Back in 2016, the New York Times published an article where it cited that at least 40% of the buildings in Manhattan could not be built today because they don't conform to the city's zoning code for one or more reasons. These reasons might include too much density (FSI / FAR), too many units, inadequate setback requirements, or something else.
This is a tricky number to estimate as most cities don't track it, but I asked Gemini and Claude to try for Toronto, and they returned 70-80% and 45-55%, respectively. Claude's estimate seems to be lower because it assumed that all of the subdivided single-family houses are now legal because of the new multiplex permissions.
I don't know about that, but the point is that there's a meaningful, non-zero quantity of buildings in our cities that we decided to make illegal, and generally difficult, or impossible to build again. The thing that I'm most interested in dissecting is: why?
Here's one way to look at it. My follow-up question to both AI models was: What percentage of buildings within a Heritage Conservation District would you say are illegal to build in Toronto today? And both models agreed that the number is 90%+, and probably very close to 100%.
Heritage Conservation Districts are a way of saying "these buildings and this urbanism is so good, that it's worth preserving through extra layers of planning protection." But at the same time, our other policies say, "you shall never build anything like this ever again." It's incoherent.
A more coherent approach might be to call them Heritage Renewal Districts where we instead codify the following: "this district is now illegal based on our current planning rules and so the objective is to tear it all down and replace it with new, approved buildings." Sounds like blasphemy, doesn't it? So then why block more of it?
If it's worth conserving, then it's worth building more of. What ought to be obvious is that we need more rather than less planning flexibility, and we need to legalize the things that have been proven to work, like traditional fine-grained patterns of city-building.
Cover photo by Ayman Hallak on Unsplash
I recently tweeted a photo of 701 Côte de la Place-d'Armes in Montréal and asked: Who says buildings need stepbacks?
The response was exactly as I expected. Modern planning, as you know, is obsessed with setbacks, stepbacks, angular planes, shadow studies, skyviews, and lots of other things that inform the overall massing of new buildings. But then you point out a building like 701 Côte de la Place-d'Armes — which is not set back from the street and does not have any stepbacks above — and lots of people seem to love it.
In fact, I specifically chose to share this building because it's exactly the kind of architecture and urban design that conveys the feeling of grandeur I get when I'm in Montréal. I also chose it because it's taller than six storeys, which is the height that Toronto is hoping to one day deliver along its major streets at scale.
But here's a question: If this stepback-less building is so great, why are stepbacks so in-demand?
Firstly, I should point out that when the building was completed in 1870, it only had five floors. The top floor was an attic storey and had a mansard roof reminiscent of Haussmannian Second Empire architecture.
Then in 1909, the attic floor was removed, and three new floors were added (a net increase of two floors). If you look closely above the fourth floor, you'll see a slightly different architectural expression, but one that remains harmonious with the original design of the building.
This approach breaks many of the rules for how modern planning thinks about heritage buildings. Today, it is likely that someone would have asked for a stepback above the existing building, with a completely new expression above it. Admittedly, this can produce desirable results. But it's not what was decided in 1909, and the result is a very handsome building.
This gets us back to our original question: Why do we insist on stepbacks, but still like architecture like this one so much? I think there are at least two answers at play here.
The first has to do with architecture and design. If you were to pluck random people off the street and ask them about their architectural tastes, I would bet you that more people would prefer something Neoclassical or Beaux-Arts over something modern. And if people actually like the architecture, then I think they become more comfortable with scale, or perceived scale.
The second answer has to do with the fact that one way to look at stepbacks is as a defensive architectural tool. They have become a tool we use when someone doesn't actually want a building to be built. We use them to try and soften the massing by hiding as much of it as possible.
The problem with this approach is that it also means we're not playing offence. And if you want urban grandeur, I think you need to play offence. You need to be confident and decisive about what you're trying to do. And I think this is part of the reason why so many people seem to like 701 Côte de la Place-d'Armes. It is all of these things, and it's not in their backyard.
Cover photo by Macy Nguyen on Unsplash; historic photo from Hôtel Place d'Armes
Yesterday we visited the Arquipélago — Centro de Artes Contemporâneas in Ribeira Grande on the northern part of the island. Originally the Ribeira Grande Distillation Factory, the site dates back to the late 19th century. Construction on the original buildings began in 1893 and the first export of alcohol was reported in 1896. However, production was short lived.
In 1901, due to pressures from the Portuguese mainland, a protectionist measure was put in place capping alcohol production across the Azorean islands to 2 million liters per year — a drop from 10 million liters per year. The mainland simply couldn't compete with low-cost alcohol from the islands and so they complained. This crippled the local industry and the factory shut down shortly after.
Subsequent to this, the site was repurposed for tobacco drying and storage, and even served as military barracks for a period of time. Then in 2006, the property was purchased by the Azorean government and, using money from the EU's Regional Development Fund, it was remade into what is now fittingly referred to as a "factory of culture."
The architects for the project were João Mendes Ribeiro and Menos é Mais Arquitectos, and if you ever find yourself on São Miguel, I would highly recommend you visit the center. The architects did a wonderful job creating a cohesive dialogue between the old (constructed out of black volcanic basalt) and the new. It was recommended to me and now I'm recommending it to all of you.