for scale - while comparing himself against them, he understands his own size. Memory stores these experiences and uses them to shape further interactions with the world. Therefore, we might say that we relate to our surroundings via experience, recognition, and memory.

In his book The Eyes of the Skin - Architecture and the Senses, Juhani Palasmaa states that:

“ Architecture (...) is fundamentally confronted with questions of human existence in space and time, it expresses and relates man’s being in the world. Architecture is deeply engaged with metaphysical questions of the self and the world, interiority and exteriority, time and duration, life and death. (...) Architecture is our primary instrument in relating us with space and time and giving these instruments a human measure. It domesticates limitless space and endless time to be tolerated, inhabited and understood by humankind.” (J.Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin)

If memories are crucial to the architectural experience - retaining and framing our perception of reality - , can they ever be dissociated from the places we inhabit?

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In Severance, technology makes this dissociation possible- a neural implant that divides memory streams from different origins. This text does not attempt to evaluate the scientific plausibility of such technology; instead, it offers an architectural reading of memories in the series.

In Severance, severed workers awaken into a new, disorienting reality. They are alienated from the external world, which they are forbidden to see. As a consequence of this deprivation, seeing the outside quickly becomes employees’ highest aspiration. Though they are adults with lives beyond the company walls, their innies begin from a blank slate—stripped of identity and context. Their location remains ambiguous—could it be Delaware?—,intentionally obscured through the use of generic, sterile environments: endless white corridors and processed materials that offer no clues about time, place, or origin.

As Pallasmaa points out in The Eyes of the Skin, natural materials reveal their age and history. Over time, wood changes hue, develops a patina, and even alters its scent. It will crack, or stain. In contrast, synthetic materials like plastic, laminate, or engineered composites often retain a pristine, unchanging appearance that resists the passing of time. They pose a challenge to the observer, offering little to anchor us in time. An honest material environment, by contrast, helps ground our sense of self and place.

In Lumon’s offices, architectural opacity is a deliberate design strategy. Severed employees are unable to mentally map their surroundings—a frequent condition in many minimalist, contemporary buildings in the real world, where spatial references are sparse. They are living in an artificial, controlled reality,carefully crafted under the company’s power structure.

Interestingly enough, Juhani Palasmaa describes a similar feeling of alienation in the modern world:

“The growing experiences of alienation, detachment and solitude in the technological world today, for instance, may be related with a certain pathology of the senses. It is thought-provoking that this sensation of estrangement and detachment is often evoked by most technologically advanced settings, like airports and hospitals.” (J.Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin)

To clarify: this observation should not be misinterpreted as a condemnation of technological progress. Rather, it highlights a common consequence of highly specialized design. Complex buildings like hospitals and airports require immense technical knowledge, logistical coordination and strict safety standards, often at the expense of spatial experience. As specificity increases, so does rational complexity—leaving limited space for sensorial engagement. The result is often a neutral, impersonal environment that may cause the aforementioned alienation feelings in users.

In Severance, as the characters become acquainted with their surroundings, they gradually develop new identities—often in stark contrast to their outer selves. Helly R. grows increasingly defiant, reacting against an opaque and oppressive environment. Dylan G. becomes a bold, assertive figure, in contrast to his shy outie. Each is shaped by their environment: one that is artificial, hostile, and incomprehensible. Without a clear understanding of the context they operate in, they cannot fully understand who they are.

Peter Zumthor, in his book Thinking Architecture, recalls a childhood kitchen—conventional and unremarkable, yet forever tied to his very own idea of what a kitchen is. He can still feel and recall the doorknobs of the houses he experienced, and through these memories he can trace his reality, his existence in the material world.

Architects work with memory—both their own and those of users—to shape experience. Our perception of reality depends on what our senses gather, and memories form on those very perceptions. While we may not fully dissociate memory from place relying solely on spatial design artifacts, architecture can amplify or dull the sensory input we rely on to feel anchored in the world.

Memory is power. And as George Orwell wrote, “Who controls the past controls the future.”
So—beware of the architect.

Margarida Matos - The Architect’s Screen

Most corporate workers spend around eight hours in office environments, and even though the memory separation procedure in the series is operated through a chip, Lumon’s spatial design mirrors distress; an uneasiness that might cause some of us, creative employees watching the series, to wonder “could this happen at my office?”.

The design and planning of workplaces have been evolving recently, becoming more thoughtful and informed. The growing awareness of mental health and well-being, along with the changes driven by the COVID-19 pandemic, have compelled companies to rethink workspaces to enhance employee well-being and create appealing conditions to encourage their return to the office.

The new paradigm in office design is anchored in two main points: fostering a sense of belonging and reframing the office as more than just a workplace (and more than just a cubicle).

Fostering a sense of belonging

Contemporary workplaces don’t just wish to be workplaces. It is true that we, as humans, become more committed to what we devote more time and investment to. Therefore, companies have started to pay more attention to this fact and realized that fostering connection and integration, towards the company and among coworkers, increases happiness and motivation. Consequently, there is a more notorious investment in social areas, where genuine connections can be sparked.

Socializing usually happens where the food is—in office terms, this may mean lunch breaks, coffee, vending machines, and lounge areas. In Severance, the kitchen plays a role in the group dynamic organized by Miss Huang for Mark S and the replacement team, where all intervenients are gathered around a table and have to play the ice-breaker ball game.

The Wing of Perpetuity is an extreme example of the memorial, fostering identity through awe-inspiring architecture and museography. In real life, many companies with a vast, rich history often have a dedicated memorabilia area, that is the guardian of the memories, equally serving educational purposes.

More than just a workplace

The first change in office planning - a clear evolution from its’ Dark Ages of functionalism, when aseptic cubicles in squared-shape crowded rooms in glass office buildings were the norm - is the flexibility in furniture and layout arrangements. Even though the MDR department works in a desk setting, their room is purposeful empty - which might be partially explained by the foreseen extinction of the department once their mission is accomplished, or the numerous events that take place in this room and require spatial rearrangement - from the waffle party served in a tray, to the removal of Irving’s desk and the show by Choreography and Merriment that is held once *spoiler alert* Cold Harbour is complete.

The room is a mixture of both ages. On the one hand, it has a functional cubicle personalized by the bizarre custom tokens made by Optics and Design. It is inspired by ’60s and '70s aesthetics, probably reflecting the taste of its Founder and Director, James Eagan. On the other hand, it is a contemporary flexible workplace setting whose multipurpose areas accommodate much more than data refinement.

Layout flexibility is nowadays a must-have when considering office planning. There is a crescent search for flexible furniture that can be arranged to provide individual or collaborative workstations, meetings, and group dynamics. It improves the user experience of the space while optimizing the investment in furniture. At times of real estate uncertainty, it is a valuable asset, as this means the furniture will be adaptable to relocations, changes in buildings, and adaptive reuse.

Another space that has grown in popularity is the well-being room, a generalist term for a space that can take the shape of a gym, yoga and meditation room, or just a relaxation area. It is a designated, low-energy zone where workers can decompress and restore.

Nowadays, many workplace projects allocate rooms for this purpose, resulting from increased investment in health and wellbeing policies, aiming to decrease burnout rates and improve employees’ general well-being. In Severance, the well-being room- the one that mysteriously disappears throughout the show,- is decorated with plants and nature sounds, a catchy wink to biophilic principles in architecture, that emphasizes connection with nature as a proven mood-soothing behavior. Biophilic office design will integrate plants, neutral colors, natural materials, or simulations, and will be generous in natural light.

Drawing inspiration from biophilic design, simulating nature using artificial artifacts is a common strategy throughout the show’s settings. For example, the room where Dylan meets his real-life wife Gretchen is blue-lit and shows a soft marine landscape in the background. This tranquil and ethereal environment will most likely affect the character’s mood, creating a mental transition from the working rooms to where he will - hopefully, reinvigorated - later return.

In real-world office settings, this can be achieved using courtyards or, when an outdoor area is unavailable, by recreating atmospheres that our minds associate with these environments. In addition to the previously mentioned biophilic elements, leisure areas often incorporate tactile textures, nets, and lounge or beach furniture upon which our bodies can assume a less rigid, more natural posture.

Finally, part of any office’s user experience is branding. It is through the spatial application of branding that both employees and visitors are, even if unconsciously, informed of the company’s culture. Lumon’s branding color is also not accidental - navy blue, besides creating beautiful imagery, is the color associated with protocol, safety, and trust. It is the color of the deep seas, connected with the unknown and territories of exploration. It is widely used in branding by banks and other institutions that deal with highly sensitive affairs. Therefore, it conveys a trustworthy impression of Lumon as a company - here is how color is used to state that “their work is mysterious and important.”

As there is an ever-growing number of companies who adopt these practices out of genuine interest to improve the well-being of their employees, decrease absenteeism, and retain talent at the companies - and we like to believe that is the primary motion - there is also a hidden profit side to it that Severance explores so well: the idea of workplace well-being as yet another tool to improve productivity and results. Well-being and rewards motivate severed workers to contribute to Lumon’s mission, which is, in nice words - making the world a better place for generations to come.