Why architecture needs more jokes and less jargon

I was recently set a quest by the parish council in the village where my parents live. They are undertaking some restoration work on the village war memorial and were struggling to trace the architects — Troup, Steele & Scott. They had found some drawings in the parish records and wanted to know if I could help them trace the architect, any design work, and perhaps anyone who may own the copyright of the drawings.

I won’t go into the details of the digging around I have done, as it doesn’t make for entertaining reading, but suffice it to say it is not straightforward for the casual local historian to delve into the history of a particular architect, their process, or their practice. Perhaps this is correct — it’s the buildings that we leave behind; the drawings are just the process.

There is a public interest in the process and story of buildings, though. Think of the perennial interest in Grand Designs (now in its twenty-fourth series); the endless home makeover shows on daytime TV; or even the growing trickle of books on the process of building, such as the lovely Building St Paul’s. This will not be the first time I have written about how important I believe the communication of the process of building is, nor is it likely to be the last. Architects will be underappreciated for as long as what we spend our time doing is shrouded in jargon and encoded mystery.

I have been toying with the idea of testing this hypothesis of describing what it is exactly I do in a more public way, but the problem of colleague and client anonymity has always held me back. Amusing anecdotes or ‘lessons learned’ from the inevitable curveballs of the process could be read in the wrong light and lead to uncomfortable moments with people I hold in the highest regard. If only, though, there were an easy and respectful way to write more context around incidents such as accidentally trapping a conservation officer in a goods lift during a pre-app; or the circumstances that led a contractor to describe someone using the phrase, “the wheel may be turning, but the hamster is definitely dead.”

Everyone in the industry will have stacks of anecdotes such as these, which add humour and life to the complex, emotional, and occasionally laborious process of designing and building things. (Do feel free to elucidate in the comments!)

I wonder if a little more humour may open more doors than it closes

Perhaps this nervousness about painting people in an unkind light is the reason The Honeywood File is fiction. It is notable that, despite being a perennial recommendation of Part 3 examiners, this hilarious and accurate caricature of design and construction is now over a hundred years old and has yet to be attempted in a more modern setting.

It leads me to wonder if we’re missing a trick. There is a tendency within the profession to be rather serious about what we do, to add too much gravitas to the process, when actually some humour is needed. One of the things I am currently working on is the refurbishment of all the toilets in a Grade I listed concert hall. It’s a lot of toilets. My small team and I would have gone mad a long time ago without the ability to find humour in the long process of deciding whether or not cubicle doors remain original fabric, what the heritage value of built-in ashtrays is, or which sinks are displaying ‘crazing’.

The more unexpectedly humorous moments are also the stories that open the process to non-architect friends and have, much to my surprise, led to questions about the process of heritage refurbishment, and even to one on the regulations surrounding accessible toilet provision (I guarantee I am more fun at parties than this would suggest!). There is a latent curiosity outside of architectural circles that is squashed by a jargon-heavy, gravitas-laden description, which a confident and wry explanation might encourage. Anyone who has tried DIY knows the construction process is difficult — why do we feel the need to prove it? I have yet to meet anyone who believes I don’t take my job seriously because I can smile at it.

To illustrate, I return to the war memorial quest. Having grown up around it, I had always noticed that it looked a bit different from all the other village war memorials. However, my interest was finally piqued by the story that, for this memorial in a small Norfolk village, the local landowner’s wife (and secretary of the war memorial committee) thought that the most appropriate design was a replication of a market cross in a small town in the Cotswolds — but in local Norfolk materials. The local historian who wrote on this simply uses the phrase ‘she had a lot of influence,’ but I am certain that behind this slightly odd design lies a tale worthy of E. F. Benson or P. G. Wodehouse. I just haven’t yet delved long enough into historic records to unearth it!

As a gateway to complex or important subjects, wry humour is rarely beaten. I wonder if a little more humour may open more doors than it closes.