How architecture can create dignity for all John Cary

On a beautiful day, just a few years ago

my wife and I entered a hospital

near our home in Oakland, California

for the birth of our first daughter, Maya.

We had responsibly toured
the birthing center in advance

and yet we were somehow
still startled to find ourselves

in the place where we would experience

one of the most significant
moments of our lives.

We were stuck in a windowless room

with no hint of the bright
and sunny day that we had left.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead,

the paint on the walls was beige

and machines beeped inexplicably

as a wall clock indicated
day turning to night.

That clock was placed above a door

in direct line of sight

to where my wife lay as her contractions
increased hour after hour.

Now, I’ve never given birth –

(Laughter)

but she assured me that the last thing
that a birthing woman would ever want

is to watch the seconds tick by.

(Laughter)

An architect by training,
I’ve always been fascinated

watching people experience design
in the world around them.

I believe design functions
like the soundtrack

that we’re not even
fully aware is playing.

It sends us subconscious messages
about how to feel

and what to expect.

That room that we were in
seemed completely misaligned

with the moment
that we were experiencing –

welcoming a human being,

our daughter, into this world.

At one point a nurse, without any prompt,

turned to us and said,

“I always think to myself,

‘I wish I had become an architect,

because I could have designed
rooms like this better.'”

I said to her,

“An architect did design this room.”

(Laughter)

Despite the immense joy
of our daughter’s birth,

the messages of that hospital room
stick with she and I to this day.

Those messages are,

“You are not at home,

you are in a foreign place.”

“You are not in control of anything.

Not even the lighting.”

“Your comfort, simply, is secondary.”

At best,

a hospital room like this

might just be described
or dismissed as uninspiring.

At worst, it is undignifying.

And I use it to point out that none of us,

anywhere in the world,

are immune from bad design.

I went into architecture
because I believed

it was about creating spaces for people
to live their best lives.

And yet what I found
is a profession largely disconnected

from the people most directly
impacted by its work.

I believe this is because
architecture remains

a white, male, elitist profession –

seemingly unconcerned

with some of the greatest
needs in the world

or even the relatively simple needs
of an expectant mother.

Students are trained in school

using highly theoretical projects,

rarely interacting with real people
or actual communities.

Graduates are funneled
through a long, narrow

unforgiving path to licensure.

Meanwhile, the profession
holds up a select few

through relentless award programs

focused almost exclusively
on the aesthetics of buildings,

rather than the societal impact
or contributions of them.

It only goes to reinforce a warped view

of professional responsibility and success

and yet this isn’t
why so many young, hopeful people

go into architecture.

It’s not why I did.

I believed then, though I didn’t
have a language for it,

and I know now, that design
has a unique ability to dignify.

It can make people feel valued,

respected,

honored and seen.

Now I’d like for you to just think
about some of the spaces that you inhabit.

And I’d like to have you think
about how they make you feel.

Now, there are places
that make us feel unhappy,

unhealthy

or uninspiring.

They may be the places that you work

or where you heal

or even where you live.

And I ask, how might these places
be better designed with you in mind?

It’s a really simple question

and it can somehow, sometimes
be very difficult to answer.

Because we are conditioned
to feel like we don’t have much agency

over the spaces and places
that we live, work and play.

And in many cases we don’t.

But we all should.

Now, here’s a potentially dumb question
for any women watching:

Have you ever stood

in a disproportionately long
bathroom line?

(Laughter)

Did you ever think to yourself,
“What is wrong with this picture?”

Well, what if the real question is,

“What is wrong with the men
that designed these bathrooms?”

(Applause)

It may seem like a small thing,

but it’s representative
of a much more serious issue.

The contemporary world
was literally built by men

who have rarely
taken the time to understand

how people unlike them

experience their designs.

A long bathroom line
might seem like a minor indignity.

But the opposite can also be true.

Thoughtful design
can make people feel respected

and seen.

I’ve come to believe
that dignity is to design

what justice is to law

and health is to medicine.

In the simplest of terms,

it’s about having the spaces you inhabit
reflect back your value.

Over the past two years

I had the opportunity to interview
over 100 people from all walks of life

about their experience of design.

I wanted to test my hunch

that dignity and design
are uniquely related.

I listened to Gregory,

a resident of this cottage community

designed specifically

for the 50 most chronically
homeless people in Dallas.

Gregory had been living on the streets,

drifting from town to town
for over 30 years.

A broad coalition

of social service agencies,

funders and designers,

created this place.

Each 400 square foot cottage
is designed beautifully

as a permanent home.

Gregory now has a key

to a door

to his own house.

He describes the sense
of security that it brings him.

Something he had lived without
for three decades.

When he arrived with little more
than the clothes on his back,

he found everything:

from a toaster, Crock-Pot and stove

to a toothbrush and toothpaste
awaiting for him.

He describes it simply

as heaven.

On the other side of the world,

I listened to Antoinette,

the director of this
training and community center

for women in rural Rwanda.

Hundreds of women
come to this place daily –

to learn new skills,

be in community,

and continue rebuilding their lives

following the country’s civil war.

These women literally pressed

the 500,000 bricks

that make up the 17
classroom pavilions like this one.

Antoinette told me,

“Everyone is so proud of it.”

And then back here in the US

I listened to Monika,

the director of a free clinic

primarily serving
the uninsured in Arkansas.

Monika loves telling me that the doctors,

who volunteer at her free clinic

routinely tell her

that they’ve never worked
in such a beautiful, light-filled place.

Monika believes

that even people experiencing poverty

deserve quality health care.

And what’s more,

she believes they deserve
to receive that care

in a dignified setting.

People like these are invaluable
ambassadors for design

and yet they are roundly absent
from architectural discourse.

Similarly, the people who can
most benefit from good design

often have the least access to it.

Your cousin, a homeless veteran;

your grandma or grandpa

who live in a house with a kitchen
that’s no longer accessible to them;

your wheelchair-bound sister

in a suburban area
planned without sidewalks.

If good design
is only for a privileged few,

what good is it?

It’s time designers change this

by dedicating their practices
to the public good

in the model of firms

like Orkidstudio,

Studio Gang

and MASS Design Group.

Their clients

are orphaned children in Kenya,

foster children in Chicago

and pregnant women in Malawi.

Their practices are premised on the belief

that everyone deserves good design.

Dedicating more practices
to the public good

will not only create
more design that is dignifying,

but it will also
dignify the practice of design.

It will not only diversify
the client base of design,

but it will also create new,
more diverse forms of design

for the world.

Now, in order to do this,

my architecture and design friends,
especially my fellow white guys,

we must simultaneously
and significantly diversify our ranks.

If we want the public to believe
that design is for them

and for everyone.

Today, barely 15 percent

of registered architects
in the United States are women.

And a far smaller percentage
are persons of color.

Other professions, like law and medicine

had made far greater strides
in these crucial areas.

How might our shared built environment –

our homes, our hospitals,
our schools, our public spaces –

be shaped differently

if women and people of color

were behind half
of the proverbial blueprints?

It is not a question of whether,

but to what extent

our buildings, our landscapes,

our cities and our rural communities

are less beautiful, less functional,

less equitable and less dignifying

because women and people of color
are less likely to be creating them.

As Winston Churchill
famously noted in 1943

when he called for the rebuilding

of London’s war-damaged
parliamentary chambers,

“We shape our buildings,
and afterward, they shape us.”

The good news is
that we can change how we build

and who we build for.

Be that a health worker in rural Rwanda,

or a birthing mother and nervous
new father in the United States.

We can do this
by recommitting architecture

to the health, safety
and welfare of the public.

This will pay dividends.

Because once you see what design can do,

you can’t unsee it.

And once you experience dignity,

you can’t accept anything less.

Both become part of your possible.

One of my favorite conversation partners
is my 90-year-old grandmother,

Audrey Gorwitz, from Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

After one of our
conversations about design,

she wrote me a letter.

She said, “Dear Johnny,

I thought the other day,
as I sat in my doctor’s office,

how depressing it was,

from the color on the wall,
to the carpet on the floor.

(Laughter)

Now I will have to call to see

who is responsible
for the drabness in that place.”

(Laughter)

In the same letter, mind you, she said,

“I did call, and I got the man in charge,

and he said he appreciated
someone calling him.

My doctor’s office
is now on the list for an upgrade.”

(Laughter)

She signed it by saying,

“It is always good
to express one’s opinion

if done in a proper manner.”

(Laughter)

(Applause)

I love my grandma.

(Laughter)

Like my grandma Audrey,

you deserve good design.

Because well-designed spaces

are not just a matter of taste
or a questions of aesthetics.

They literally shape our ideas
about who we are in the world

and what we deserve.

That is the essence of dignity.

And both the opportunity
and the responsibility of design

for good

and for all.

Thank you.

(Applause)