Curated by Nuno Grande and Roberto Cremascoli, the Portuguese pavilion at the 2016 Venice Architecture Biennale exhibited photographs of Alvaro Siza meeting, in their homes, inhabitants of housing he had designed, many decades earlier, in various European cities. It included residents of Schilderswijk in The Hague, designed between 1984 and 1993 for immigrants from Turkey, Morocco, Cape Verde and Suriname. The design process of Schilderswijk included the construction of full-scale models to demonstrate his plans to future inhabitants and to solicit their feedback. Resulting layouts include a sliding door that enables the apartments’ living spaces to be divided into public and private zones – the latter providing a realm into which Muslim women can retreat. Recognising, listening to, and designing for ‘the other’, at Schilderswijk Siza created housing that could be inhabited in multiple ways.

When, during construction, he was invited to present the project in the Berlage Institute, a conversation ensued that can be analysed through De Carlo’s triad of publics [2]. The presentation itself was addressed to an architectural public. A member of this first public, Herman Hertzberger, pointed to the second – the client. Siza’s housing in The Hague was commissioned by a city council engaged in the urban renewal of a district in which 46% of the population originated from outside Europe (rising to 93% by 2016) [3]. Hertzberger objected to Siza’s spatialisation, within Dutch social housing, of traditions at odds with that nation state’s ambivalence towards cultural, religious and gender differences. He evoked a homogeneous welfare state coming to an end; Siza had been approached by a local council deliberately seeking out an architecture open to immigrants’ requirements. At stake within the conversation was the architect’s responsibility to these immigrants, the project’s instantiation of De Carlo’s third and most elusive public: buildings’ users. Often unknowable to the client, it is a public with whom, in ways that range from the sincere to the performative, architects occasionally overtly engage in discussions about architecture. However, it is simultaneously a public with whom, through their design of ordinary environments, architects habitually engage, in an indeterminate, intimate manner.

During his 2016 visit to Schilderswijk, Siza met its original residents, but also newcomers; people he could have encountered during his participative workshops, but also people unborn when he was designing the scheme. What compelled Grande and Cremascoli to organise these encounters? What relationship was explored in the ensuing photographs? In what way is Siza connected to the current inhabitants of his buildings, and they to him? Recent analysts of the architectural design process have resorted to the spectral when describing how architects imagine the future inhabitation of their buildings. Paul Emmons suggests that, through the act of drawing, architects project an ‘imaginal body’ or ‘skeleton self’ into the spaces they propose [4]. For Beatriz Colomina and Mark Wigley, architects’ assumptions that inhabitants will, in some measure, be formed through being in their spaces, necessarily reduces them to shadowy, ghostly figures; the inhabitants do not yet exist [5]. The Berlage conversation between Hertzberger and Siza indicated a shift in European architectural culture, away from the relative certainties of designing for the default subject of the modernist welfare state, towards the more onerous task of designing for a postmodern heterogeneous public. Celebrating the newly unknowable public emerging in the 1980s and 90s as differences in gender, class, culture, and race were increasingly acknowledged, Rosalyn Deutsche repurposed the idea of the ‘phantom public’ in her argument – validated in works such as Schilderswijk– that this unknowability was generative rather than problematic [6].

For the architectural public of a Biennale, some of the potency of the 2016 photographs rests, I think, in an intimation that they capture Siza encountering the everyday, corporeal manifestation of his phantom public. During an interview, Yüksel Karaçizmeli, a Turkish long-time resident of Siza’s Bonjour Tristesse housing in Berlin, asked Esra Akcan to thank the Portuguese architect for the design of her living room [7]. This would suggest that the Schilderswijk photographs might also record the inhabitants (similarly residents of authored architecture) meeting a person heretofore phantasmic in their lives. In my interpretation of them, the images of duffle-coated architect and tea-serving hosts (perhaps too cosily) register architecture as the site of a multi-layered human relationship between designer and inhabitant that persists across space, time and states of being.

Colomina and Wigley propose that design is a practice that seeks to negotiate ‘the indeterminacy of the human’ [8].With the advent of Artificial Intelligence (AI), it is becoming imperative that architects articulate the critical role of human agency and indeterminacy in design, and develop methodologies that demonstrate to themselves, clients, and the general public the discipline’s capacity to sensitively create social realms. These methodologies will presumably harness the capacities of AI (to, for instance, enable the observation of ‘agent populations’ navigating simulated buildings) [9]. But, drawing lessons from architecture’s recent history, the use of AI should be tempered by a scepticism towards any certitude latent in such methods. Projects such as Schilderswijk suggest that robust architecture emerges from design processes involving consideration of and openness to the mysterious lives of others. I believe that such architecture is founded upon a resolution to work, with and through uncertainties, towards the establishment of a human relationship with De Carlo’s utopian phantom public – all those people who use architecture.

Our current system of designing and making buildings has reached an unprecedented level of standardisation. Global networks of supply have dismantled historic approaches to making buildings, which were based on material availability, climate, and cultural practices. Throughout the world, architecture is now made from the same kit of parts, which is heavily reliant on four basic products: steel, concrete, glass, and plastic. Each contributes to the hyper-industrial world we inhabit, and together they represent what has been referred to as the Quadrivium Industrial Complex [1].

As industrialisation brought about the ubiquity of standardised materials at unprecedented speed and scale, regulatory frameworks [2] were designed around them, supported by aggressive lobbying and marketing campaigns [3]. Advertised as low-maintenance and technologically advanced, to mid-twentieth century Ireland these materials were symbols of a bright future in which cold, damp buildings subject to fire risk were things of the past [4].

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Today, both the process of specification and the materials from which we build have become so entrenched that it can be difficult for many to imagine an architecture situated outside of the standardised system. Testing, certification, mortgages, and insurance policies in Ireland and beyond are generally designed around these systems. Natural materials with proven efficacy over centuries of service are often dismissed by the building industry due to their inherent irregularity, which can make them resistant to automation, and difficult to produce at scale. They are too often considered risky and fringe – a costly, niche option.

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Architect and writer Keller Easterling has described the “single evil – single solution” outlook on architecture as “a fallacy, the truth is far worse” [5]. To make meaningful change in the construction industry, we need to accept that there is no simple solution to the problem of architecture, and that all construction practices cause harm, even if the full impact of a material’s extraction is not immediately visible. However, we instead continue to conduct the practice of architecture, or of architectural fabrication, as an exercise in problem-solving, to a series of standards established for predictable outcomes – a one-size-fits-all approach.

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We are at risk of losing sight of architecture as an important mode of cultural production and further consolidating the monopolies that exists within the construction and development sector. To deliver cost-effective architecture that is of a particular place requires a granular understanding of local biodiversity, ecosystems, cultural specificities, and situated knowledge systems.

Architectural discourse is gradually recognising the need for a new direction. With a growing consciousness of both the enormous scale of our environmental impact, and the almost prohibitive cost of development, as an industry we are beginning to question not what we will build, but how we will do so: focusing on architecture as more than function or aesthetic, but rather as networks of resources, people, and ecologies.

The Irish Concrete Federation is evidently threatened by this, having recently updated their age-old slogan to an almost insistent “Concrete Built IS Better Built”. And in the face of growing pressure for change, the construction industry is seeking a silver bullet to enable it to carry on as normal. Hans Joachim Schellnhuber [6] has declared mass timber to be just that, stating that if construction over the next couple of centuries substitutes business‑as‑usual materials such as steel and concrete for engineered timber, the atmosphere could return to pre‑industrial conditions. However, we at Superposition believe that this understanding of material resourcing is misguided. No material can be sustainable if it is applied at a scale that is unsustainable, and we cannot reach carbon neutral construction within the boundaries of the current system.

There is great urgency here. If we estimate that a typical construction cycle spans seven years, then we have just four remaining cycles before 2050 in which to radically transform our construction practices. This is crucial to meet the ambitious targets established by the Paris Accords and to avoid severe environmental consequences. Although modular construction is often presented as the solution to seemingly global building crises, increased modularity will only result in increased homogeneity and reduced biodiversity. It is therefore deeply necessary for architects to engage with localities in a more specific and materially focused way.

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While a shift to bio‑based materials is necessary, it is just as crucial to ask how these materials will be cultivated: where, on whose land, using what resources, and at what cost? While mass timber holds promise, there exists a cautionary tale around the pitfalls of monoculture plantation. In moving away from generalised solutions to the “problem of constructing architecture”, we must urgently work to establish a resilient and biodiverse construction industry, marked by concentrated pockets of knowledge that address conservation, sustainable cultivation practices, material usage, embodied knowledge, culture, and economy, and view each site’s distinct challenges as opportunities for innovative architectural solutions.

Superposition’s recent collaboration with Atelier LUMA, on the Unwanted/Overlooked Species Project [7], explored underutilised trees and plants native to the Camargue region of France, such as cypress and Aleppo pine, as well as invasive species such as the tree of heaven and cane de Provence. Our investigations focused on the highly resilient, heat-resistant Aleppo pine tree. Currently, due to the large number of branches and the conical shape of the trunk, over 80% of Aleppo pine trees harvested do not meet the current timber grading profile, and so fully virgin trees are burned for energy, or mulched.

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In collaboration with the regional timber council, Fibois Sud Provence Côte d’Azur, and a local sawmill, we explored how Aleppo pine could become a viable source of construction timber. Taking reference from historic boat construction, which sought out, and often cultivated particular grain direction in trees to generate desired forms that were stronger and easier to work with, we designed a joinery system that embraced the complex and unique grain patterns of these timbers. The result is an adaptable framing system composed of just two elements – a node and a strut – in varying configurations and lengths.

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Similarly, our project “An Experimental House” explores ideas for assembling and disassembling a structure with limited means within a particular context. The design is underpinned by digital design tools which allow for the rapid planning, transformation, and translation of the form. The first phase of the project was designed for easy assembly and disassembly within a gallery context. The second iteration of the structure elaborates and evolves the framework to explore ideas for grounding, sheltering, servicing, inhabiting, and maintaining, on the grounds of VISUAL Carlow.

Engaging with the material context within the region of a site, the project explores alternative uses for local, varied, and sustainable materials including native larch sections – a species compromised by climate change and the spread of disease – indigo, and beeswax from a local hive as a cladding material. These elements are held in place by the folded steel nodes which form the guiding logic for the arrangement of the structure. The structure utilises helical screw piles, and is designed to be disassembled, relocated, and inhabited upon completion of the exhibition.

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Other recent projects from small and emerging Irish practices such as Fuinneamh Workshop Architects’ “Den Talamh” [8] and RAT Office’s “An Bothán Cladach” [9] seek to emphasise the use of natural, found, and irregular materials that embody the craft histories and material cultures of their sites and engage with both the challenges and opportunities of material scarcity and limited budgets. Further afield, students led by Kate Davies and Emmanuel Vercruysse at Hooke Park, the Architectural Association’s forest campus, have been exploring the construction of post-tensioned space frame structures and walkways which utilise found and pruned beechwood branches. The structures incorporate 3d scanning, CNC, and robotics in their design and making and propose an argument for the value of using near or on-site materials in spite of their inherently diverse characteristics. Together, these projects can be read as an increasing response to, and an attempt to practice outside of, the monolithic industrial architectural complex and its underlying thesis that humanity’s spatial demands can only be met through ubiquity and standardisation.

We see the future of sustainable design not as an exercise in the replacement of existing global networks with “green alternatives”, but rather in highly location-specific micro practices which respond intelligently to varying site constraints and climactic conditions and are flexible enough to integrate a wide range of materials while empowering local actors. This approach to architecture may not be scalable in the traditional sense, but rather utilises a particular framework or way of thinking which can be applied to a broad range of projects and regions. With contemporary technological advances, highly responsive and specific approaches to construction are not only essential, but entirely possible.

“Every city can choose to make different decisions and can choose to transform itself. The first step involves a candid conversation about where it is, and where it will end up if it doesn’t change course” [1].

– Brent Toderian, former chief planning officer of Vancouver

The city of Dublin is a continuous work in progress with no end to its development, no finish line at which to turn back and reflect upon a job well done, or otherwise. Yet if, as architect and writer Peter Carl suggests, “the city grants the possibility of profound understanding of one’s collective place in reality” [2], then we must stop to consider how it is being developed. Dublin’s present headlong, blinkered development has allowed capitalism, rather than a cohesive and considered planning model, to deliver our built environment. This has resulted in unsatisfactory districts inhabited behind fences and high walls, hollowed by corporate interest and abandoned beyond business hours. The prioritisation of foreign direct investment continues to segment large swathes of the city into streets of inappropriate, single use, and careless capital-driven development creating monocultured city districts which continue to ignore the needs of the city’s primary stakeholders: its inhabitants.

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This reckless acquiescence to the whims of capitalism has left, in particular, our expanding North and South Docklands and their environs devoid of civic values and social inclusion, with privatised central courtyards in place of public realm. An ideological bridge is needed between the material world of investment-driven construction and the socio-cultural world of active public participation and daily inhabitation. We must consider what mechanisms of planning control could enable our city and its people to develop in concert, and what a reconfiguration of civic ideals could look like.

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In his 2015 essay Civic Depth [3], urban and architectural theorist Peter Carl explores an idealistic, rather than capital-driven, city model for a renewed civic-oriented public realm. Predating urbanist Carlos Moreno’s 15-minute city, and championing many of the same basic principles, Carl expresses the idea that, in order for a city to fulfil the needs of its residents and foster a sense of community or identity, its districts must be composed of a range of distinct civic and programmatic functions. From a spatial point of view, this mix of programme is necessary “in order to ensure the presence of people who go outdoors on different schedules and are in a place for different reasons, but who are able to use many facilities in common”. In this instance, Carl uses the word civic not to refer to a use case necessarily, but to something which “orientates architecture towards the shared conditions of urbanity or common ground”. Civic depth suggests a participatory character in shaping not just the physical realm but one’s rights to it. Not to be simply interchanged with public space, civic ground is based on inclusive collective civic values and shared usage of space accommodating the multiplicity of potential needs within a community. Opposing the generally limited city planning view of “public” and “private” as the only two modalities, Carl lays a spectrum upon the modes which comprise the city and “the public situations that penetrate the whole of urban life”, from domestic to the most civic ceremonial and ritualistic spaces of law courts, religious settings etc. Carl’s theory follows from the well-established convergence of urban theorists such as Jane Jacobs, Leon Krier, Kevin Lynch, and Christopher Alexander, all of whom championed the need for resilient urban quarters to be formed of what Jacobs referred to as “combinations or mixtures of uses, not separate uses, as the essential phenomena” [4], inclusive of diverse peoples and purposes.

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This spectrum is the basis of civic depth: a lived, diverse, and shared city for and by its people. The city cannot exist as wholly public or private, our urban fabric must accommodate all shades of the two. It is the presence, co-existence, and intermingling of this civic depth which creates the intangible draw of cities. An overlapping common space promotes interaction between people who differ in their political convictions, their social, cultural, and economic backgrounds.

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An example of civic depth successfully enacted is Parisian mayor Anne Hidalgo’s creation of some fifty “15-minute cities” throughout Paris’s arrondissements during her tenure as city mayor. Hidalgo has been working continuously with urbanist Carlos Moreno, whose hugely influential 2021 article Introducing the “15-Minute City”: Sustainability, Resilience and Place Identity in Future Post-Pandemic Cities describes the attributes of a 15-minute city [5]. A fundamental tenet of the 15-minute city is that most daily necessities and services, such as work, shopping, education, healthcare, and leisure should be easily accessible by a 15-minute walk, bike ride, or journey on public transport. This has been pursued in Paris through the implementation of policy at all levels. In a 2024 interview on the success of the Paris’s urban transformation, Moreno stated “I said to Hidalgo, the 15-minute city is not an urban traffic plan. The 15-minute city is a radical change of our life” [6]. From a transport perspective, through-traffic has been phased out of the city. Pedestrians and cyclists now have priority in the city centre, which has transformed once heavily trafficked areas such as those along the Seine and at Rue du Rivoli [7]. Commercially, a two-hundred-million-euro subsidiary has been established to manage retail areas, with rates set below those of the speculative real estate market. The subsidiary specifically rents to small independent shops, artisans, bakeries, and bookstores because these, Moreno states, create “a more vibrant neighbourhood” [8].

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While the many changes implemented in the course of Paris’s metamorphosis have not been without difficulty or controversy, it is an example of civic depth successfully enacted: a model for Dublin in policy and ideology. It offers a route to resisting senseless monocultured development and establishing diverse, historically significant, and socially inclusive urban districts. We can choose to provide a critically caring social, economic, and cultural urban realm.