by Thompson E. Penney, FAIA

(Excerpted and adapted from President Penney's Inaugural remarks delivered December 6, 2002, in Washington, D.C.)

Every AIA member who occupies the office set aside for the president at the Institute headquarters brings something from home to personalize the space. If you stop by the president’s office this year, you’ll find photos of my family. You’ll also see a wonderful painting by the Charleston artist Betty Anglin Smith.

Over the years, Betty has become a friend. So last month, when I was selecting those things to bring to Washington that touch my heart and would remind me of home, I immediately thought of one of her marsh scenes of South Carolina. It would serve as a reminder of the view from my home that I would not be seeing much this year. But as I walked into her studio, I was immediately taken by the first painting I saw. It wasn’t a marsh scene, yet it struck me not only as a reminder of my home state, but as a metaphor. It was a painting of a barn.

The barn is a classic American icon of functional beauty. However, its beauty goes beyond its marvelous craftsmanship. The soul of its beauty dwells in how it was built: not by formal contracts and reams of paperwork, but, rather, by a community. A community that works together collaboratively, eyes fixed not on the inevitable flaws and imperfections along the way, but on the energy and sheer joy of moving forward together, shoulder to shoulder, urging one another on. The barn itself is merely a sign, or the evidence of the human miracle that has taken place.

I’ve come to believe that the great work of design is not the solitary pursuit of novelty. The great work of design is its creative engagement with human needs. It’s a job you can’t do well unless you have empathy, unless you can put yourself in someone else’s shoes, listening patiently and carefully and humbly to their hopes, their aspirations, their dreams. You have to care about people, care deeply. You have to believe people matter.

That means caring for the children and the teachers in the classrooms you design; caring for the elderly and sick in our hospitals and nursing homes; caring for the janitors, the plumbers, and window washers who maintain the physical fabric.

Connecting design and value
Architects have an opportunity––unique in my professional life––to make the connection in the public’s mind between their growing hunger for value and what we architects actually do. We have an opportunity not only to celebrate the poetry of our work—in other words, what elevates the human spirit—we also have an opportunity and, I would say, the responsibility to offer proof about how design enriches human life.

The sharing of knowledge about the consequences of our work is called “predictive knowledge.” With such knowledge we could predict the effects and demonstrate the value of our decisions. Predictive knowledge would give us the indispensable tool for designing education into our schools, curing into our hospitals, and dignity into our low-income housing.

We all know in our hearts that making a difference is what gives design its value. Yet the resources we have to measure objectively the impact of architecture are few and crude. So it’s not at all surprising that when we talk with the public and our clients, we architects are used to discussing our work in terms of what the eye sees.

I believe we impoverish our conversation when we position ourselves primarily as form givers. Until there is a broad understanding of how design works and what it does—how it affects learning, productivity, and health, and fosters innovation and civic engagement, to name a few—neither the public nor our clients will truly appreciate the value of design and our special role in the design process.

Wanted: A culture of sharing
Being a knowledge-driven profession will not, however, be enough. To pursue the “proof” of design, we must become a profession distinguished by a culture of sharing. Many of us developed in school and perfected in our practices a mentality of drawing with one hand and using the other to hide the work from our colleagues. It’s time to stop holding our professional cards close to our chest. A profession is not a jungle, it’s a community.

Nearly 150 years ago, a group of visionary architects freed themselves and our profession from the tyranny of “every man for himself.” They turned their backs on the jungle that characterized contemporary practice. Instead, they pooled their resources. They pledged to work for the common good, convinced that a rising professional tide would lift the fortunes of every individual member of their community.

The great idea that became The American Institute of Architects was forged in the face of incredible economic, political, and professional adversity. Just imagine what we, their heirs, can accomplish now!

We know there is much work before us to meet society’s yearning for integrity, trust, and value. The greater prize for us and our clients will not be the objects of our hands. It will be the vital community that is the AIA, a community of lives intertwined, lives enriched, lives made more hopeful by pursuing together the poetry and proof of design.

Copyright 2003 The American Institute of Architects. All rights reserved.