Adverse Conditions

Having grown up in New Mexico, I'm more than familiar with chiles (not the Texan stew, but the pepper, so yes, that is how it's spelled). The state question is, "red or green?", which refers to Green Chile and Red Chile, between which debates still rage. New Mexico's harsh desert is the ideal place to grow chiles, and this always puzzled me. Chiles, like many fruits and vegetables grow better in more intense climates. With little water and far too much sun, they are forced to pack more capsaicin, the chemical which gives chiles their heat, into each of their limited cells.

Even in the harshest of conditions, life thrives. At the bottom of the ocean, hydrothermal vents spew molten hot carbon dioxide, boiling the water around them. But even in a place where temperatures reach 750 degrees Fahrenheit and the sun is completely blocked out by the miles of water above, life has found away. Massive colonies of tube worms and gastropods thrive, brushing the super-heated water off like it's nothing. The sea around the vents are full of beautiful creatures. It's just another example of how life often functions best in adverse conditions.
Though you won't find skyscrapers at the bottom of the ocean (unless you're from Atlantis, which by the way is totally real), architects have been forced to deal with some adverse conditions as well. And like in nature, such challenges provide for even more beautiful buildings.

Take Las Lajas Sanctuary in Columbia for example. It's hard to imagine a more difficult place to build a massive church, especially in 1916 when construction technology wasn't much more than men laying bricks. But still, architecture persevered and we are left with one of the most beautiful (in my opinion) churches in the world.

Adverse conditions don't necessarily have to come from the natural environment. Entire cities have felt squeezed and constricted by their man-made surroundings. Manhattan, after running out of room to build outwards, turned to the skies. While many would have given up and moved to one of the lesser boroughs (insulting but true), architects once again persevered, and the small island is now one of, if not the greatest cities in the world.

Paris felt a similar pressure, but its growth was constrained not by an island, but by man-made walls. Centuries ago, the city was surrounded by a massive defense wall. Not wanting to be left outside of the security of the ramparts, Parisians, like New Yorkers, built upwards. Even the traditional eight story apartments for a time towered over neighboring villages and other large European cities. With all of those people crammed into a small space, the city became architectural espresso, an ultra-concentrated blast of style and function.

But if Paris is espresso, then suburban America is a decaf iced coffee that's been sitting in the sun for too long. New Mexico's vast desert, where I grew up, can produce powerfully concentrated chiles, but it's architecture has turned into a watery sludge. The problem is, we have space. Lots of space. Albuquerque is the same size as Paris, but has one thirtieth the population. American claustrophobia has spread the country's cities out exponentially. What we're left with is a bland, flat landscape that presents no challenge to architects, and it's for this reason that you won't find any great buildings in the suburbs. There's simply no reason to try. Like cows in a field, we grow bloated for lack of competition. With no incentive to innovate, American cities have become the opposite of the chiles they consume, bland and bloated.

So, if you're looking to build a beautiful city, try the Grand Canyon or Mount Ranier. Architects, like those that built the great cities of the world, will be forced to design better buildings. Like your parents always told you, hard work builds character.