What if architecture was reimagined for a new economic reality?
Shifting the field of architecture and building into the Doughnut
This blog is part of the Reimagining Economics Possibilities series. This series accompanies the Neighbourhood Doughnut portfolio of work in which CIVIC SQUARE, along with many neighbours, researchers, partners and visionaries have, since 2019, been exploring large and small scale ways to reimagine economic possibilities.
The series brings together 15 commissioned works by visionaries who are reimagining economic possibility from a number of different angles. We are deeply passionate about Doughnut Economics and recognise the wealth of possibilities it unlocks, as well as its limitations. As Kate Raworth has said, quoting British statistician George E. P. Box, “all frameworks are wrong, but some are useful.” Therefore, we want to be able to stretch as far and wide as the Doughnut Economics Action Lab invites us to, seeing it as a platform to organise, whilst also encompassing a plurality of bold visions.
In this piece SCOTT MCAULAY, founder of the Anthropocene Architecture School, asks why it is that architecture and building have been so slow to respond to the climate crisis, and explores what it would take to shift the field into the Doughnut.
“Architecture, spatial design, and the stewardship of built spaces plays a fundamental role in shaping a neighbourhood’s health and well-being.”
Building is alchemy: reimagining and reconstituting, reusing, and rearranging raw materials taken from our Earth, and using available energy to do so, for a purpose. Architecture can be imagined as using design to weave accumulated experiences, knowledges, and/or wisdoms into that alchemy, and using illustration to guide it towards the desired outcomes. But what could be made possible, should the practice of architecture — a practice traditionally complicit in, and reliant upon, extractive systems and linear economic models — be reimagined for a new economic reality?
What and who (can) shape buildings?
In their essay, Waste of Space, Caroline O’Donnell and Dillon Pranger hypothesise that architects — and therefore all spatial designers by extension — have the ability to “affect, through the legibility of our work, the behaviours and the policies that shape our futures.” In saying this, they are emphasising that the places we build are not only the backdrop to our lives — inside being where many people spend 80–90% of their lives in America and Europe — but these spaces are also a key determinant of the possible lives we can live, the impact those lives have environmentally and even of how long our lives are.
Today, 40% of any nation’s healthcare costs are attributable to its buildings. This means that architecture, spatial design, and the stewardship of built spaces plays a fundamental role in shaping a neighbourhood’s health and well-being. In embracing O’Donnell and Pranger’s vision, the thoughtful practice of architecture and the design of space taps into an abundance of opportunities that could make it significantly easier to live more sustainably — even support regenerative lifestyles; bolstering our well-being and supporting ecosystem recovery.
“Before design can begin or is even on the table, buildings, cities, and spaces are shaped by an ecology of dark matter.”
Coincidentally, such thinking collides with and undermines an age-old adage, often rolled out in architectural discussions. That, a conveniently ambiguous, ‘WE’ shape our buildings, and they go on to shape us. Whilst recognising the prefigurative power of what we build, this saying is both an oversimplification of a complex reality and subtle pacification: the truth being far less democratic.
Before design can begin or is even on the table, buildings, cities, and spaces are shaped by an ecology of dark matter. They are shaped by building regulations and government policies, devised by those with access to power; by economic interests — from profit to speculation; by ownership — of land and other buildings; and by power itself, and the worldview of those wielding it. Furthermore, buildings are also shaped by a place’s existing physical infrastructure, which they then exert influence over into the future — such as roads, (a lack of) public transportation and energy systems. So, the “we” in that maxim is by no means representative of our communities, and there is far more at play than creative licence.
Unfortunately, the dark matter that does shape buildings today rarely, if ever truly, has the thriving, or even the comfortable survival of life, landscapes, or communities at its heart. Rather than enabling the act of building to be used as a means of realising multiple facets of climate, health, intergenerational or spatial justice, it actively inhibits such efforts. The unsettling reality is that, until the thriving of life within planetary boundaries takes precedence over profit, construction shall continue to do damage to life and landscapes by default.
“As you read this, buildings are being completed, and projects are still being conceived, designed, and developed that will require retrofitting within decades.”
Locating architecture within a landscape of crises
As you read this, our Earth, our warming world, descends deeper into a mass extinction and is being driven towards numerous irreversible climate tipping points. Neither this trajectory nor its velocity was ever inevitable.
The roots of this ecological crisis lie in colonialism, extractivism, and imperialism, intensified by the burning of fossil fuels. Uncomfortably, many “solutions” presented today stem from similar worldviews, influenced by just as deeply-rooted mythologies of our separation from nature (Wahl, 2016) and of technology (Watson, 2020). In her essay Buildings Designed for Life — part of the All We Can Save anthology, Amanda Sturgeon notes that buildings “embody our perception of nature as other — something to destroy or “dominate”, and this worldview has catastrophic consequences. What is certain, is that change beyond our dreams and nightmares shall take place within our lifetimes, and many of us are yet to be afforded sufficient time to reconcile with this future, let alone to prepare for it.
2018’s Special Report on 1.5°C of Global Warming (IPCC, 2018), stipulated that for the Earth to remain on a pathway below 1.5°C, by 2020 all new buildings should have been “fossil-free” and “near-zero energy”. Achieving this required nothing less than a paradigm shift in architecture and construction — but it was achievable. In 2022, no government has adjusted their building regulations to align with that baseline despite the construction’s immense impacts on climate change being well-known and understood.
“Reimagining and retrofitting our neighbourhoods to thrive in that sweet spot between the Social Foundation and the Ecological Ceiling is not just one of the biggest challenges of our time but, once unlocked, represents one of the greatest opportunities within our reach.”
This means that as you read this, buildings are being completed, and projects are still being conceived, designed, and developed that will require retrofitting within decades. They will not be energy efficient enough to comply with Net Zero targets, they will not soften the impacts of rising energy bills and they will not be prepared for what the climate emergency is set to throw at them — if this has not already begun. Yet, there is little to no outrage, even less resistance, and this receives little attention beyond construction spheres.
The elephant that built the room
In terms of contributions to climate and ecological breakdown, construction and the operation of buildings represent an almost unparalleled impact. They drive ravenous resource extraction — often happening in frontline communities; they emit more carbon than agriculture, aviation, and transportation individually; they rewrite entire landscapes, and extinguish ecosystems. Yet, buildings continue to be, very legally, built to standards below the IPCC’s baseline. When the dark matter takes the shape that it does today, the design process of every building that has surpassed building codes, and every example of sustainable architecture that you can name, involves a significant struggle to push beyond business as usual.
Leading you through today’s architectural context (as objectively as one can whilst holding the heart-breaking knowledge of the landscape’s contours) is not to discourage nor disempower but to set our scene. Reimagining and retrofitting our neighbourhoods to thrive in that sweet spot between the Social Foundation and the Ecological Ceiling is not just one of the biggest challenges of our time but, once unlocked, represents one of the greatest opportunities within our reach.
“Buildings and construction hold an abundance of opportunities and climate solutions to realise a Just Transition at the civilisational scale.”
Despite its almost unparalleled impact on the Earth, buildings and construction hold an abundance of opportunities and climate solutions to realise a Just Transition at the civilisational scale. Sadly, despite decades of labours of love and tenacity, and stories of hundreds — if not thousands — of incredible examples, this remains a rare focus in climate movements and spaces. Nevertheless, today we work to change that.
Welcome to the Anthropocene: developing the Anthropocene Architecture School
“Architectural education…has largely failed to capture, let alone harness, the imagination in the researching and teaching of environmental design. And yet how can this subject matter not be compelling?”- Professor Susannah Hagan
The roots of the Anthropocene Architecture School lie in my compassion, disbelief, and outrage. I began the second half of my final year of architectural education in the wake of 2018’s IPCC Report and watched in horror as nothing changed. Construction — that shamelessly wears its “40% industry” badge (due to its colossal socio-ecological impacts), my education, along with most of those in architectural spaces, carried on as before: as if we cannot do anything about the climate crisis and as if climate breakdown was not intensifying. Despite climate scientists giving deadlines for emissions reductions and recommendations on how to get there, despite decades of warnings, and despite such revolutionary things being possible in construction today, we were not being taught about them or invited even to imagine an alternative.
Serendipitously, at this time, I found community and encouragement in local climate justice campaigning, and this counterbalanced some of the cognitive dissonances in architecture and construction. Many people in these spaces, in Extinction Rebellion Glasgow in particular, encouraged me as the project developed from an idea into an occupier of space and this gave me the confidence to push back against narratives of an education system, industry and profession still overwhelmingly in denial about the magnitude of the climate crisis.
What began as a one-off provocation and protest during 2019’s Architecture Fringe soon found itself rapidly evolving into a catalyst for climate emergency education across the UK and beyond. Before its launch, I introduced the project to the world through the founding of an online resource “library” — using an Instagram page for accessibility, and afterwards by taking opportunities to run public-facing workshops at Extinction Rebellion Scotland’s Edinburgh Fringe Residency and its Rebel Rising Festival in Aberdeen. Following these, the AAS hosted the Crisis Studio series across Glasgow and Edinburgh — where architecture’s taboo around not knowing things was unlearnt, and each student’s project became an armature for learning about sustainable design with the support of teams of tutors with substantial experience in it.
During the first wave of Covid-19 lockdowns, I began being invited to remotely guest lecture for newly-launched student climate action groups alongside the Architects Climate Action Network (ACAN) and for — more traditional — schools of architecture internationally, and received invitations to speak to industry audiences and teach architecture firms across the U.K. Despite receiving little support and being sustained by my own energies, the project somehow struck a chord and began to be regarded as something akin to an authoritative voice on architectural education, speaking with, what was once beautifully described by the Building Sustainability Podcast host, Jeffrey Hart, as a “rebellious voice of common sense”.
Over time, the ways in which I teach developed, fusing four principles, complementary concepts, and practices, which resonated with audiences, learners, and workshop participants alike. These built upon a foundation of my own background in learning about sustainable architecture outwith the traditional university — on ecological building sites, and my experience in sustainable practice, alongside facilitation styles and practices of regenerative cultures in activist spaces. These principles are Climate Literacy, Making Time, Agency and Entanglement, and the Radical Imagination: each one alone is transformational when applied to architecture, but when taken together, they ground architectural practice and study in today’s reality and in possible futures — other worlds beyond what we consider architecture, and politically possible, today.
“Ensuring that those working in the design and construction of our buildings and the retrofit of our neighbourhoods understand climate literacy and integrate it into their work, is critical to support shifting local economies into the Doughnut.”
Climate Literacy
“Climate literacy is the contextual, pragmatic understanding of the implications of climate breakdown upon any given activity, its own contributions towards those implications, and recognition of where it has the potential to positively respond.” — Martin Brown and Scott McAulay
Setting today’s scene and grounding architecture in the reality of a climate and ecological emergency is the first step towards new architectural futures. Whilst vital that future spatial practitioners are taught that we possess sufficient technology to build new buildings sustainably, right now, it is just as imperative that they understand that 80% of the buildings we will use in 2050 already exist today and that the adaptation, retrofit and stewardship of what already exists is a bigger, more complex challenge.
In the construction industry today, the retrofit challenge is looked at as a technical problem to be solved — perhaps with innovation, when, this is not new ground. As Retrofit Reimagined distilled so powerfully, is that the challenge is as social as it is technical. We do not yet have the physical infrastructure in place to retrofit millions of homes at speed — we have yet to train a workforce of sufficient size, and the supply chains literally do not exist at this scale — but we also have yet to cultivate the social infrastructure to begin doing this in localised, democratic ways. If we are to realise a Just Transition away from fossil fuel dependency, these infrastructures both require care and attention.
“Climate literacy cannot be passive: it must be part of empowering those involved, not just with knowledge, but with stories of the possible.”
Climate literacy is not unique to architecture: climate change intersects with and influences every subject and topic taught today. Ensuring that those working in the design and construction of our buildings and the retrofit of our neighbourhoods understand this and integrate it into their work, is critical to support shifting local economies into the Doughnut. Marcus Ford hammers the point home hard in his essay, Rethinking the Modern University: “so long as we educate young people into modern ways of thinking, we will continue to perpetuate the very civilization that is destroying the planet.”
80–90% of carbon consequences of buildings are locked in early in the design process and if we are to realise our new economic visions, we need business as usual to be challenged, intercepted and — when necessary — (physically) resisted every step of the way. That means climate literacy cannot be passive: it must be part of empowering those involved, not just with knowledge, but with stories of the possible, the mechanics behind it and a belief in their own agency.
Agency and Entanglements
“It just so happens that we are all alive at the last possible moment when changing course can mean saving lives — on a truly, unimaginable scale” — Naomi Klein
As laid out powerfully by the Architects Declare Practice Guide, the average medium-sized construction project has an embodied carbon impact 196 times that of the average U.K. citizen’s annual carbon footprint. Meaning, that on an average day, architects and spatial designers can have a significantly bigger impact on reducing carbon emissions during their working day than outwith.
Every single one of us has so much more power than we are taught or told. Realising alternative architectural futures and new economic visions requires the embrace, and celebration, of personal and collective agency: education can be a place to cultivate both.
“Data and statistics have yet to motivate policymakers to take rational action proportional to the threat of climate change, and how we teach must respond to this.”
I brought this into my work through a workshop called Reimagining Futures: Activism, Agency, and Provocation, which I ran for students at Manchester School of Architecture’s Some Kind of Nature studio. A fused lecture and seminar session set our scene: exploring the climate crisis, occasions when cities had been shaped through collective action, and moments for intervention, broken up for moments for open discussion. After follow-up seminars. The team presentation for their concluding symposium and the contribution to the Studio Atlas was beyond what I could have hoped for. Without agency, learners wait for opportunities to apply knowledge: today, we do not have that time.
Reading Anthea Lawson’s The Entangled Activist: Learning to Recognise the Master’s Tools led to realisations that influenced my practice immediately. Teaching students where architecture and construction intersect with the climate crisis is crucial but unless cultivated in parallel with an awareness of the overlapping social, economic, and political systems within which architects work, how these influence and shape buildings, how systems of oppression manifest, and consciously break these cycles, there will be little possibility of them implementing that knowledge.
“The climate crisis is a complex, emotionally heavy subject matter… we are rarely afforded moments to discuss such feelings in academic, educational, or professional settings.”
Data and statistics have yet to motivate policymakers to take rational action proportional to the threat of climate change, and how we teach must respond to this. Otherwise, we sow seeds for disappointment and ineffective communication strategies relying purely on numbers. Starting this work requires space for articulation, and for reflection, and this requires time.
Making Time
“It’s finally happening. We’re talking about climate change. It’s messy, but it’s happening. To be honest, we don’t really have the language, and that’s largely because we don’t know how to feel about it.” — Mary Annaïse Heglar
The climate crisis is a complex, emotionally heavy subject matter. That said, we are rarely afforded moments to discuss such feelings in academic, educational, or professional settings. My own experiences in activist spaces — of expressing anxieties for the future and grief, of witnessing moments of catharsis, growth, and power in others — many having not been able to before, contrasted with this, inspiring me to explore fusing this emotional aspect of climate literacy into my practice.
When speaking to an audience of around 100 landscape architects in early 2020, I tested this out: using some of my time for audience participation. Asking how many people had spoken about how they felt about climate change in a public space led to the slow raising of six hands — next, I invited them to share how they feel about the climate crisis with their neighbour(s). What began as a murmur and a few awkward laughs soon reached a fever pitch and recalling the room to finish the talk took a few attempts but it confirmed the hypotheses: we — especially those working in construction — need more time to engage with, and to work through, climate emotions, and education, in particular, offers a place to begin normalising this.
“The concept of the radical imagination is what breathes new life into my practice each time a bout of apocalypse fatigue forces me to question it.”
Education can also, and must, become a place to make time to do the uncomfortable work of unravelling our entanglements. If we are to realise new economic visions, education must also become a place to collectively imagine that future otherwise, beyond the political inertia, greenwashed rhetoric, and disaster capitalism we are witnessing today.
The Radical Imagination
“One of the fundamental challenges…is that we need to be able to imagine possible, feasible, delightful versions of the future before we can create them. Not utopias, but where things turned out okay.” — Rob Hopkins (2019)
The concept of the radical imagination is what breathes new life into my practice each time a bout of apocalypse fatigue forces me to question it. In his book Crises of Imagination, Crises of Power, researcher Max Haiven argues that not only is the imagination “a shared landscape or commons of possibility” but that the practice of the radical imagination “ is a matter of acting otherwise together”. Fighting for climate solutions is critical work — as much at the neighbourhood scale as the national, but how often do we carve out the time to imagine what that future could look like as part of our learning?
In architecture, the capability to realise healthy, low-carbon, and enchanting buildings in ways that allow communities to live lightly on the Earth, and to retrofit homes to incredible levels of comfort and energy efficiency — with almost non-existent heating bills — already exists. These are not utopian concepts: they are feasible, technologically possible realities within our reach, today. The barriers between us and them were imagined by people, so can be dismantled by people.
Often, my practice involves creating moments to imagine the kinds of futures these architectural capabilities offer us, to then put it into words and say it out loud — offering a taste of the future in the present. This manifests as an invitation — inspired by the visioning exercise from Rob Hopkin’s podcast From What If to What Next — to imagine how these architectural possibilities, and other climate solutions, would influence your daily life and to share it with another. Time to exercise the imagination like this is rare in education — just as much so in architecture schools as elsewhere — and cannot remain so. Having watched such exercises unfold and the energy in a space it creates, and from hearing participants’ thoughts, the sooner such a concept is embraced, the more revolutionary and delightful the architectural visions we shall see.
Architectural Futures
“The function of art is to do more than tell it like it is — it’s to imagine what is possible.” — Bell Hooks
Over the years, it has become clear that the place of the Anthropocene Architecture School — within the wider ecology of architecture, construction, and education — is not to teach the intricacies of realising carbon-neutral architecture. Initially, it was to provoke and to sound the alarm, and to some extent, it did — garnering far more intrigue and press attention than expected. Today, its purpose is to create moments to cultivate climate literacies — especially in (future) architects and the construction industry; to practice the radical imagination together — visualising technologically possible neighbourhoods within our grasp; and to champion personal and collective agency, inviting audiences to exercise their power to realise visions of more compassionate, ecologically-balanced worlds.
Realising such worlds requires “acting otherwise together” to build social infrastructures as much as it requires designers, builders, and low-carbon technologies for its physical infrastructure. Reimagining the dark matter that shapes our buildings is one key step to realising, and unlocking new economic visions, and one that could prove revolutionary. Beyond stewardship, that is the role of architecture, its practitioners, and its education system in the 21st century: to make such architectural futures, such economic visions, and such revolutions, irresistible, and whenever possible, to make them experiential in the now.
Reimagining Economics Possibilities also builds upon CIVIC SQUARE’s Department of Dreams portfolio of work, a site to imagine bold new futures that weave together the dreams of many.
Whilst understanding, investing, and unpacking the dark matter of large scale system change, we have learned quite deeply through the practice, inspirational movements, and from imagineers and pioneers that came before us that we must also invest in the dream matter — the artists, writers, designers, dreamers and creative visionaries — those who dare to dream up bold new futures for humanity, and have the capacity to stretch our imaginations further than we ever thought possible.
Thinkers, doers and makers dreaming beyond our existing systems have played, are playing and will continue to play a central role in crafting collective visions that transcend our current reality, and radically illuminate the responsibilities we hold to future generations. This is particularly driven by practices of imagination and identity, and, when woven together with dark matter findings and interventions, has the power to create a supernovae of transformation; the thinking, relating and behaving differently required to usher in a new reality that becomes irresistible, that we can all build and craft together.
Find out more by exploring the following materials from Department of Dreams 2020–2021:
Initial Dept of Dreams Blog — May 2020
Watch Back Re_ Fest Talks — June 2020
Dream Library Launch — November 2021
The Matter of Dreams: 2020–2021 — December 2021
