Writing architectural narratives

Beyond Architecture - a deep realisation to finding stories that matter

After (reluctantly) pushing away writing opportunities and assignments, holding onto denial and dismissal, I caved in.

As horrible as it sounds, the study of architecture doesn’t teach you to ‘admit’ mistakes. It instills in you a sense of privilege and entitlement, one that’s often unforgiving, especially toward yourself.

And when you’re a part of that community, it becomes absolutely impossible to remove yourself from the situation. There’s always this air of uncertainty

What will everyone think?

Am I wasting 5 prime years of my life?

Am I not good enough?

But maybe… I can still save this.

You’re conditioned to persist at all costs, even when your heart is drifting.

When I finally decided to hang up my architectural shoes (while a teeny tiny hope still lurks in my heart of hearts), it was not because I didn’t see the worth in its impact, or because of the compensation struggle (though, HUGE red flag). It was because I’d discovered a genuine and optimistic fondness in storytelling - building narratives for brands working in the built environment. And a need to tell their stories.

What does writing in architecture entail?

If I were practising design on-site, I’d have a process: What? Why? How? It’s the same for writing in architecture. You start with an intent, adding layers as you build your story. One thinks about the past-present-future impact from a diverse lens.

What is significant is the impact architecture creates on the eternal public. It is a subject that impacts any and all persons who might directly or indirectly interact with it. A simple lane expansion or a new flyover can change a city’s rhythm.

Architectural Writing also entails and is influenced by important cultural, political, economic or general events that may have occurred in and around one’s surrounding.

And so, we must write: to document, to challenge, to interpret, to preserve. That is what makes it universal.

A personal take

When I started writing, it was more about fuelling my love for the written word. I loved immersing myself in stories of my grandparents, the books I read, the places I traveled to, the food I devoured, the people I met - all becoming a part of the kaleidoscopic lens forming my understanding of the built environment. I would be amazed listening to the expansion of Dilli from the experiences that my grandfather encountered - a ginormous urn of history- from romanticising markets to spaces flooded with swarms of people and no space to walk, from being able to skip between the width of a road to being unable to even stand respectfully, the widened lanes of highways, to name a few. And most of all - the concretisation of the capital city.

If I ever were to capture these anecdotes, there would be options aplenty - documenting word by word, reporting, interviewing, etc. but ultimately, this parks a realisation that every word, every narrative and every story has a meaningful impact, an essential thread to form a wholesome piece.

Just like writing for any field, writing in architecture has different ways of approach, long form and short form; research, critique, documentation, archival, opinion, interviews, project documentation, to name a few. Each comes with its own intent but is very useful wherever you go. When working as a communication consultant, having a hands-on understanding or at least a basic idea about each segment is definitely very useful. <More details in the blogs to follow>

What started my journey with writing was my love to string these bits and pieces together, to intervene, to question, to rigorously chase until I found a story with hope, meaning and a narrative.

Where does architectural storytelling begin?

Storytelling began as early as our civilisation commenced, perhaps. It just came in different expressions - shapes, forms and scripts.

Architecture, an informative tool of our past and our civilisations, narrates our evolution well, starting with human existence in caves and huts, to today’s futuristic designs. It also helps trace back our selection use of natural resources that were available in the surrounding areas - reed, mud, leaves, etc. exhibited through different design expressions - Classical, Gothic, Modernism, Brutalism, Deco, and now, Net-Zero buildings and Smart Buildings. Further on, there have also been forms of documentation alongside it - paintings, inscriptions on rocks, metal, papyrus, etc. All of it is an early evidence that we’ve always known these structures carried meaning. That someone, someday, would want to know what we were trying to say. This important data has contributed in documenting the way of work in old times, a significant element in archiving history.

While there have been many theories to what the earliest structure could be post that, one thing is clear - writing or any kind of documentation has been an essential thread in archival and understanding our journey through the different seasons and changing planetary patterns. Today, it has brought a sense of connectedness to our past as well as established common ground for futuristic innovation to happen.

In a romanticised world, I’d like to think that for each dwelling that was getting created, someone was dealing with client frustrations in creating multiple alternate design options, whilst trying to sell a story - an extension of how architects today struggle to lock-in a design and proceed towards execution. But on a more serious note, each form of documentation is a an evidence of how the early civilisations were thinking of a future where these stories would hold value. Each inscription that has ever been stamped on clay was an idea to document and an effort/attempt in building a narrative.

Because even back then, documentation was not just administrative. It was aspirational. It was a narrative in the making.

…And why do architects need to craft narratives?

Simply put - because architectural design affects everyone.

It is imperative to recognise that a building has many narratives, we can simply choose the one that best fits our version. As an example, My school campus where I spent my formative years- 14 years to be precise, had low-rise brick tiled buildings, large open spaces, and collaborative nooks under trees. I believe for that reason majorly I am drawn to designs that are surrounded by and curated around trees, are low laying and foster social interaction.

On a larger scale, the way we plan and design our cities, and on a smaller scale perhaps our neighbourhoods, becomes an important tool to formulate and influence information. We are affected deeply by our built and unbuilt surroundings. This is an important reason why architects need to write about architecture - it’s also a way in which they would be inspired to incorporate feedback in their designs.

“…but we are rarely roused from the day-to-day, brick-by-brick additions that have the most power to change our environment. We know what we already like but not how to describe it, or change it, or how to change our minds. We need to learn how to read a building, an urban plan, and a developer’s rendering, and to see where critique might make a difference.”

– from the book’s - Writing about Architecture, by Alexandra Lange, Introduction

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Architectural storytelling is not a luxury, it is a responsibility.
To write is to record. To question. To imagine better.

And perhaps in that act of writing, we reclaim something essential: our agency not just to inhabit spaces, but to shape them - with purpose, with memory, and with meaning.