The Delftsch Bouwkundig Studenten Gezelschap Stylos was founded in 1894 to look after the study and student interests at the Faculty of Architecture and the Built Environment at the Delft University of Technology.
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EDITORIAL
BY VERA LENSVELT
My father always believed I would become a writer. As a child, I spent hours writing: diaries, short stories, and lists without a clear destination. He saw me with a pen in hand and envisioned a future shaped by words. Yet, I took a di erent path — one of drawing and visual expression. Through sketches, paintings, and plans, I discovered a language beyond words. At the faculty, I am now learning to master this language: the silent language of architecture.
Language is all around us. It is spoken in hundreds of forms, written in letters and symbols, scratched onto walls and doors, whispered in conversations and shouted from signs. Language connects us and allows us to understand one another, and at times, not understand each other at all. But is language only made of words and signs? Or is spoken language just one of the in nite ways in which we communicate, between people, animals, and perhaps even forms?
At the Faculty of Architecture, we seem to work less with words. We are trained to think in images, to communicate through drawings, diagrams, and models. Text is often something that follows, a short annotation on a poster or a caption beneath a plan. This suggests we speak a di erent kind of language, one without words or letters. But what are these unspoken languages, and how do they assign meaning to space, to materials and to form? Perhaps they live in the rhythm of windows. Perhaps they speak through an algorithm taking shape. Or perhaps they are languages that allow spaces to speak to you and to move you, without your knowing exactly why.
This edition of pantheon// is a search for such languages. Not only those of voice or pen, but also of the mind, the body, and the built. Sometimes direct, sometimes layered. We invite you to read, to look, and to listen, and perhaps recognise something of your own language within it. //
2024/2025
DIEDRIK OOMS CHAIR
EMMA BARENDREGT SECRETARY
VERA LENSVELT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
PHOENIX DE GEUS LAYOUT DIRECTOR
RUTH DANIEL WRITING DIRECTOR
LUKE DE BRUIN EDITOR
LEX BEUMER EDITOR
LIZETTE WENTZEL QQ
BAS PLAISIER QQ
de Zeeuw Chair of Board 131 of D.B.S.G.
Languageisaconceptthatsurroundsusat all times. Whether through speech, posture, or even the subtle nuances of facial expressions, it is ever-present in our daily lives. Language is not merely a means of communication; it has the power to connect people, but also, at times, to create distance.Itisbothabridgeandaboundary,dependingonhowitisused.
At its core, language exists to enable communication—be it verbal or non-verbal. On our faculty, this concept is represented in many forms. Not only in thespokenword,butalsointhevisualandabstractrepresentations that permeate our academic environment. AsIwas ippingthroughpastissuesofpantheon//,Inoticedthattheterm“Language”oftenappearsinamore abstract sense, especially when considering the Built Environment.Itmademethink:whatifbuildingsthemselves could be seen as people, with their own forms of communication? What if the way they stand, their design, and the very space they occupy could be seen astheirlanguage?Thearchitectureofoursurroundings communicates in its own way, just as our posture and expressionsdo. This realization led me to understand that everything in the built environment is interconnected. It “speaks” to us in its own unique way, yet it all comes together in harmony—creating a spatial and visual balance, even though each “language” is di erent. This subtle, but powerful interaction is something we can’t overlook. At Stylos, we too engage with the concept of language in various forms. While English and Dutch are the primary languages we use, our goal is to activelyinvolveeveryoneinourfaculty,regardlessoftheir background or native language. For us, language is never a divisive tool; it is, instead, a means to enrich our understandingando ernewperspectivesontheworld around us.Woulditnotbeeasierifweallspokethesame language? While this might simplify communication, it would, at the same time, rob us of the richness and beauty of the diverse languages we have. After all, it is thevarietyoflanguages,withtheirownuniquecharacteristics, that makes our world so wonderfully dynamic andinteresting. So, the next time you nd yourself on a train and overhear a language unfamiliar to you, take a moment to re ect on this. Appreciate how language, in all itsforms,isaconnectiveforceinourlives.Itisabeautiful reminderthatweareallunique,andthateveryindividual brings something special to the table with their own “language.”I hope you enjoy the rest of this edition of pantheon//,andIwishyouallawonderfulsummerand continued success in your academic endeavors. I look forwardtoseeingyousoonatourbeautifulfaculty!//
Björn
Stylos
esign is never neutral. Every ledge, bench, doorway or public space carries an intention. Sometimes, design invites, other times it rejects. The latter is often categorised as hostile design: a silent yet forceful presence shaping our interactions with the world. It pushes certain people out while ensuring comfort for others. In doing so, it becomes a tool of di erentiation.
Most commonly found in cities, hostile design manifests in spikes on ledges, benches designed to
prevent lying down, and barriers meant to deter loitering. However, its reach has now extended into digital environments, imposing subtle exclusions. CAPTCHA tests that unintentionally lter out the slow or imprecise, or website layouts that strain the eyes and discourage engagement. Even elements like background music in shops or limited availability of public toilets serve as tools of control, in uencing behaviour in ways we rarely notice.
These examples rarely announce themselves as gatekeepers. Instead, they operate quietly, reinforcing invisible barriers. The ethics of such design remain complex. While certain measures, such as anti-homeless architecture, disproportionately impact marginalised groups, not all forms of exclusion are inherently harmful. Some look deeper and nd creativity in restriction. Skaters, for example, have turned hostile structures into challenges, repurposing barriers into arenas for movement. Similarly, brutalist architecture, often criticised for its harsh aesthetics, has also been embraced by some as striking and expressive.
This illustrates that hostile design can lead to unexpected positive uses, though in some cases, the positive outcome is intentional. One striking example comes from Sandia National Laboratories in 1993, when researchers sought ways to warn future generations about irradiated sites. Faced with the challenge of communicating danger across millennia, they explored extreme forms of hostile design: landscapes intentionally made unwelcoming. Concepts included jagged, thorn-like protrusions, massive foreboding obelisks, and vast, desolate spaces meant to evoke unease. This approach turned exclusion into a necessary safeguard, using design not to alienate certain groups, but to deter all who might unknowingly put themselves at risk.
What makes hostile design fascinating is not its cruelty, but instances where it is replaced by positive outcomes. A city may not openly reveal its true intentions, but its design tells the full story. Exclusion through design is not merely problematic; it is also a form of expression, revealing a language that explores the embedded messages in spaces we navigate every day. //
SOURCES
• Trauth, K. M., Jr., Hera, S. C., & Guzowsti, R. V. (1993). Expert Judgment on Markers to Deter Inadvertent Human Intrusion into the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant. SANDIA REPORT (No. SAND92-1382 UC-721). Sandia National Laboratories.
• WIPP (2018). Message to 12,000 A.D. https://wipp.info/.
IMAGE
• WIPP (2018). Message to 12,000 A.D. wipp.info/. [Edited].
THE WORLD BEHIND THE BLUEPRINT
This story follows Rogier Mentink, an architect at KuiperCompagnons, as he navigates a typical workday. From meeting with clients to creating visualizations and tackling unexpected, this text o ers a realistic glimpse into the architectural profession. What does it mean to be not just creative, but also strategic and e cient? How do you balance idealistic visions with practical constraints? And what makes this profession truly rewarding? Step into the world behind the blueprint and discover how an architect brings ideas from sketches to reality.
The sun had only just risen when he closed the door behind him. A new day began, lled with meetings, drawings, and ideas. As an architect at KuiperCompagnons, Rogier Mentink never knew exactly how his day would unfold, but that was precisely what made the work so exciting. Today, he started in Ridderkerk, where a meeting with the housing corporation was on the agenda. The topic: a exible housing project that combined modular and temporary housing. After Rogier had left the meeting room, he made a quick stop at the construction site to take photos. It had become a habit—taking in the location, feeling the proportions, and sensing the atmosphere. Observing the surroundings, he thought about how the design would integrate into the existing urban fabric and how the residents would interact with the spaces being created.
As Rogier drove to his next appointment, he re ected on the beginning of his career. He had started as an assistant designer, spending his days colouring oor plans and making initial sketches. Slowly but surely, he progressed, working closely with the management and taking on increasingly larger projects. Now, years later, he was involved in projects ranging from smallscale housing developments in the Netherlands to massive urban residences in China. The contrast between these scales was signi cant, but it was precisely what kept the work exciting. He found joy in switching between projects of di erent magnitudes, adapting to varying design challenges, and collaborating with diverse teams. Each project had its unique narrative, and his role was to translate those ideas into tangible and functional spaces.
One key factor in his growth had been communication. Architecture is not just about designing structures; it is about translating ideas into something tangible, and that requires clear and e ective communication. Whether working with clients, engineers, or city planners, Rogier had learnt that language plays a crucial role in architecture—not only spoken language but also the language of design. Each line on a blueprint conveys intent, each 3D model tells a story, and each presentation is an opportunity to persuade, explain, and re ne.
Beyond technical communication, architecture also required the ability to translate complex concepts into accessible narratives. Often, clients were not well-versed in architectural jargon, and it was Rogier’s responsibility to ensure they understood the rationale behind design choices. He relied on metaphors, storytelling, and visual aids to bridge the gap. “A
good design isn’t just about aesthetics; it needs to tell a story and communicate clearly with everyone involved—from the client to the builders and future residents,” he often said.
Once back at the o ce, another challenge awaited: a residential tower project in Rijswijk. Together with his colleagues, Rogier worked on a presentation for the architectural review board. Meanwhile, emails kept pouring in—last-minute changes to a oor plan from a client, an estimate that needed adjusting, and a text he still had to write about modular construction. Rogier smiled. No two days were ever the same. He enjoyed the dynamism of the profession, where creativity had to align with practical constraints. His ability to articulate design decisions effectively often determined the success of a project. Even within his own team, discussions about form, function, and materiality were ongoing, with each member bringing a di erent perspective to the table.
Yet, one constant in the profession remained: the balance between creativity and e ciency. Architecture was not just about designing beautiful buildings. It was a game of navigating regulations, budgets, and client demands. “You must always be critical,” an old mentor had once told him. “Don’t just do what the client asks, but think for yourself and improve the design.” He had taken that lesson to heart. That’s why he actively involved his colleagues in the design process, discussed ideas, and welcomed challenges. By fostering an open dialogue, he ensured that the designs were both innovative and practical.
Beyond verbal communication, visual language played a crucial role. Architecture was a visual profession, and telling a story through drawings and visualisations was just as important as words. At KuiperCompagnons, they had developed a habit of explaining designs with a series of simple images, almost like a comic strip. From the initial situation to the nal result, this approach helped clients and municipalities understand the vision at a glance. Yet, Rogier continuously learnt that it was not only about what you showed but also when and how. A highly detailed visualisation too early in the process could create unrealistic expectations. That’s why he experimented with di erent styles, ranging from rough sketches to hyper-realistic renders.
In international projects, communication took on an even greater signi cance. Working on large-scale developments in China, for example, required navigating not just architectural regulations but also cultural and linguistic di erences. While English was often the working language, many discussions required translation, and certain design concepts had to be adapted to t local customs and expectations. Rogier found that the key to successful collaboration was understanding that architecture itself is a language—one that transcends borders but also needs careful interpretation. “You’re constantly translating ideas, not just in drawings but also in words. The way you present a design can make all the di erence in how it’s received,” he noted.
He also noticed how di erent cultures approached architecture and urban planning. In some countries, speed and e ciency were prioritised, while in others, the process was more iterative, with greater emphasis on heritage and local identity. Adjusting to these varying approaches required exibility and an awareness of both spoken language and design language.
In addition to creativity, technology played an increasingly signi cant role in his work. He primarily
Pearl Island, Haikou, Hainan. Picture KuiperCompagnons
worked with SketchUp and AutoCAD, while the company’s modellers used Revit. For realistic presentations, they often used Lumion or outsourced to external rms. AI was also on the rise, though not always fully practical. However, he did use it to generate texts or retrieve information. “It helps me work more e ciently,” he admitted. “But designing? That still remains a human task.”
As he gazed outside, he thought about the future. Circular construction was a hot topic in the architectural world, but in practice, it was far from straightforward. On paper, it sounded ideal—buildings as material banks, reusable components, and a minimal ecological footprint. However, reality was often more complex. Calculation models were not yet fully adapted to circular principles. Furthermore, manufacturers couldn’t always provide the necessary certi cations. Just like with the Rijswijk project, where a façade made of biocomposite was proposed but not realised. The contractor backed out because the manufacturer couldn’t prove the material met all requirements. These were the moments when he realised just how much architecture was a balance between ideals and reality.
Yet, despite these challenges, the most rewarding moment always remained the same: seeing a design come to life. The rst time he walked through a neighbourhood he had designed, it felt like stepping into a life-sized model. It was an indescribable feeling to see something tangible emerge from lines on paper. And the best part? The reactions of the residents. Sometimes, while taking photos of a completed project, people would come outside and ask why. When he told them he was the architect, he saw the smiles appear on their faces. “Oh, how wonderful! We love living here.” Those words made all the challenges and long hours more than worth it.
As the sun began to set, he shut down his computer. One last glance at the models on his desk, a nal check of his emails. Tomorrow will be a new day, lled with new designs, new conversations, and new challenges. And that was exactly what made him step out the door every morning with a smile.
A special thank you to Rogier Mentink for sharing his insights and experiences. His passion for architecture and communication o ers valuable perspectives on the evolving role of design in our built environment.
IMAGES
1 KuiperCompagnons. (2016). Haikou, Hainan, China. Pearl Island. [Edited].
WIJK, The innovative, circular, temporary housing solution. Picture KuiperCompagnons
the LOVE LANGUAGES of Architecture
Just as people express love in di erent ways, architecture can communicate emotions, create connections, and enhance well-being. The concept of love languages, originally developed to describe how individuals give and receive love, can also be translated into the built environment. Some buildings comfort, others inspire, and some invite interaction, but all have the potential to evoke deep emotional responses.
Words of A rmation
Architecture That Tells a Story
For those who value words of a rmation, love is found in heartfelt praise, encouragement, and meaningful expression. Just as kind words provide reassurance, some buildings speak through space and material, telling powerful stories that make people feel seen and understood. They hold history, memory, and identity, much like a well-spoken phrase that stays with you. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C., designed by Maya Lin, is a poignant example. Its re ective black granite, engraved with thousands of names, creates an intimate dialogue between past and present. Visitors see their own re ections among the names, forging a personal connection with history. Here, architecture becomes language—conveying grief, honour , and remembrance without a single spoken word.
Quality Time
Architecture that Encourage Presence and Interaction
For those who value quality time, love is best expressed through undivided attention and meaningful shared experiences. In architecture, some spaces invite people to slow down, engage deeply, and connect with one another—places where presence feels natural and interactions are enriched. Superkilen Park in Copenhagen, designed by BIG, Topotek 1, and Super ex, embodies this idea by celebrating cultural diversity through urban design. Integrating objects and elements from over 50 di erent cultures, the park creates a dynamic setting where people of all backgrounds come together. Its vibrant spaces— lled with communal seating, outdoor games, and shared facilities—encourage spontaneous interactions and a sense of belonging. In these spaces, architecture isn’t just a backdrop; it’s an active participant in human connection.
Acts of Service
Architecture that Cares for its Users
Love isn’t always spoken; sometimes, it’s felt through thoughtful actions. Acts of service show care by making life easier, more comfortable, and more digni ed—qualities that certain buildings embody through their design. Architecture that serves its users doesn’t just provide shelter; it anticipates needs, o ers relief, and prioritises well-being. This is the essence of Maggie’s Centres, a series of cancer support spaces designed by worldrenowned architects like Zaha Hadid, Frank Gehry, and Richard Rogers. Unlike cold, clinical hospitals, these centres feel warm and welcoming, with home-like interiors and serene gardens that provide emotional and physical comfort. Here, architecture doesn’t just stand still—it actively cares, o ering peace in moments of di culty.
Physical Touch
Architecture that Speak through Materiality
Touch is one of the most instinctive ways to feel connected, and architecture can engage people on a sensory level through materiality. The way a building feels— the textures under ngertips, the warmth of wood, the coolness of stone—creates an intimate bond between people and space. Just as a reassuring touch can evoke comfort and trust, certain buildings invite interaction through their craftsmanship and tactile qualities. The National Museum of Qatar, designed by Jean Nouvel, is a testament to material storytelling. Inspired by the crystalline formations of desert roses, the museum’s exterior consists of interlocking sand-coloured discs that echo the Qatari landscape. The contrast between the rough, weathered surfaces and the smooth, owing interiors makes visitors acutely aware of their surroundings. In these moments of touch and texture, architecture becomes an experience—something not just seen, but deeply felt.
Each of these love languages in architecture has the power to deeply a ect how we experience and connect with the spaces around us. Just like in human relationships, certain spaces speak to us more than others, depending on our needs and desires. Whether it’s the materiality that evokes comfort, the spaces that foster connection, or the buildings that serve us in meaningful ways, architecture has the potential to express love in many forms. Which love language in architecture resonates most with you? Or, if you had to choose, what would your personal love language be when it comes to the built environment? Think about the spaces you feel most connected to. What makes them special to you? //
Receiving Gifts
Thoughtful and Generous Design Gestures
Receiving gifts isn’t about extravagance; it’s about thoughtfulness. A well-chosen gift carries meaning, effort, and intention, just like certain architectural gestures that feel like an o ering to the people who experience them. Some buildings go beyond necessity, giving beauty, joy, or surprise to their users—an act of generosity embedded in design. One of the most remarkable urban “gifts” is The High Line in New York City, a project by James Corner Field Operations and Diller Sco dio + Renfro. What was once an abandoned railway has been transformed into a lush, elevated park, bringing greenery and tranquillity to the dense urban fabric. This unexpected and generous space enhances city life, o ering people a place to pause, stroll, and experience nature in an environment where it’s often scarce.
SOURCES
• Chapman, G. (2015). The ve love languages: How to express heartfelt commitment to your mate (Updated ed.). North eld Publishing.
IMAGES
• Lapchak, O. [@oleh_lapchak]. (z.d.). A moment of harmony. Instagram. [Edited].
• Film Cinema. (z.d.). Business Proposal. Pinterest. [Edited].
• Unknown. (n.d.). Photo of a couple in an intimate moment. Pinterest. [Edited].
• Unknown. (n.d.). Hand Hook in 2025. Pinterest. [Edited].
LANGUAGE IN THE CITY
Cities speak through the words that ll their spaces. From gra ti and protest signs to cryptic stickers and murals, language in the urban landscape reveals voices of resistance, creativity, and public sentiment. This photo series explores how words, whether bold or fading, shape urban identity and mirror collective memory.
Gra ti, often dismissed as vandalism, serves as a raw, immediate form of communication for those without mainstream platforms. Alongside posters, stickers, and handwritten notes, these expressions ignite conversations, challenge norms, and o er glimpses into unseen struggles and hopes.
Urban text is uid, erased, layered, and rewritten, re ecting the contested, ever-evolving nature of city life. Each photograph captures a moment in this ongoing dialogue, inviting viewers to consider the enduring human need to be heard. Cities are not just places we live; they are spaces where we speak, resist, and leave our mark. //
• all photographs used are own work
TheTriadicBalletisa groundbreakingexampleofhowdierent insightfuldisciplinescanoverlapandharmonize.Itcanteachallcreatives lessons:howdoyou translateavisionto several disciplines,whilekeepingthewholecohesive?
Smell of sweat and cement; Having abandend the architect Every man for themselves.
Attempting to put it together
A scattered mosaic Chips of souls undone; Divided by misunderstanding.
PILGRIM
Every word reveals Another world secret; A new bond sculpted Chiseled with syllabels.
Slowly but surely building the bridge From babel to genesis.
M O R E T H A N A N A R C H I T E C T U R A L L A N G U A G E
Just after the Second World War, Japan was in a terrible state. Big cities like Tokyo were in ruins with half of the city being destroyed by the allied bombings. This catastrophe created the need for new architecture: architecture that could provide shelter for the millions of citizens that had lost their homes and could simultaneously progress with the changes of an unstable new Japanese society. This adaptive architectural movement emerging from post-war Japan would eventually result in the ‘Metabolist movement’. To truly understand the Metabolists and the thought processes of its founding members, it is important to understand the history of Japanese architectural philosophy and Japanese societal traditions as a whole.
From 1867 onwards, the start of Japan’s modern age, the history of the country of the rising sun is divided into four distinct generations. The rst generation sought to westernize the build environment. This wave of architects copied European styles including Baroque and Renaissance. Copying the styles, without modi cations to make the buildings more in line with Japanese values and traditions, resulted in buildings that could not be categorised as truly Japanese. Instead, the buildings were a carbon copy of European buildings. The architects of the rst generation did this believing that this would be the best way to modernize and catch up to other parts of the world like Europe and North America.
The second generation started in the early 20th century and saw the rise of ultra-nationalistic architecture, following the country’s establishment of a greater Japanese empire in the form of the East-Asia Co-prosperity Sphere. This generation of architectural thinkers took western movements and combined them with traditional Japanese elements like old-fashioned tiled roofs. Through the creation of a unique blend of both modern and traditional features, the nationalistic thinkers of the time designed buildings that would both represent and announce Japanese authority over East Asia.
Japan’s defeat in the war resulted in the end of phase two and gave rise to the third generation. What sets this generation apart from the previous two is that these architects did not copy western buildings. Instead they were heavily inspired by western architectural philosophy that advocated for more expression and experimentation within buildings. Architects like Kenzo Tange applied these modern thought processes to the destroyed Japan of post 1945.
The generation of the Metabolists succeeded the generation of Tange. In 1960, the group of diverse thinkers made its rst declaration: ‘Metabolism
Postwar Japan2
1960 – a Proposal for a New Urbanism’. These thinkers, the Metabolists, consisted of architects Masato Otaka, Kiyonori Kikutake and Kisho Kurokawa, architectural critic Noboru Kawazoe, Industrial designer Kenji Ekuan and graphic designer Kiyoshi Awazu. The fourth phase of Japanese architects found themselves in a position where previous generations had not ever been. The enormous economic growth of Japan in the 1960’s created a strong political and economical landscape while also rearranging the old Japanese society. With this rearrangement emerged freedom to experiment and push boundaries within all sectors, including the building sector. Both inspired by and critical of the work of the third generation, the Metabolists sought to create an authentic Japanese architectural movement, not abiding to the status quo. This time not by taking western buildings or philosophies as a starting point, but instead analyzing Japanese societal traditions. These observations would then be processed into an architectural language. One element of Japanese society came to become the central theme in the Metabolist movement: Change. The name ‘Metabolists’ also derives from this change. The architecture that the Metabolists would propose would not be static but could instead be extended upon. These ‘Metabolic’ changes could support the changes that would occur within society in the same way that biological metabolism makes changes to protect the normal functioning of the body. To understand the importance of change to Japan, we rst have to discuss how change is related to the country’s tradition.
The rst way in which change is embedded in Japan is through mobility. Japan has a tradition where farmers move to the city in times when agricultural work is not lucrative. This means that millions of farmers change their place of residence every year. Travel has also been a common way in which Japanese people spend their leisure time. On a national scale, mobility is also noticeable in Japan’s history. The capital has been changed countless times, resulting in the movement of
a large number of governmental workers. This deeply rooted mobility is re ected within Metabolist architecture through the adaptable buildings which can grow over time, adjusting to the demand of shelter caused by the movement pattern of people.
Population growth is another way in which change is implanted in the country’s tradition. The 19th and 20th century saw a period in which the population tripled from 33 million to 105 million people, of which a large part was elderly. The development in the population demographic created the need for exible housing which could adapt with the rising and eventual shrinkage of the population due to the large share of elderly Japanese. Again, the exible aspect of Metabolist buildings could conform to this population change.
The third characteristic of Japan’s societal history is technology. Since the 20th century, technology has been very prominent in Japan, both through importing and manufacturing. With continuous new technological discoveries come di erent ways in which industries are able to operate. This constant change promotes new ways to implement technology into designs seeking to better the experience of the user or inhabitant. In Metabolism architecture, the at that time recent introduction of mass production was used to create di erent building parts that could be attached and detached. The new technology o ered a solution to the problem of volatile demand for living spaces.
Change is also noticeable in the traditional material choice in Japanese culture: wood. The temporary nature of wood has meant that most Japanese buildings ended with the rotting of the wood. Because of this, the Japanese have never been too attached to the physical component of a building. Instead, they place value on the spirit of the structure. The Metabolists also see architecture as more than just a xed structure with predetermined design. For them buildings are living entities within the fabric of a city. The deeply rooted Buddhistic values within Japanese society align with this sentiment. Within Buddhism it is believed that humanity and its surroundings are all part of a greater lifeform. The surroundings are not only connected to humanity but an extension of it. Metabolism re ects this idea. The building is able to change when the inhabiting humans change.
Characterizing for the Metabolists is their method of work. Rather than focusing on a lot of detail, most Metabolists prioritize the overall concept of a plan. These plans often were extremely ambitious, sometimes unrealistic. ‘Marine City’ by Kiyonori Kikutake, proposed in 1960, is an example of one such plan. ‘Marine City’ consists of towers on a platform oating on water. Capsules could then be attached to the towers. Change and mobility is not only achieved in this plan through the interchangeable capsules but also through the movable platforms themselves. This boundary breaking proposal investigated to what extent a city could become mobile. The project was however never realised.
A project that was realised is the ‘Nakagin Capsule Tower’, following the Osaka Expo 70 in 1970.
Marine city3
Kisho Kurokawa
‘’The architect’s job is not to propose ideal models for society, but to devise spatial equipment that the citizens themselves can operate.’’
Expo 70 was a playground for the Metabolists to show Metabolism and its potential to the world. It also o ered the chance for the Metabolists, who mostly worked on individual projects, to come together and exchange thoughts and ideas on the future of Metabolism. After the Expo, in 1972, Kisho Kurokawa saw the Nakagin Capsule Tower become a reality. The building consists of a base with two steel and reinforced concrete towers. To these towers, 140 prefabricated capsules could be individually attached and detached. Capsules are a common sight within Metabolism, also seen in the ‘Marine City’. In the 1960s, a lot of people from the Japanese metropolis moved to outlying areas. This meant that the travel time for people working in the city centre increased drastically. The Nakagin Capsule Tower was meant as a solution to this problem. It was intended as a place where businessmen could stay in times when they had to be close to the centre. This building embodies what Metabolist architecture stands for. It o ers an answer to the problem caused by a change within society.
The idea of detaching and reattaching new capsules to replace the old ones sounds great on paper, in reality it was a di erent story. It was intended to make the capsules individually replaceable; however, this proved technically impossible. If one capsule had to be replaced, other capsules had to be replaced. This unpredicted di culty paired with the fact that all inhabitants of the tower had to agree to a change resulted in the capsules never being replaced. This was evident in the deterioration of the capsules, which were plagued by leaking pipes and asbestos. Sadly in 2022, the iconic Nakagin Capsule Tower was demolished. The
eventual demolishing highlights some of the aws within Metabolist architecture. Possibly the ideas of the time were too advanced to be executed with the technology of the early 70’s. Luckily, 23 of the Nakagin capsules have been carefully dismantled and restored. The capsules are expected to be displayed in museums around the globe, including San Francisco and Wakayama.
Metabolism is perhaps more a philosophy than it is an architectural movement. It is the idea that the building is an extension of the inhabitant and should therefore be able to change when the inhabitant changes. Simultaneously, the architectural philosophy urges to create authentic architecture, rooted in societal traditions. While the physical aspect of Metabolist architecture is not as prevalent as it once used to be, the philosophy of Metabolism will live on. //
SOURCES
• Johnson-Roehr, S. N. (2022). Tearing down Nakagin Capsule Tower. JSTOR Daily. daily.jstor.org
• Koolhaas, R., Obrist, H. U., Ota, K., & Westcott, J. (2011). Project Japan: Metabolism Talks.
•Kurokawa, K. (1977). Metabolism in architecture.
• Obradovic, P. (2021). THE METABOLISM MOVEMENT - THE PROMISED TOKYO. Sabukaru. sabukaru.online
• Petkoska, Z. (2023). Nakagin Reborn: Where to Find the Refurbished Capsules. Tokyo Weekender. tokyoweekender.com
IMAGES
1 Kikutake, K. (1959). Tower Shaped Community. sketchuniverse. wordpress.com. [Edited].
2 Public domain. (1945). Tokyo 1945-3-10-1. kmine.sakura.ne.jp. [Edited].
3 Kikutake, K. (1958). Tower Shaped Community project. sedaauygun. wordpress.com. [Edited].
4 Meow, J. (2013). The Nakagin Capsule Tower. commons.wikimedia. org. [Edited].
Nagakin capsule tower4
In her video, Madisyn basically explains how the rise of fashion trends we now nd on TikTok and other social media platforms all push a more uniform and simple look by “pointing towards an idealization of conformity and purity” through trends like the ‘clean girl aesthetic’, the ‘quiet luxury’ or even the ‘trad wife aesthetic’. Don’t think about the dark, neutral toned clothes you wear in winter but look ahead. Don’t think, search it on Pinterest. “Summer 2025 out ts”, “What are we wearing this summer?”. It’s black, it’s white, it’s beige. Oh I think I just saw a little bit of toned down bordeaux somewhere in Vogue. And to accessorize the clothes, slicked back or brushed down hair, minimal jewelry, and a simple “no makeup” makeup look. Nothing is popping. Minimalism is the death of detail and the death of detail is the death of individuality. There’s comfort in conformity, and in a world that feels increasingly unstable, maybe that’s why people are drawn to it. But when personal style becomes about blending in rather than standing out, what are we losing? What happens to the weird, the messy, the truly original? This raises the question “Is self expression out of trend?”. Self-expression has always been a fundamental part of cultural evolution. From the punk movement’s de ance in the ’70s to the maximalist Y2K fashion revival, personal style has been a way to communicate identity, individuality, and even political stance. When someone dyes their hair neon pink or layers mismatched
prints, they’re not just following a trend, they’re making a statement. Expression is a silent language, before a single word is exchanged, style can communicate shared values, struggles, or dreams. Expression through fashion isn’t only for yourself, it actively brings people together. If tting in a box is the new cool, we not only lose ourselves, we lose the others.
“Minimalism is the death of detail and the death of detail is the death of individuality.”
Maybe the real issue isn’t that selfexpression is out of trend, but that loud self-expression is. The current fashion prizes subtlety with a hint of red, a whisper of lace, a suggestion of rebellion. Expression isn’t dead, it’s just being overshadowed by the current wave of minimalism. Later that week, while folding my laundry, I came to the realization that the absence of bold hues in our closets maybe wasn’t always a conscious rejection of individuality. And if like me, you feel like you subconsciously t in a mold, do not fear as trends are cyclical, and history shows that whenever conformity peaks, a counter-movement follows. Maybe, hopefully, the next wave of fashion will be louder and messier. //
“Is powerful expression out of trend?” by Eli Monami was crowned the winner of the pan- theon// 2025 writing competition
SOURCE
• Brown, M. (2024). the rise of conservatism in gen z. YouTube. youtube.com
IMAGES
• Klajban, M. (2018) Drying laundry, Umag, Istria, Croatia. [Edited].
• Woan, R. (2023) Cottagecore revival. [Edited].
• Cimino, S. (2011) Jil Sander. [Edited].
• Pax (1980). Punk-27947. [Edited].
• ActuaLitté (2014). Misako Aoki à Japan Expo 2014. [Edited].
• Márton, K. (1960). Typewriter Fortepan 6608. [Edited].
OMMUNICATION RCHITEC AND
M‘’Why don’t we go back to classical architecture? How could anyone consider modern architecture beautiful? What even is the idea behind this?’’ For architecture enthusiasts, these kinds of comments are infuriating to hear. Often, we dismiss them as ignorance. But for outsiders, understanding the way buildings are designed can often be di cult. How can we improve the way designs are communicated to the public?
ost of the time, building projects are made in discussion with stakeholders. Think of new apartment blocks; local and future residents, environmental organisations, the municipality and such are spoken to in order to satisfy everyone’s needs to some extent. An often addressed problem with this approach is that the time between the presentation and construction of the building can be very long. This is due to the broad range of conditions that stakeholders create. This form of communication is necessary to keep the environment tolerable for as many people as possible. The opinion of indirect stakeholders, like tourists, can have signi cant e ects on the reputation of a city. It’s a big reason why certain countries have even started national programmes for restoring buildings to ‘’what they used to look like’’ (this is often an idealised fantasy version of what it actually looked like).
Modern spectacle pieces made by wellknown and highly paid starchitect rms are seen as visual pollution by many, but older projects like the Cologne Cathedral or the Sagrada Familia, rich in ornamentation, are praised. Trends on social media show the products of this attitude, urging architects to go back to local, traditional styles where ornaments (mainly in the form of visual heritage) adorn the facades are prevalent.
Even to people who are well-read in architecture, architects like Le Corbusier and modern-day starchitects are criticised for their design and their perceived egotism. They are sometimes said to ignore the anchoring of the design in its context, choosing to pursue their own vision that is, in the case of Le Corbusier, modular building and abstract associative references in the case of modern architects. Both cases make the design seem out of place to onlookers at rst sight.
This divide between the architect, who prefers associative references to link a building to its surroundings, and the public, who instead prefers visual references, is where the disconnect lies. Architects like having freedom in form and space and connecting a design to the (urban) landscape through colour or abstract shapes. But the public overwhelmingly loves unity in appearance. The cohesive rhythm that is found in the streets of Amsterdam or Rome is a big reason as to why they are so universally aesthetically pleasing. Making use of stylistic elements to associate a design to an environment is frowned upon in architecture circles, being called cheap and unoriginal. Are there examples where the associative and visual go together?
An instance where modern architecture is seemingly universally loved is the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. The associative references are brought together to create a spectacular whole. The use of titanium and the hull-like forms remind one of the river the project is situated next to and shipbuilding industry that was prevalent in the city. However, the average tourist is more interested in the seeming
impossibility of the construction. This is also a result of the design principles applied to this project. In this way, the distance between visual and associative references is made closer by having the latter cater to the former.
Though there are exceptions like the Guggenheim, many contemporary projects are not as visually eye-catching and are instead much more interesting in the associative sense. Is this a product of the times? The old architecture that we now look up to was made to impress and to express the power of a given authority, be it of God or of a monarch. In the Western world, architecture is not often used as a means of propaganda anymore. In rapidly developing countries, where impressive contemporary skyscrapers are constructed to impress tourists, the case could be made that they are propagandistic. But like with the Guggenheim, the visual part of it is greatly taken into consideration. That is to say that while there might be an associative meaning to it, the rst impression that visitors get is most important. For example, the CCTV Tower in Beijing is designed to evoke connectedness, tting the way the Chinese television broadcaster connects the government with the people using the news. But to many, the impossibility and grandiosity of the construction is what makes the building stand out. In a sense, the building can have a meaning that is strictly visual as well.
Although the greater issue seems like a product of modernism and its radical change of the way architecture is practiced, there exists a similar historical instance in the renaissance. The rediscovery of GrecoRoman architecture and the ways in which it di ered from the established status quo of Romanesque and Gothic architecture made the former seem much more attractive. The opposite happened during the Romantic movement, where it could be said that Neo-Gothic became the building style that we should all go back to, while classicism became overdone.
If this issue is a subjective one that mostly has to do with the misunderstanding of architecture, should we take it seriously? Architecture remains a service for the people. Unlike an artwork that exists for its own sake, architecture is something people observe and come into contact with regardless of whether they like it or not. Tasteless to the architect as they may be, considering the
aesthetic wants of the public instead of mostly practical wants might become an important factor to architects. To conclude, the ways in which architecture communicates with its users and with onlookers is complex. More exercises in reading and understanding architecture in education could help people understand an architect’s design choices better, but that will probably not change the minds of all who prefer visual over associative references. Should architects, then, be more mindful of the public’s aesthetic interests? As we progress into a future where vernacular architecture becomes more of a necessity than a possibility due to climate change, a return to the old could indeed be possible. Though that doesn’t mean that everything is going to look like a Gothic cathedral. //
• Chávez, F. C., & Milner, D. (2019). Architecture for architects? Is there a ‘Design Disconnect’ between most architects and the rest of the non-specialist population? New Design Ideas, 3(1), 32–43.
• Olsson, P. (2020). Green City Branding – How people respond to the built environment. Gothenburg University.
SOURCES IMAGES
• Marco. (2007). Guggenheim Bilbao 2007 - Spain. Flickr. ickr.com
TREE ALPHABET
An alphabetical visualisation of ora found in the Netherlands //
E laeagnus angustifolia F agus sylvatica
G inkgo biloba
H ippophae rhamnoides
M alus sylvestris N antarctica
O lca europaea P sylvestris
lmus minor sciadopitys othofagus inus
campestre
I lex aquifolium J uniperus communis
B etula papyrifera C arpunus betulus D avidia involucrata
K oelreuteria paniculata
Liquidambar styraci ua Q uerus petraea R cathartica S alix alba T axus barcata
hamnus
UNCONVENTIONAL ARCHITECTURE
Studying architecture goes far beyond just learning how to design beautiful buildings – it’s about understanding the intense and wide-ranging world of ideas, history and technical skills that come together in the design process. While architecture programmes provide students with a solid foundation and a structured way of working, the standardisation of design might limit creative exploration. This piece re ects on the bene ts of that structure, but also encourages students to think outside of the box. For instance, by looking at architects that handle things di erently, we might nd inspiration that sparks innovation.
Amajor factor in studying to become an architect is that you have to study almost everything that is part of the design process; it is not just about designing; every base is covered. You get an entire overview of the most important developments in the history of (mostly western) architecture. Next to that, an overview of how to bring your design to reality and every aspect that plays a part in that (think construction, nance, etc.). At the same time, you learn how to put your ideas to paper and how to make your drawings understandable for your fellow designers and teachers. The way that these programmes are set up makes it so that students develop a certain architectural language. This is absolutely a great foundation for beginner architects for their careers. However, because everyone’s education is structured the same way, the process of designing becomes similar – the approach is, in a way, standardized.
phases are all necessary and used by most architects. They are even useful skills to have in many other career elds.
Standardisation is not necessarily a bad thing. In order to become a good designer you must understand the basics. And understanding the basics, means practising the basics. The process of designing you learn in the bachelor’s degree starts with analysing the location of your project, de ning the problems and who must bene t from the solutions. This is followed by a period of sketching solutions, de ning the problems in said solutions and sketching new, alternative solutions. This period keeps going for as long as needed until you have the ‘perfect design’, or, more likely in the projects done in school, until your time runs out. Now, the moment has arrived where you develop the sketches you made into a well thought-out design. These three
However, I would argue that it is very useful for students in architecture to also look at architects that deviate from this process, either partly or maybe even entirely. Standardization in a creative career eld can be dangerous in a way that it limits the creative ow of the creators, and can eventually end up in rejection of great developments because of unfamiliarity. An example of this is The Salon in France in the nineteenth century, where artists were allowed to present their works, but only if their works followed certain academic rules. Because of this, thousands of artworks were rejected, as the rejected artists often didn’t attend the academic courses from which those rules stem. Eventually, this led to the creation of the Salon des Refusés, which presented all rejected works and made for a lot of famous impressionist painters.
Finding new ways to approach the design process is not an easy task – there isn’t exactly a list you can pick from. But a great place to start is by looking at how architects that do not follow the unspoken/ spoken rules nd their solutions. Seeing how they tackle a problem can form a great source of inspiration and might spark new ideas. It might even lead you to rethink your own creative process to something that ts more to how you work or to your design philosophy. It is a great way of broadening your perspectives outside of the curriculum. To illustrate this, we’ll take a closer look at three architects whose unconventional methods might o er students fresh perspectives on the design
Thom Mayne
An architect one might be interested in when looking at di erent design processes is Thom Mayne from the rm Morphosis. In 1972 he started Morphosis as a collective practice of architecture and urban design with a focus on innovation. He also taught at several important institutions like Harvard, Yale and Berlage Institute in the Netherlands and even helped establish the Southern California Institute of Architecture.
Interesting about his ideology is that, for one, the already existing architecture should not form a basis as to what the design should be; he believes in what he calls the phenomenon of rootless culture. With this he challenges the idea that buildings must always respond to local context. In an increasingly globalised and techdriven world, architecture should instead evolve with ever-changing human behaviour and resist re-using structures in di erent packaging.
A notable project is 41 Cooper Square that was completed in 2009. Rather than blending into its historic East Village surroundings, the building stands out with a dynamic metal facade, perforated to reveal its structure. It has a full-height atrium with a grand staircase that cuts through the building – intended as a place for encounters but also for (accidental) education. The building seems to be not only a space in which people are educated, but also a participant in the learning experience.
UNCONVENTIONAL ARCHITECTURE
Daniel Libeskind
Polish-American architect Daniel Libeskind is renowned for his ability to make his work evoke cultural memory. In 1946 he moved from Poland to America as he received a scholarship from the American-Israel Cultural Foundation in order to perform as a musical virtuoso on the accordion, which he left behind to become an architect.
His beliefs lie in the principle of designing both from a practical perspective as to a more poetic perspective, taking both the architecture and the history of the place into account which results in a building woven into the greater cultural context.
One of his most famous works is the Jewish Museum in Berlin, for which he won an anonymous design competition together with his wife Nina Libeskind and made them establish their architectural rm. The baroque buildings surrounding the site of the museum made for the idea that the building itself needed to work as a reminder of all lives lost in the war and should strike like a lightning bolt. The ‘scars’ on the facade form windows, and their irregular pattern make it di cult to determine how the building is ordered inside.
The foundation of the design is built on three conceptions which seem to be incorporated in the design as three axes, forming spaces for exhibitions around them. With tilted oors, odd corners and rooms speci cally withheld from heating and lit through the smallest windows, the building itself is capable of making its users feel uncomfortable. Where most architects try to make their buildings, while interesting, also user-friendly, Libeskind doesn’t nd the user-friendliness as important as the message the building sends.
Bernard Tschumi
As a graduate of the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich, Tschumi is renowned for his theoretical and radical approach to design. He has taught architecture at several important institutions including Princeton University and the Cooper Union in New York and worked as Dean at Columbia University’s Graduate School of Architecture.
His design beliefs lie in the principle of the relationship between space. movement, and events. Referencing other disciplines in his architectural work, he proves that architecture should also participate in culture’s disputes and question its foundations.
One of his most iconic projects is Parc de la Villette in Paris, for which he won the international design competition and drew attention to his innovative practice. Rather than creating a traditional park, Tschumi proposed a framework that layered movement, program, and geometry. It features a grid of red pavilions spread evenly across the park that act as reference points. Parc de la Villette is organised by three principles, which Tschumi classi es as points, lines and surfaces – the pavilions, or follies as Tschumi calls them, being the points. The lines are the main paths throughout the park that, unlike the follies, do not follow any speci c structure. The surfaces are large green spaces meant as places for interaction, relaxing, and gathering. The organization of Parc de la Villette challenges traditional ideas of spatial order and user behavior. The design is in line with his beliefs that architecture should provoke instead of simply accommodating. //
SOURCES
• Astbury, J. (2022). Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum is a “foreboding experience”. dezeen.com.
• Bernard Tschumi Architects. (n.d.). Bernard Tschumi. tschumi.com.
• Dogan, R. (2023). 41 Cooper Square by Morphosis Architects creates equal, accessible, and diverse space. parametric-architecture. com.
• Jayakar, D. (2019). The crucible of design – sketching with Daniel Libeskind. stirworld.com.
• Kanwal. (n.d.). Thom Mayne: Philosophy and Ideology. rethinkingthefuture.com
• Kunstbus. (n.d.). Salon. kunstbus.nl.
• Libeskind, D., & Binet, H. (1999). Jewish Museum Berlin. G + B Arts International.
• Morphosis. (n.d.). Thom Mayne. Morphosis.com.
• Souza, E. (2024). AD Classics: Parc de la Villette / Bernard Tschumi Architects. archdaily.com.
• Studio Libeskind, Architecture, Design. (2024). Architects and Designers | Studio Libeskind | Architecture | Design. Libeskind.com.
• Sugumar, S. (n.d.). Understanding the philosophy of Daniel Libeskind. re-thinkingthefuture.com.
IMAGES
• Ahmed ElHusseiny (2010). Cooper Union extension: 02. Flickr. [Edited].
• Bernard Tschumi Architects (n.d.). Bernard Tschumi. tschumi.com. [Edited].
• DIMSFIKAS (2011). Parc de la Villette, Geode, Paris. commons. wikimedia.org. [Edited].
• Royan, J. (2007). Berlin- Jewish Museum. commons.wikimedia. org. [Edited].
• Studio Libeskind (n.d.). Daniel Libeskind. libeskind.com. [Edited].
visual language
OF COLOUR THE GRAMMAR BUILDING
A LANGUAGE WITHOUT WORDS
alking into a building you’ve never been before, can sometimes be a slightly overwhelming experience. Trying to nd your way without directions can feel like you’re on a treasure hunt of some sort, only the treasure being a conference room or toilet. It is nice when you can nd your way without having to ask every person in sight where to go whenever you turn a corner; both in big buildings as in living quarters. Functions and routes are aspects within design that the architect of the building has a lot of power over. The way architects communicate how the building and the rooms within are supposed to be used is often done through things like size and ceiling height di erences, materials, and light. This way, the room can speak to its user about what is supposed to happen there, by using the most common aspects – for example the use of tiles and small windows in a bathroom. However, another way to communicate to the users of a room that is often overlooked, is the use of colour. But how would one go about this?
With the rise of modernism, architects toned down the use of colour in their designs – the focus of modernism was mostly on the sleekness of the building. This resulted in often white or neutral designs. However, way before modernism became the standard, colour was a very important aspect within architectural design. Think baroque and rococo, where the most amboyant colours were used in the most extravagant ways possible. But also the Greek temples were painted in the brightest colours, to protect against the warm and poignant sun.
How could you use colours within your architectural design? As with the Greeks, colours can be used to help regulate climate within a building, making sure it doesn’t become a building-sized oven. Fortunately, here in The Netherlands we don’t actually need colours to do our climate control. In my opinion, an interesting way to use colours is to communicate with the users of a building. Colours can become a language, so to speak.
Language is a system of communication. It can be used to convey whatever message you want, through a set of rules. Language is a system based on two aspects: Vocabulary and grammar. Vocabulary is the words and grammar the rules set in place in order to make your message more precise. Language is not limited to vocal words, but can be applied to almost everything as long as there is a system used, and with colours in your design it can work the same way. The colour itself is your vocabulary – it is associated with certain feelings, emotions and words. The way the colour is applied can be seen as the grammar. Using speci c colours in certain ways in your architectural design can be a way for your building to speak to bypassers and its users.
Vocabulary
As stated before, in order to form a language you need to de ne your words, which in this case are represented by the colours themselves. There is no exact way to de ne what each colour means. However, you can represent certain feelings, emotions and other associations by looking at how and where colours occur in daily life. Colour association can be de ned by both nature and nurture so to speak: The culture in which a person grows up has an important role in understanding what a certain colour means to said person. Considering the di erences between cultures and even the importance of colour within cultures might be necessary. The association can also be understood by seeing how colours come naturally. When making colours into a language it is useful to decide for yourself what you associate each colour with, which can be done along the lines of the following examples:
Red When thinking of the colour red in nature, you can think of both the most beautiful red owers, but it is also associated with blood. Therefore the colour is often thought of in combination with words like love, passion, energy and danger. In daily life, red is often used in warning signs, because of its bright and alarming nature. It is a colour that keeps your attention. When using it in interior design or architecture, it can raise your energy levels and can therefore be used in rooms where the user needs to be stimulated. It is great for creating a dynamic atmosphere.
Green Often the colour green is associated with nature itself, with the way most plants carry chloroplasts in their leaves and they can be found everywhere outside, but also inside buildings. When people think of green and nature, they often link it to the feeling of fresh air, activities like hiking and calming sounds of rustling leaves and birds. The colour is seen as a very relaxing colour and is great for spaces in which the user doesn’t need to be stimulated.
Yellow Yellow in nature comes back in the brightest owers, the sun and on several animals like bees and wasps. Often it makes people think of the summer, of warmth and therefore has a fun, warm and energizing spirit. When used in the right hues it is a colour often associated with happiness. However, it can also easily be used as warning signs, because of its brightness. This is seen on animals but also on things like road work signs. It is important when using yellow in your designs that it’s not too overpowering. When used right, it makes for a fun, dynamic design.
Blue The colour blue is often seen when looking at the sky or at water. Lighter blues are associated with calm skies and most likely because of that have a calming e ect when used in other aspects of life. It creates a peaceful atmosphere in which you can focus or collect your thoughts. Darker blues are often associated with a night sky and have an even more calming e ect, which makes them great for places meant for comfort and relaxation.
RUTH DANIEL
Grammar
Applying these colours in your design can be done in various ways. Very easy and accessible is the use of paint. But using materials that have the needed colour (naturally or processed) can be a very nice twist and is also easier to use on a larger scale. Think of materials like natural stones, glazed brick, textiles or even water. When trying to communicate to the user of a building what certain spaces are meant for, only vocabulary is not necessarily enough. To form an actual language, you need to use a set of rules to convey a speci c message. This is called the grammar of a language. When applying grammar rules to a non-vocal language, you can relate the rules to those of a spoken language.
One of the most basic rules is interpunction, the separation between sentences or parts of sentences. Colour changes can be considered a kind of interpunction. Complementary colour changes feel like the end of a sentence, like a period or if at least one of the colours is bright, even an exclamation mark. It can create a feeling of tension between these colours. A softer transition between colours can feel more like a comma, another part
of the same sentence. Accents, like a small strip or little pops everywhere, can be considered interpunction, but so can changes in colour between rooms or spaces.
Repeated colour patterns can form a structure and give a feeling of balance, like a well formulated sentence. It reads well and gives a nice and easy to understand overview of a space.
When constructing a sentence it is important to focus on composition. A harmonious composition is used in order to make a sentence easy to read and understand. In colour language this can also mean that, to make an understandable space you will need colours that harmonize together. This can be done by making a monochrome, analogous, or a version of a complementary palette. However, this does not mean that a dissonance in your palette wouldn’t ever work. In a vocal language, a dissonance can be compared to an unexpected metaphor in poetry or maybe an unusually constructed lyric to t in a song. Once in a while, a palette that clashes a bit can work energizing or stimulating in a space, as it is an
unusual occurrence. This way it can also act as a focal point.
Of course, when conveying a message the context plays an important part. One thing can mean something entirely di erent when said or used in a different setting. The same thing goes for colour usage in architecture, in which it is important to look at what kind of building or room the colour is used in. When using bright, dark colours like red or navy, you would rather use those in a hotel than in a hospital. They convey the ‘wrong’ message, which might make for an uncomfortable space. In return, happy colours like yellow and light blue would work better in a hospital than in a hotel. This does not mean that you can never use navy in a hospital or yellow in a hotel, but it should work in the message. This can be done by making a palette that works for both the message and the context, with the right vocabulary and a working structure.
Constructing the right colour palette in a good structure can be a challenge which many architects still nd a bit daunting. Colours are a great in uence on how we perceive a space and can tamper with its
sensations, which makes it anything but an easy aspect to work with. It demands both technical knowledge as creative sensitivity. Despite the complexity, mastering the use of colour can elevate a project from functional to truly memorable. It’s a skill that doesn’t come naturally to all, but one that does enhance a designer’s versatility. Therefore, the language of colour is something any (future) architect should consider practising as part of their professional growth. //
SOURCES
• Interaction Design Foundation. (n.d.). What is Color Theory. interaction-design.org.
• Olesen, J. (2013). Color Symbolism. color-meanings.com.
• Rummens, M., & De Roode, I. (2023). From Modern to Modernism. stedelijkstudies.com.
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“This is what I felt most comfortable in that day.”
“I just grabbed the some clothes that were on my chair this morning.”
“Black as a base, freedom as an accessory.”
“I made the clothes myself.”
"Prioritising comfort in a neutral colour palette.”
“I like to match my out ts with my one and only BK bestie.”
“I like to plan out my whole out t, from head to toe. Mix and matching items that are trendy and timeless to represent myself.”
“Clothes that are sustainable and/or secondhand are my favorite! This way, I minimize any negative impact my style could have.”
“I like to experiment with the clothes I wear! I found out that kilts/skirts suit me well, and are also comfortable :). Punk, metal and also formal clothing appeal to me and with that I make out ts that I feel comfortable in but that go hard.”
“My goal is to make people jealous!”
“My favorite style is to integrate my hobbies and interests. Band tees and art are a fun way to express myself.”
For a long time, code was primarily seen as purely technical, a tool for scientists, engineers and programmers. It was functional, logical and abstract. Code powered software, simulated physical processes, or made robots move. The idea that you could also feel something through code, that it could be used to create something that touches or amazes you, seemed unlikely to many. But that’s exactly what has changed in recent decades. Code is no longer just a tool for calculation, it has become a language for creation. A medium for art.
The impact of this shift is signi cant. Thanks to code, entirely new forms of expression have emerged. Artists generate images, shapes, and structures with algorithms. They build systems that continuously evolve. They use noise, simulations, and data streams as paint on a canvas. And with this approach, they have rede ned the boundaries of what art can be. Instead of creating one nal piece, it’s now often about designing a process that can generate countless variations. Art is no longer solely the result of a brushstroke or a handmade gesture, but also of rules, iterations, and digital chance.
The rst steps toward making art with code were taken in the 1960s. Pioneers like Vera Molnar, Harold Cohen, and Frieder Nake began experimenting with computers that still lled entire rooms. They used simple programming languages to generate abstract shapes, usually printed with plotters that drew lines on paper. This movement became known as Generative Art: art created from a set of rules or algorithms.
Instead of intuitively picking up a paintbrush, the artist now asked questions of the system. What happens when lines almost, but don’t quite, touch? How does a shape evolve when randomness is introduced? The artist became more of a designer of possibilities than a direct creator of objects. This was radically di erent from conventional art, where craft, physical materials, and the artist’s hand are central.
What fascinates many people about generative art is precisely the tension between control and surprise. You never know exactly what the system will produce. The artwork lives, changes, grows. It feels as if you’re watching something unfold before your eyes—almost like a living organism. And yet, behind every result lies a carefully constructed set of rules, parameters, and visual sensitivity.
rhythm, and pattern.
Instead of creating straightforward visualizations, she began playing with chaos. She wrote scripts that distorted patterns, made shapes “breathe,” or allowed forms to build themselves from error. She used tools like Processing, TouchDesigner, and later WebGL, platforms for creating real-time generative visuals with code.
Her works are often abstract and hypnotic. One series she created, called “Emotional Algorithms,” features compositions of lines, circles, and structures that are regenerated each time: never the same twice. What you see is the output of a system where randomness and order dance with each other. The gradients, the imperfect lines, the rhythm—they resemble hand-drawn sketches but are fully generated by code. What’s remarkable about her work is its personal tone. Velitchkova doesn’t see herself as a distant programmer but as someone trying to express her inner world through code. She calls her work meditative. Writing algorithms is, for her, a form of self-re ection. She doesn’t try to make the perfect image, but rather to design a process that leaves space for wonder, doubt, and poetry.
But this also raises questions. Is it still art if it’s made by a computer? Some people are skeptical: if the machine makes the image, where is the human creativity? But that question overlooks the fact that the algorithm itself was created by a human. The system is an expression of ideas, aesthetics, and decisions; just like a brushstroke. Only now the artist is using a di erent language: a digital one.
And with the rise of AI, this discussion becomes even more complex. Arti cial intelligence can now generate images independently, based on millions of examples. But is that still art? Or is it just a copy machine? The boundary between human and machine is blurring. And with it, our understanding of creativity.
One of the most inspiring artists in this eld is Iskra Velitchkova. She shows how code can be sensitive, intuitive, and poetic. Velitchkova didn’t start out as an artist but as a data analyst. Her background lies in the world of structures, systems, and numbers. But she quickly became fascinated by the beauty that could emerge when using code to experiment with form,
In interviews, she talks about the frustration of wanting to control the algorithm and the liberation that comes from letting go. Her work is not only about digital shapes on a screen, but also about a way of being: learning to live with the unexpected. Learning to create in collaboration with a system that sometimes gives you something you never could’ve imagined on your own.
Code as a design language has become a mature movement within the art world. What started as a technical experiment is now a form of expression that raises questions about originality, creativity, and the role of the human in the creative process. Artists like Iskra Velitchkova show that there is beauty in systems, in chaos, in iteration.
Still, the debate remains open. What is art, if a machine can create it? Is the designer of the algorithm the artist, or does the system itself have a kind of authorship? And what does authenticity mean in a time when arti cial intelligence can surprise us with images we never could have imagined?
Maybe the most important question is a personal one. What do you feel when you look at a work of art created by an algorithm? Do you feel distance, because it wasn’t drawn by hand? Or wonder, because it shows you something you’ve never seen before? Or perhaps even a sense of recognition; a feeling that somewhere, in the abstract patterns, something human still shines through. Code may have started as a tool. But it has now become a mirror of our thinking, our desire for order, and our love for the unknown. //
SOURCES
• Bright Moments. (2023). Iskra Velitchkova: Notes on creation.
• Newman, L. H. (2013). Casey Reas and the code-based art movement at Bitforms Gallery. WIRED.
• Newman, L. H. (2016). Why use a paintbrush when you can make mind-bending art with code? WIRED.
• The Generative Art Museum. (2022). What is generative art? TGAM.
• The Processing Foundation. (2023). Art with code – Iskra Velitchkova
| Processing Foundation
• Visual Alchemist. (2024). Pioneers of generative art.
Chepos is the independent architecture magazine of study association Cheops of the Technical University of Eindhoven. For every edition, Chepos and pantheon// publish one of each other’s articles.
THE UNS N CITY
Imagine walking through a city blindfolded. How would you know when to cross a street, where to nd a building entrance, or whether you are approaching stairs? While most of us rely on visual cues for navigation, millions of visually impaired people move through urban spaces daily, guided by a non-visual language of texture, sound, and spatial awareness. Yet, modern cities often prioritize aesthetics and e ciency over accessibility. So, how well do our urban spaces communicate with those who navigate by touch and hearing? Are new technologies helping or creating new barriers?
Touch
To help the navigation of blind and visually impaired people, touch plays a major role. Inventions as tactile paving, braille signs, usage of di erent materials, and temperature changes in surfaces help as way nding cues. A distinct boundary of a pavement is also important to prevent falls.
Tactile paving originated in Japan, where Seiichi Miyake invented tactile paving blocks in 1965. These blocks are also known as Tenji blocks and are yellow guide paths across Japan, including stairs, elevators, and railway platforms. These patterns of raised shapes on the surface that can be detected by touch are nowadays used worldwide, although not always coloured yellow [1]. The colour yellow is used so people who have diminished, but not a complete loss of, vision can still spot the tiles. To inform people relying on the paving, there are two predominantly two types of tiles: the ones with raised dots to indicate caution, and the ones with long parallel strips to provide direction and cues in line with that.
Besides this, braille and raised-letter signage can be found in elevators, public restrooms, ATMs, and in certain cities at pedestrian crossing and train stations. However, this is not used everywhere and used inconsistently.
Tactile paving 1
‘’By far the greatest and most admirable form of wisdom is that needed to plan and beautify cities and human communities.”
- Socrates
Sound
Echoes can tell a lot about the spatial design of spaces, whether the space is enclosed or open. Audible pedestrian signals help with the safety of crossing the road. Background noise can be used to navigate, by using tra c sounds to locate intersections.
In the public transport London, a combination of tactile maps and audio announcements, blind and visually impaired people are helped to travel independently. Since 2006, the London Underground has been working with the RNIB and Describe Online, to make the tube stations more accessible. Working for a step-free access and free books of tactile maps so that blind and visually impaired people no longer have to rely on sta members to guide them through the underground [4]. In companion with this, they have Audio Tube Maps. These are all di erent maps to help navigating people relying on audio cues. This initiative helps all people to safely travel independently in places originally designed for sighted people only.
Memory and mental mapping
Patterns and repetitions help blind people create a mental map, landmarks of distinctive oor textures or the hums of escalators are crucial reference points.
With the technological advancements it has become a way of navigating as well. Wearable haptic feedback devices that indicate directions via vibrations, and AI-powered beacons that send location information via apps on smartphones. And example of this, is the Microsoft Soundscape app, this app provides spatial audio cues to help navigation.
In Barcelona these technological advancements are already in use. For tra c lights control they have created a special assistive device that ensures a safe crossing of the road for visually impaired people. To create an interactive exploration of the city’s landmarks and attractions, they have created sing-language tours, or audio-described performances, besides a Bluetoothbased beacon navigation system in public buildings.
Challenges
Even with all these inventions, there is still a lot of inconsistency around the world. Some cities use di erent patterns, or don’t keep up maintenance creating worn-out textures that no longer ful l their purpose. There also are no standardised design regulations for cities, so not all cities have clear rules on tactile accessibility. Besides this, there are even inconsistencies within a city between historical and modern buildings. Along these lines, the over-reliance on smartphones is not ideal either. Not every person that blind or visually impaired makes use of a smartphone, but the new systems are mostly app dependent.
The future to help blind and visually impaired people is lled with technological advancements. AIpowered smart canes that can both detect obstacles and give directional cues. Public touchscreens, tactile digital interfaces, that integrate raised-text or vibrationbased navigation. Or even usage of haptic sidewalks; using vibrating tiles to guide users on their way through the city.
A city that speaks through touch is a city that listens to all its residents. Designing urban environments with accessibility in mind doesn’t just bene t the visually impaired, it improves safety and usability for everyone, including the elderly, children, and those with temporary disabilities, like broken bones.
While progress has been made, there is still work to be done. Inclusive design isn’t just about compliance, it’s about ensuring that everyone, regardless of their abilities, can move through the world independently and con dently. //
• Abraham, C. H., Boadi-Kusi, B., Morny, E. K. A., & Agyekum, P. (2021). Smartphone usage among people living with severe visual impairment and blindness. Assistive Technology, 34(5), 611–618. doi: 10.1080/10400435.2021.1907485
• Admin. (2025). Navigating the World Blind: Advanced Technologies Beyond GPS. KNOW-THE-ADA. know-the-ada.com
• Barcelona, an accessible city - Tourism of Barcelona. (z.d.). barcelonaturisme.com
• Japan’s tactile paving blocks | Japan up close. (z.d.). Japan Up Close. japanupclose.web-japan.org
• Matters, T. F. L. |. E. J. (z.d.-a). Download accessibility guides and maps. Transport For London. gov.uk
• Matters, T. F. L. |. E. J. (z.d.-b). Feel your way around the Underground. Transport For London. gov.uk
• Tekli, J., Issa, Y. B., & Chbeir, R. (2017). Evaluating touch-screen vibration modality for blind users to access simple shapes and graphics. International Journal Of Human-Computer Studies, 110, 115–133. doi: /10.1016/j.ijhcs.2017.10.009
• Tovar, E. (2025). How to Guide People in Architectural Spaces with Tactile Paving Surfaces? ArchDaily. archdaily.com
• Wortley, K. (2021, 2 oktober). Yellow brick roads: How Japan’s tactile paving aids solo travel. The Japan Times. japantimes.co.jp
2 Freepik. (z.d.). Tra c light and buildings in the city. freepik.com. [Edited].
Tra c light 2
Are you wearing colourful clothes?
WHAT COLOUR ARE YOU TODAY?
ollow the green lines and answer the yes-or-no questions to nd out! //
the weekend?
Are you enjoying
Are you in love?
Did you procrastinate today?
Did you sleep through your alarm clock today?
Are you following ON? Do you have con dence in it?
Is your out t outside of your comfort zone?
Have you listened to music today?
Have you done the dishes?
Are you going to the Bouwpub today?
tidy?
Is your room
Are you wearing two of the same socks?
Have you been to the Bouwshop today?
Are you feeling hungover?
MENTAL
MAPS
OF DELFT
This article looks at how people picture and move through the city of Delft using the idea of mental maps, based on Kevin Lynch’s theory from The Image of the City (1960). By asking students, residents, and tourists to draw Delft from memory, the study shows how di erent groups see the city in their own way. Using Lynch’s ve elements, paths, edges, districts, nodes, and landmarks, the maps reveal how daily life, habits, and goals shape each group’s view. The study gives a new look into Delft’s form and how people connect with it through personal experience.
• Landmarks : Distinct features that serve as reference points, such as iconic buildings or statues. Delft, a mid-sized city in the Netherlands, offers a compelling case for this exploration. Known for its historic canals, medieval city core, and the TU Delft, it combines centuries-old architecture with modern infrastructure and a vibrant student population. This blend of tradition and innovation makes Delft a rich subject for studying cognitive maps across di erent user groups.
he way people perceive and navigate cities is a well-researched area in urbanism. American urban theorist Kevin A. Lynch released his seminal work
Methodology To explore di erent perceptions of Delft, three perspectives were collected from distinct groups. These groups were: A. Residents of Delft, B. TU Delft students, and C. Tourists in Delft. Each group consisted of ten participants, recruited through informal outreach and local networks. Participants were asked to draw a map of Delft from memory, incorporating the ve elements de ned by Lynch. These drawings were created on the spot as fast as possible, without access to digital or paper maps. Participants were instructed to include only the areas they felt familiar with and to highlight the locations and routes they found most signi cant. Once collected, the maps were analysed using qualitative content analysis following the principles of Lynch. Particular attention was paid to spatial distortions, absences, and emphasis among the di erent groups, as these re ect the personal and functional signi cance of di erent urban elements to each group. The results are summarised into the concluding mental maps A, B and C, corresponding to residents, students, and tourists respectively.
The Image of the City (1960), in which he introduced a new framework for urban analysis. In this book, Lynch argues that every given city has a unique kind of language that creates a kind of imageability. This means that people studying, living in, or visiting that city have their own perception of it, containing visual qualities and personal experiences. This perception translates into a mental map, which this article explores in relation to Delft. By analysing a selection of di erent mental maps, a new perspective into Delft’s unique urban fabric is discovered. Kevin Lynch de nes mental maps as cognitive representations of space that individuals form, based on their interactions and experiences within an environment. This di ers from more traditional, objective cartographic maps, since mental maps are subjective. By distorting or omitting certain elements, or emphasising others, these maps become unique to each person. Lynch de nes ve elements that he used to analyse his mental maps. Applying this framework to mental maps, the underlying personal structures reveal key insights of the city and its daily users. The ve elements are:
• Paths : The routes people travel, such as streets, canals, and bike lanes.
• Edges : Boundaries that separate areas, such as waterfronts, walls, or railway tracks.
• Districts : Areas with a distinct character, such as neighbourhoods or university zones.
• Nodes : Key points where important activities occur, such as intersections or squares.
Results and Analysis
One of the most striking features of the collected mental maps was the prominence of paths . Delft’s extensive network of bike lanes, canals, and pedestrian routes appeared frequently, with distinct variations among the groups. Students emphasised public transport and cycling routes, particularly those connecting TU Delft’s campus to the city centre. Many maps exaggerated the Mekelweg and the bike route along the Mijnbouwstraat toward Beestenmarkt, reinforcing Delft’s identity as a bike-friendly city. Residents depicted a more balanced mix of transportation modes, including walking paths, main roads, and public transport routes, re ecting their deeper familiarity with the city’s infrastructure and their varying daily routines. Tourists primarily focused on major walking routes between key attractions, such as the path from the train station to Market Square and the canals around the historic centre. One tourist map highlighted the route from the station through Oude Delft to the Vermeer Centrum as the central spine of the city.
Edges in Lynch’s model serve as perceived barriers or divisions within the city. In Delft, the canals and highways play a crucial role in shaping spatial perception. Students identi ed edges around TU Delft’s campus, the Schie canal, and the railway tracks, despite the latter now being underground. One student map depicted the edge between the campus and city centre as a transition from “academic space” to “social space.” Residents recognised additional edges, such as the A13 highway and residential neighbourhoods further from the centre. Many depicted clear separations between Tanthof and the inner city. Tourists primarily acknowledged the canals and railway as key dividers but often left out areas outside the main sightseeing zones, creating a compact mental map mostly limited to the old city. The mental maps revealed clear di erences in how districts were perceived by each group. Students emphasised the university district, frequently exaggerating its size compared to the rest of the city. In several maps, the campus area covered nearly half of Delft,
with only cursory representation of residential areas. Residents provided a more nuanced view, dividing Delft into distinct neighbourhoods such as Tanthof, Voorhof, and Hof van Delft, re ecting their lived experiences beyond the university and tourist areas. Tourists primarily depicted the historic core, often omitting entire districts outside the main attractions. Some maps showed only three zones: train station, old centre, and “unknown.” Key intersections or activity hubs are called nodes , and in Delft, several locations emerged as dominant in di erent maps. Students consistently highlighted Market Square, Beestenmarkt, and the TU Delft campus as their main nodes. The university library and Aula frequently appeared as central landmarks within the campus district. Residents included more local nodes, such as shopping areas in De Hoven Passage, community centres, and neighbourhood squares. Tourists overwhelmingly focused on Markt Square and Delft Train Station, re ecting their concentrated experience of the city. Landmarks serve as crucial reference points, and several stand out in the maps of di erent groups.
Students frequently included Nieuwe Kerk, TU Delft’s EWI building, and the university library, often stylised or labelled in detail. Residents added more daily-use landmarks, such as supermarkets, schools, and local parks, showing their attachment to everyday spaces rather than iconic monuments. Tourists strongly emphasised Nieuwe Kerk, Oostpoort, Vermeer Centrum, and the canals. Lesser-known but locally signi cant landmarks were often absent.
Discussion While students, residents, and tourists all share an awareness of key landmarks, their perceptions diverge signi cantly in terms of paths, edges, districts, and nodes. Students create a Delft centred on campus life, cycling routes, and social spaces. Residents have a broader, more evenly distributed mental map re ecting daily life and substituting studying with working. Tourists focus on
SOURCES
• Calvino, I. (2013). Invisible cities. HarperCollins.
• Golledge, R. G. (1999). Way nding behavior: Cognitive mapping and other spatial processes. Johns Hopkins University Press.
• Lynch, K. (1964). The image of the city. MIT Press.
• Zlatanova, S., Ledoux, H., & Verbree, E. (2018). 3D geo-information science: The Delft perspective. Springer. doi: 0.1007/978-3-31992862-3
IMAGES
• Mental map A Students. (2025). Own work.
• Mental map B Residents. (2025). Own work.
• Mental map C Tourists. (2025). Own work.
CDelft’s historic and cultural highlights, often omitting functional elements of the city. These distortions and omissions are not errors but re ections of how urban environments are ltered through personal relevance. Lynch himself notes that mental maps are inherently selective. In Delft, these selections reveal what each group values: whether it’s e ciency and mobility (students), stability and community (residents), or beauty and orientation (tourists). The implications of these ndings for urban design are signi cant. Cognitive mapping can be used to identify which spaces are legible or confusing to di erent users. For instance, designers could enhance signage or visual cues in districts transitional edges, improve accessibility to tourist landmarks from peripheral neighbourhoods, or integrate university infrastructure more clearly into city maps and way nding systems.
Conclusion The mental maps drawn by students, residents, and tourists reveal unique variations in how Delft is perceived and navigated. Aligning well with Kevin Lynch’s urban theory, the maps emphasise clear paths, strong edges, distinct districts, prominent nodes, and major landmarks, yet with notable di erences across groups.
This study highlights the importance of designing cities that cater to the mental models of diverse inhabitants: students seeking e cient mobility, residents desiring well-connected neighbourhoods, and tourists seeking an intuitive and memorable experience of Delft. By understanding how di erent groups mentally map Delft, we gain a richer appreciation of how the language of a city and human experience intertwine. This shapes not just movement, but meaning, identity, and memory within the cityscape. Future urban developments could bene t from integrating mental mapping into participatory planning, ensuring that the design of public spaces resonates with all who use them, even if the users are inherently di erent. //
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