The Concrete Question: What Should American Architecture Be?

Must we always borrow, or can we create? The search for a truly American architectural style.

I am the daughter of an architect. My earliest memories of architecture are tied to the Grenfell Mission in St. Anthony, Newfoundland, where my father worked as a design-build architect. I remember the cement mixer and the two-ton truck in our driveway, the blueprints spread out across his office in the basement, and the intoxicating scent of those blueprints filling the air. Those were my first encounters with the tangible essence of architecture—design and construction happening in real-time, bridging vision and reality.

Now, my husband, also an architect, has expanded my perspective—a bird’s-eye view of architecture and style. Our vacations revolve around visiting architectural marvels: the ruins of the Maya civilization, Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterpieces across the U.S., and the stark, functional brutalist structures that define an era. Yet, as we stand before these icons, a question lingers: What truly defines a national architectural identity? Are we, as a society, shaping our built environment, or is it shaping us?

Brutalism is a style that has fascinated us both. My husband, a Yale graduate, often reflects on Paul Rudolph’s influence, particularly his many parking structures around New Haven—an ambitious but contested attempt to reshape urban life. Brutalism, with its raw concrete forms and imposing presence, was once seen as a way to redefine functionality in public architecture. But was its dominance truly due to accessibility and flexibility, or was it an ideological statement? Was it an embrace of modernity, a reaction to war, or a dismissal of classical embellishment? More importantly, what does its resurgence in contemporary design say about our time?

In our architectural pilgrimages, we have visited icons of modernism, from the Farnsworth House in Chicago to Le Corbusier’s mother’s house in Switzerland—both foundational statements of modernism. However, the Farnsworth House was far from easy to reach, especially after I had just run the Chicago Marathon. Unlike Philip Johnson’s Glass House in New Canaan, which is much more accessible, the pilgrimage to certain architectural sites can be a test of devotion. But perhaps that is part of the experience—should great architecture be something we stumble upon, or something we seek out? We also visited Frank Gehry’s MIT campus creations, often referred to as the "falling-over" buildings, where his signature deconstructivism challenges conventional forms. Even our wedding rings are inspired by his torqued metal designs, a reminder that architecture is not merely about shelter—it is a philosophy, a way of thinking.

Brutalism is hard to miss, especially when driving up I-95 past the imposing concrete structures near Stanford. Running through Manhattan, I often find myself intrigued by the monolithic government buildings that embody this style. This brings me to the core question: Why was Brutalism so dominant? Was it truly the accessibility and flexibility of concrete that made it popular? Or was it something more—an architectural expression of nationalism and identity? Did it reflect a time of optimism, or a cold pragmatism? And if so, why does it persist today?

The evolution of architectural styles has always been a reflection of cultural shifts. Classical and neoclassical styles were once the default for government structures, yet Brutalism emerged as a counterpoint, a stark break from ornamentation and a move toward functionality. But should architectural design flow solely from function and available materials, or should it also be an expression of art and ideology? If architecture is art, then what ideals does it represent? Democracy? Monumentality? Control? Resistance?

Did we really need to import marble to construct our institutions? Did the Maya have a unique architectural style that was inherently North American? If so, why do we rely so heavily on imported styles? Should we not strive to define an architecture that is uniquely American? What does that even mean—something rooted in the past, or something entirely new?

This leads to an even larger question: Why do governments continue to impose stylistic guidelines—whether classical, neoclassical, or modern—when we have yet to fully articulate what an American architectural style should be? Are we not in a unique moment where we can define something distinctly American? Or is our architectural identity, like our cultural identity, meant to be pluralistic rather than singular?

So, here is my challenge to architects and thinkers alike: Are we not at a turning point where we can define an architectural language that truly reflects the American experience? If architecture is both function and art, then should it not also embody the ideals, history, and material realities of this land? Must we always borrow, or can we create? It is time to move beyond borrowed styles and ask—what does America look like in built form? And if we cannot yet answer that, then perhaps the real question is—why not?