Day 46 - 15th Feb
AMAROO
Little row of swallows
This high up,
Lined on the glass balcony,
Looking in on the diners
With wonder
And cocked little heads
Before diving—
Into what?
Surely that’s play,
Up and down,
Across, then away.
We push into higher strata—
Not always carelessly,
But hopelessly,
Hopefully,
Fully.
Let go of all the weight,
Then tail will bifurcate,
Head will cock,
Body will swoop.
Niall Campbell
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We went to The Storehouse for a rooftop Valentine’s dinner last night—me and my two girls, my wife and my infant daughter. On a gorgeous, balmy evening, a row of starlings lined the entire glass balcony.
I don’t really see them much at ground level, but for whatever reason, they abounded here.
Besides the usual high-rise flats and CBD skyscrapers, Perth doesn’t have many tall buildings. The vast coastal plain has allowed for low-level expansion. I don’t mean this as a dull lament, but while it was beautiful to look across a leafy, relatively affluent city, I was struck by the absence of any tall building that existed purely in service of beauty.
I always feel torn in such situations. Opulent buildings are often calling cards of colonialism, inequality, and oppression. But while our intellects may look over an egalitarian skyline and feel content, our souls miss looking up—or down—at dreaming spires. You don't have to be a hopeless romantic to feel that absence.
The little row of starlings felt like stepping into a higher stratum—almost as if I had stumbled into Rivendellnor the grail castle. That feeling of antecedence—of something older and truer—was palpable.
They have been here all along. The kingdom of heaven is close at hand.
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As I walked my baby around the wraparound balcony, I felt a small sense of ennui. Yes, I was grateful to live in a sunny, fair, generally positive place—a place that attracts people, gives them a fair go, and offers a better life for their children. But I was struck by how few steeples or ornate buildings there were.
I’m not here to whinge that the New World isn’t Old Europe, but architects have an enormous civic responsibility—one they seem to have abandoned en masse. They are the last line of defence between the people and the artless developers. They can say no. No at any price. They clearly haven’t been doing that.
Any city-state that takes itself seriously and aspires to global significance should commit to long-term projects that create grand, beautiful structures—not just towering skyscrapers, but transcendent buildings that embody truth, goodness, and beauty.
People argue that money doesn’t grow on trees or that classic European architecture was built on the backs of the exploited lower classes. And while there’s truth to both claims, this opposition is a false dichotomy.
History proves that great buildings can be built quickly, fairly, and economically. Remember when Notre Dame burned down? Well, it's back. The fire that’s likely fresh in your memory is now just a footnote. It didn’t take centuries—it took a few years.
And for those who dismiss classical aesthetics ‘not the only way’ I agree. The Sydney Opera House proves that a modern building can still evoke awe. It’s contemporary yet timeless. It belongs to its place.
At the time it was built, I’m sure hand-wringing politicians complained about the cost, just as they always do. But whatever was spent, I’d bet my last dollar that the Opera House has returned exponentially more to Sydney’s economy than it ever cost. The same will be true for Notre Dame.
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The Sagrada Familia in Barcelona—perpetually under construction—is no doubt a saga of spiralling costs and missed deadlines. But on a deeper level, the people of Barcelona get to live in their city at a time when a cathedral is being built. That's important.
We need that kind of cathedral thinking.
A common counterargument is that committing to grand, multi-decade city-building projects is just a way to haemorrhage money. But this assumes that such projects have no intrinsic value.
Some say, We live in an enlightened, secular world. Why build expensive mausoleums to dead sky gods?
Because we don’t always need to know what we’re building for. That’s our great trick as humans—we jump and then figure out why we jumped. We are explorers.
When we finally set off from the shores of Earth to start a new colony elsewhere, we will go before we have all the answers. And when those peasants of old set sail for the New World, they didn’t have everything they needed for the trip. But they didn’t need to. They simply put their faith in something higher and set sail.
We could do this with buildings. But it would require politicians willing to plant architectural seeds under whose shade they know they will never sit.
Some mayor would have to stand up and say:
"Look at this vacant plot in the city. We are going to build something transcendent. It will take a generation. You will all shout at me when it gets expensive, but trust me—when your grandkids travel and mention this city’s name, this will be the first thing people think of. In a hundred years, you will get it. It will be cherished. I don’t know what we are all going to do in here. I don’t know what the world will look like then. But I have faith that we will want something that reaches up to the sky and was built in service of beauty."
That mayor is not getting re-elected.
This is why architects—the supposed gatekeepers at the crossroads between hard concrete and pure beauty—need to develop a backbone:
“I won’t build this. It’s ugly. It’s not about money. It’s ugly. Function and form are not diametrically opposed in my imagination”.
If all architects refused to build ugly things, it would select for developers with the sensibility to listen. At the moment, architects are functioning as useful idiots in an emissarian coup by the left-brain, functionalist mindset. This is not a trivial thing.
Go to any failed city-state that has long since rid itself of the insidious, cynical ideology that gave rise to it. Walk around the decrepit centre. See the contrast between the drab, indifferent buildings and the colourful, dynamic young people who live there. They grow up in the architectural shadow of their grandparents’ shitty ideas and cowardice.
Buildings—good or bad—outlive their utility. We are stuck with them.
Build it once and build it right.
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Conservatives, more than anyone, should be on board with this. Those who pride themselves on fiscal prudence over the long term often neglect aesthetic prudence. But this is a logical mistake.
If you pride yourself on making civic decisions for a hundred years, then the built environment—its form and feeling—is of great importance.
We have always built first and figured out the why later. We did it when we colonised new shores. We’ll do it when we go into space. But we have stopped orienting ourselves toward the divine in our built environment.
This is the height of folly.
Don’t take my word for it. Walk through a place where the people who built it died before it was finished. Walk through a place with flourishes that serve no structural purpose.
Then walk through a place that is the architectural equivalent of a big fuck you to those grand old spaces.
I’d wager most people can feel the difference—if not consciously, then deep in their bones.
Some modern economists and developers will argue that beauty is frivolous. That it doesn’t pay.
But given a long enough timeframe, any structure that maximises for beauty and meaning will generate an ROI beyond measure.
More than money, these buildings generate civic wealth—the kind that a balance sheet can’t capture.
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What’s missing is imagination.
Every ideal is a judge. And modern architecture—despite its protestations—feels that judgment.
Bougie views are great.
But they need to look down and across to dreaming spires—otherwise, they’re just vantage points for the elite to distance themselves from the spiritual slums that built them.