Architecture and design are at an ethical crossroads. On one hand, buildings alone cause over 40 percent of emissions: physical growth increases carbon demand and waste. On the other hand, every generation wishes to inhabit this planet in its own way and thus demands construction of new space. Social justice and human rights call for more affordable living space. These diverging considerations create a predicament for practitioners. Here, I offer some suggestions for how to develop a professional identity under these circumstances—where one extreme but legitimate position is that we should not build at all (see Charlotte Malterre‑Barthes’s well-known Moratorium on New Construction).

I see this investigation as part of the philosophy of architecture and design. From here on, I just talk about architecture and disregard broader concerns about design. Philosophy of architecture has traditionally sought to understand how built environments do shape human experience and society—and how they should shape all that. Philosophy of architecture is ancient. Sophisticated people have reflected on the point and purpose of building ever since there was more to it than putting one housing unit next to another. But as in many domains of experience, demographic explosion, accelerating knowledge and capacities, and material revolutions since the late 19th century have brought enormous change. I limit myself to some major tendencies from recent times—so do not expect to hear about Vitruvius or Leon Battista Alberti.

There are several established strands in philosophy of architecture. Somewhat artificially, we can distinguish among aesthetic, ontological, ethical, and political strands. What I say is necessarily incomplete—and biased in favor of writers known to philosophers rather than writers known to architects. First, there is the aesthetic strand. Here, we ask about what constitutes inherent success of buildings—we ask what criteria should guide building design to please onlookers, in pursuit of that most elusive of all values, beauty.

One central theme here is the form-function debate, guided by modernism’s mantra that “form follows function.” According to this stance, what is most pleasing to onlookers is that buildings serve their intended functions; execution should only be judged in this light. The Bauhaus represents this stance, with its internationalist leanings. Good design is rational, purposeful—and minimally adorned. Endless debate has accompanied this stance, which today is generally recognized as too rigid. One competing position is the anti-modernist stance formulated by Heidegger around the notion of “dwelling.” From this standpoint, finding aesthetic success in anything other than capturing human embeddedness in a place to which one belongs merely increases a sense of existential homelessness that is characteristic of our age anyway.

Second, there is the ontological strand, which investigates how architecture shapes human self-understanding. A key insight is that humans are not autonomous beings independent of material surroundings; rather, our humanity is partly constituted by objects with which we populate our environment—buildings we inhabit, urban or rural spaces in which we live—and by social, moral, and legal rules that govern these objects, buildings, or spaces. While technology is a human product, humans also are products of technology. It makes little sense to picture us as sovereigns over a sea of things. One may think of philosopher Don Ihde, who argued that humans always relate to the world in technologically (including architecturally) mediated ways. Reality arises only in and through such relations. Things co-constitute and co-construct our world.

Or one may think of Walter Benjamin, who argued that architecture distracts us and thereby makes us find our way as humans in certain ways. We might feel subdued or enabled by how buildings and cities absorb us. Benjamin also makes us see buildings and cities as embodying power relations. The myriads of objects that compose buildings and cities but also landscapes must get there somehow, need to be maintained—and as long as they are there, perpetuate underlying power relations. Such relations make us who we are, make us “show up” in certain ways. Benjamin’s Arcades Project uses the term “phantasmagoria”—describing an alienating dream state we inhabit when we are oblivious to how surrounding structures make us into certain kinds of humans. For Benjamin, it is commodities that dominate how we inhabit this state.

Third, there is an ethical strand. On an aesthetic understanding, works of architecture could be “buildings plus decoration.” On an ethical understanding, such works would be “buildings plus community.” From such a standpoint, architecture calls us out of the everyday, reconnects us to the values that preside over our community—and beckons us towards a better life, a bit closer to our ideals.  Architecture ought to preserve at least a part of utopia. Karsten Harries has classically formulated this stance. Peter-Paul Verbeeck has transferred Don Ihde’s approach into ethics by talking about the “morality of things.” His point is that realization of values and norms depends on humans, yes—but really it depends on the overall ensemble of things all around that also includes many other entities.

Fourth, there is a political strand—set apart from the ethical strand most distinctly by emphasizing power. (Now think of power among humans, rather than how, ontologically,  power determines who we are.) How we design houses expresses a distribution of roles. How we design urban and rural spaces captures the interests of some over others. There is always much to learn from asking about how design enables or prevents certain people—but not others—from doing things. There is much to learn from asking how architecture or urban design captures some people’s story but not that of others. Often these matters have racial, ethnic, or gender dimensions.

Langdon Winner famously insisted that artifacts have politics to capture this phenomenon. Michel Foucault used a panopticon, a physical device, to capture the extent to which modern societies are penetrated by social streamlining, control, and surveillance. Hannah Arendt drew attention to the democratic potential of proper design of public spaces. Jane Jacobs echoed many of Arendt’s concerns as she praised the social significance of sidewalks. Articulating experiences of those marginalized by urban development, Henri Lefebvre formulated a “right to the city.”  This elusive idea highlights how architectural and planning decisions exclude or empower different groups. Space becomes a site of political struggle. These aesthetic, ontological, ethical, and political strands help with questions about professional identity as architects.

What counts as aesthetic, ethical, or political success for designers, and how does your work contribute to a certain manner of being human? These questions are at the core of what makes architecture a profession rather than just an ensemble of pathways to making an income. What all these strands share is a crucial assumption: that building is fundamentally legitimate. They emerge from and contribute to contexts where the question is not whether to build at all, but how to build well.

Yet, environmental realities challenge this premise. Our ecological crisis puts pressure on how architecture should see itself. That is why some now call for a moratorium on new construction.

This crisis generates a fifth strand in philosophy of architecture: the intergenerational strand—important enough now that it stands on its own. Alongside all other activities, construction ought to attend to needs of future generations. The rough idea is that each generation should only consume its fair share of resources. Since we do not know how many generations are yet to come, this translates into a demand to preserve and conserve. Fairness demands sustainability of a sort that maintains an equivalent stock of resources. Construction, architecture, and design should do their part. If they do, we do not need a moratorium on building. That also means any way in which architects develop a sense of identity by engaging with the aesthetic, ontological, ethical, and political strands must be constrained by intergenerational sustainability.

This is a lofty demand. Partly that is so because in its abstractness it must be spelled out more. But also, no matter how we do so, this demand brushes up against reality. That is so especially in the U.S., now a veritable ally to our ecological crisis. The government has practically declared war on the future. So, currently, a moratorium is not in the cards, anyway.

In practical ethics, we distinguish three types of moral agents: absolutist, relativist, and pragmatic ones. I want to suggest to you to be pragmatic moral agents as a way of engaging with the moral foundations of the field of architecture. Absolutist agents set high standards and are unwilling to compromise. If such a person needs regular employment, they might get lucky. Or not. If not, they typically become profoundly unhappy or leave the field soon. Relativist agents adjust to norms they find, almost no matter what. The world is populated by such agents.

And then there is the pragmatic moral agent. In our case, this is someone who does think about the aesthetic, ontological, ethical, political, and intergenerational dimensions of their work. This is someone who understands that the aesthetic, ontological, ethical, and political dimension of reflective and responsible architecture need to be integrated with an intergenerational dimension. They see all this as a source of identity and connect to like-minded people to sustain their commitments over time. They look for opportunities to act on their ideals, speak up as appropriate, make alliances where possible, spread the word, become engaged as citizens to support their ideals. They often suffer defeat—but they do not forget about their ideals and advance them as they can. This means working within existing systems to minimize environmental impact, promote sustainable practices, and gradually shift attitudes toward building and consumption—even as we acknowledge the radical nature of what preservation and sustainability demand.

Let me be clear: it is very hard to be a pragmatic moral agent across a lifetime. Life’s realities (mortgages, kids, cars, etc.) get in the way. Often, pragmatic moral agents turn into relativist agents and follow the local expectations, almost no matter what. But, it does not have to be this way. I submit that, for many, if not most of you, being a pragmatic moral agent in the domain of architecture and design might be the only ethically responsible way of responding to the situation I characterized at the very beginning as architecture and design being at an ethical crossroads. It might be the only way of pursuing a level of idealism in architecture and design without getting shipwrecked in life. But, it is also something that is open to everyone. Pragmatic moral agents might just be the ones who carry the professional ideals of architecture and design into the future when times are bleak.