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I was reminded of this duality the other day while listening to a Scott Galloway podcast where he talked about his love for expensive hotels, and how he travels to hotels, not to places. This is a bit abnormal. Traditionally, people stay at a hotel because there are things they want to see and/or do in the place where the hotel happens to be located. Meaning they choose the place first, and then figure out where they're going to stay after.
But there is also a statistically significant percentage of travellers who work in the opposite direction. Scott seems to be one of them. Now, his examples were all at the highest end of the spectrum, and that makes intuitive sense. If your M.O. is to travel to hotels, and you're kind of agnostic to place, then presumably the hotels are going to be super nice. But I don't think this market segment only exists at the very top. I don't stay at the same kind of hotels as Scott, but I still love hotels.
One example that I have talked about before is Tuba Club in the south of Marseille. Bianca and I stayed here a few summers ago. We read somewhere that it was about to open, we loved the vibe, and so we organized our travel itinerary just so we could stay there. We ended up loving Marseille (so much so that we went back), but Tuba came first. It was the catalyst.
A local example I can give is the Drake Devonshire in Prince Edward County, Ontario. When it opened in 2014, "The County" was not on my radar. Maybe I had been there as a kid? I don't know. But as soon as it opened, I wanted to go, as did many others judging by the lack of room availability. The design by John Tong was a hospitality offering that just wasn't available in the rest of southern Ontario at the time.
This is a powerful position to be in for a hotel. Because it means that through some magical combination of design, brand, service, and experience, you have a product that people specifically want. They're not just stopping by and need a place to stay, they're actively seeking you out. This is not to say that location doesn't matter; it does. But it is to say that a highly-coveted offering that people love is always better to have than not.
And if you get it right, there's the opportunity that people will even choose you over place.
Update: A previous version of this post incorrectly stated that John Tong had passed away. John unfortunately had a severe stroke, but he did not pass away. Sorry, my mistake, John!
Cover photo by Toni Osmundson on Unsplash
A few months ago, one of my old professors from architecture school -- Phu Hoang -- reached out to me through this blog. That's one of the benefits of writing publicly -- it becomes your calling card. In this case, it had been at least 16 years since I was in his design studio.
We connected over a call. He told me about his and Rachely's firm, MODU Architecture. And he let me know that he's no longer teaching at Penn. He is now the Head of Architecture of the Knowlton School at Ohio State University.
Then, following the call, he was kind enough to send me a copy of his new book, Field Guide to Indoor Urbanism:
I was reminded of this duality the other day while listening to a Scott Galloway podcast where he talked about his love for expensive hotels, and how he travels to hotels, not to places. This is a bit abnormal. Traditionally, people stay at a hotel because there are things they want to see and/or do in the place where the hotel happens to be located. Meaning they choose the place first, and then figure out where they're going to stay after.
But there is also a statistically significant percentage of travellers who work in the opposite direction. Scott seems to be one of them. Now, his examples were all at the highest end of the spectrum, and that makes intuitive sense. If your M.O. is to travel to hotels, and you're kind of agnostic to place, then presumably the hotels are going to be super nice. But I don't think this market segment only exists at the very top. I don't stay at the same kind of hotels as Scott, but I still love hotels.
One example that I have talked about before is Tuba Club in the south of Marseille. Bianca and I stayed here a few summers ago. We read somewhere that it was about to open, we loved the vibe, and so we organized our travel itinerary just so we could stay there. We ended up loving Marseille (so much so that we went back), but Tuba came first. It was the catalyst.
A local example I can give is the Drake Devonshire in Prince Edward County, Ontario. When it opened in 2014, "The County" was not on my radar. Maybe I had been there as a kid? I don't know. But as soon as it opened, I wanted to go, as did many others judging by the lack of room availability. The design by John Tong was a hospitality offering that just wasn't available in the rest of southern Ontario at the time.
This is a powerful position to be in for a hotel. Because it means that through some magical combination of design, brand, service, and experience, you have a product that people specifically want. They're not just stopping by and need a place to stay, they're actively seeking you out. This is not to say that location doesn't matter; it does. But it is to say that a highly-coveted offering that people love is always better to have than not.
And if you get it right, there's the opportunity that people will even choose you over place.
Update: A previous version of this post incorrectly stated that John Tong had passed away. John unfortunately had a severe stroke, but he did not pass away. Sorry, my mistake, John!
Cover photo by Toni Osmundson on Unsplash
A few months ago, one of my old professors from architecture school -- Phu Hoang -- reached out to me through this blog. That's one of the benefits of writing publicly -- it becomes your calling card. In this case, it had been at least 16 years since I was in his design studio.
We connected over a call. He told me about his and Rachely's firm, MODU Architecture. And he let me know that he's no longer teaching at Penn. He is now the Head of Architecture of the Knowlton School at Ohio State University.
Then, following the call, he was kind enough to send me a copy of his new book, Field Guide to Indoor Urbanism:
The typical approach to modern building design is to have clearly defined boundaries between interior and exterior spaces. The outside is the outside. And the inside is a climate-controlled space that is, for the most part, sealed to the outside.
Most of us spend the vast majority of our lives in these latter spaces. In fact, since the advent of modernism and the International Style over a century ago, the general idea has been that these spaces can and should be mostly the same.
HVAC systems make it so that you don't really need to worry about context or the environment. What works in Toronto can work in Phoenix. You just need to dial up your cooling loads.
This is so much the case that whenever I'm in a city with a fairly benign climate, such as somewhere in California, I always find myself fascinated by the fluidity between interior and exterior spaces. It's such a foreign concept to me that it stands out: "Wait, how is this not sealed?
Indoor urbanism, on the other hand, makes the argument that this binary approach is the wrong way to think about spaces. Here's an excerpt from a recent Metropolis article about MODU:
They call this approach “indoor urbanism,” which privileges the blurred boundary between what has traditionally been considered interior space and exterior space. This in-between space–straddling open and closed, artificial and natural–deserves architects’ keen attention, especially as the planet warms. “Indoor urbanism recognizes that architecture and cities are situated on an environmental continuum, as a matter of degrees rather than absolutes,” write Hoang and Rotem in Field Guide.
Examples of this thinking can be found throughout their work. This project in Jackson, Wyoming is one of my favorites both because I love Jackson and because it's a cold and snowy place. And yet, even in this climate zone, their design includes for several "semi-exterior areas" that serve to connect you to nature.
This is a decidedly different way to think about architecture and urbanism. But as our climate crisis intensifies, it's only going to become more relevant.
Search for the most iconic chair designs in the world and you'll likely come across a list that includes:
Wassily Chair by Marcel Breuer (1928)
Barcelona Chair by Mies van der Rohe (1929)
Grand Consort by Charlotte Perriand, Le Corbusier, and Pierre Jeanneret (1928)
The various Eames Chairs (starting in 1945)
Wishbone Chair by Hans Wegner (1949)
Wiggles Side Chair by Frank Gehry (1972)
And the list goes on.
Most of these chairs also look as if they were just designed yesterday. Meaning, they're timeless and have stood the test of time. But they are mostly older designs. Which raises an interesting question: How much does the passage of time play in a role in determining whether or not something is "iconic"?
There are some more recent designs that you could call iconic. The Roly-Poly Chair by Faye Toogood (2014) and the Louis Ghost Chair by Philippe Stark (2002) come to mind. This suggests that really great designs can become immediate classics. (Though, this latter example is a reinterpretation of a classic French chair that in and of itself is an icon.)
What I think is the mostly right answer is that, yeah, sometimes you can catch lighting in a bottle. The Louis Ghost Chair, for instance, is one of the top selling chairs of the 21st century. It's a clever and modern take that used new technologies (as is often the case) to revisit an old classic. Starck nailed it.
But more often than not, you probably need time. Time is what allows the object to form cultural associations in our mind and to prove that it is, in fact, timeless. However, if this is truly the case, then it makes it difficult to determine if we're still producing as many design icons today as we did in the past. We won't really know until they become old.
Image: Louis Ghost Chair via Knoll
The typical approach to modern building design is to have clearly defined boundaries between interior and exterior spaces. The outside is the outside. And the inside is a climate-controlled space that is, for the most part, sealed to the outside.
Most of us spend the vast majority of our lives in these latter spaces. In fact, since the advent of modernism and the International Style over a century ago, the general idea has been that these spaces can and should be mostly the same.
HVAC systems make it so that you don't really need to worry about context or the environment. What works in Toronto can work in Phoenix. You just need to dial up your cooling loads.
This is so much the case that whenever I'm in a city with a fairly benign climate, such as somewhere in California, I always find myself fascinated by the fluidity between interior and exterior spaces. It's such a foreign concept to me that it stands out: "Wait, how is this not sealed?
Indoor urbanism, on the other hand, makes the argument that this binary approach is the wrong way to think about spaces. Here's an excerpt from a recent Metropolis article about MODU:
They call this approach “indoor urbanism,” which privileges the blurred boundary between what has traditionally been considered interior space and exterior space. This in-between space–straddling open and closed, artificial and natural–deserves architects’ keen attention, especially as the planet warms. “Indoor urbanism recognizes that architecture and cities are situated on an environmental continuum, as a matter of degrees rather than absolutes,” write Hoang and Rotem in Field Guide.
Examples of this thinking can be found throughout their work. This project in Jackson, Wyoming is one of my favorites both because I love Jackson and because it's a cold and snowy place. And yet, even in this climate zone, their design includes for several "semi-exterior areas" that serve to connect you to nature.
This is a decidedly different way to think about architecture and urbanism. But as our climate crisis intensifies, it's only going to become more relevant.
Search for the most iconic chair designs in the world and you'll likely come across a list that includes:
Wassily Chair by Marcel Breuer (1928)
Barcelona Chair by Mies van der Rohe (1929)
Grand Consort by Charlotte Perriand, Le Corbusier, and Pierre Jeanneret (1928)
The various Eames Chairs (starting in 1945)
Wishbone Chair by Hans Wegner (1949)
Wiggles Side Chair by Frank Gehry (1972)
And the list goes on.
Most of these chairs also look as if they were just designed yesterday. Meaning, they're timeless and have stood the test of time. But they are mostly older designs. Which raises an interesting question: How much does the passage of time play in a role in determining whether or not something is "iconic"?
There are some more recent designs that you could call iconic. The Roly-Poly Chair by Faye Toogood (2014) and the Louis Ghost Chair by Philippe Stark (2002) come to mind. This suggests that really great designs can become immediate classics. (Though, this latter example is a reinterpretation of a classic French chair that in and of itself is an icon.)
What I think is the mostly right answer is that, yeah, sometimes you can catch lighting in a bottle. The Louis Ghost Chair, for instance, is one of the top selling chairs of the 21st century. It's a clever and modern take that used new technologies (as is often the case) to revisit an old classic. Starck nailed it.
But more often than not, you probably need time. Time is what allows the object to form cultural associations in our mind and to prove that it is, in fact, timeless. However, if this is truly the case, then it makes it difficult to determine if we're still producing as many design icons today as we did in the past. We won't really know until they become old.
Image: Louis Ghost Chair via Knoll
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