John Sugden (1922-2003) was one of the most important Utah architects of the 20th century. Born in Chicago in 1922, he studied at the Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT) under the legendary Mies van der Rohe, and worked at Mies's firm from 1945 to 1952 before moving to Utah.
For those who may not be familiar, Mies is a big deal in the architectural community. Some of his most noteworthy projects include the Farnsworth House (which hosted a 100th anniversary collaboration between Braun and the late Virgil Abloh in 2021); the Barcelona Pavilion (and its accompanying chair); Crown Hall at IIT (which is high on my list of buildings to visit); the Seagram Building in New York; and, of course, the Toronto-Dominion Centre complex.
Sugden moved to Utah in 1952. He would then spend the rest of his career defining what the International Style — a major architectural movement that dominated modernism from the 1920s to the 1970s — could be in a mountain context, while educating the next generation of architects at the University of Utah's Graduate School of Architecture.
His first major project in Utah was a house for his mother: the Roberta Sugden House in Salt Lake City (1955). It is a classic steel-and-glass structure that takes obvious cues from the Farnsworth House but that was adapted to the Utah landscape. Today, it remains an icon of Mid-Century Modernism in the city.
His own home and studio followed in 1984. Referred to as "The Glass Cube," or the Mountain House Studio, it is located in Park City (just down the street from Parkview Mountain House in Summit Park). A perfect 33 x 33 x 33 foot cube, the home marks an important turning point for architecture and design in the area.
By the 1980s, modernism had entered into a mid-life crisis in urban settings. Architects and designers were beginning to reject its austerity and lack of ornamentation in favor of a new movement: Postmodernism.
But in the Wasatch Mountains, and outside of perhaps only Aspen, the International Style had yet to truly make its mark. Mountain homes simply did not look like this; they were heavy and rustic, and they had gabled roofs. Sugden changed that. His home/studio was the opposite of this: light, transparent, flat-roofed, and industrial in its orientation.
It's also worth mentioning that the construction of the Glass Cube roughly aligns with the rebirth of Park City. By the early 1950s, it was a dying ghost town in the mountains. Many of the silver mines that had made it a wealthy place at the end of the 19th century had already shuttered, and the city was without an economic purpose.
The first ski operations opened in 1963 under the banner of Treasure Mountain Resort. However, it was a makeshift operation, and it would not be until 1971 that Aspen-developer Edgar Stern would acquire Treasure and transform it into Park City Mountain Resort.
By 1974, he had successfully lured the US Alpine Ski Team to the city. And by 1981, he had moved on to even grander ambitions with the opening of his latest project down the street: Deer Valley Resort. It was also around this time (1982) that Toronto-based Noranda stopped all work and closed the last mining operations in the city.
Then came Sugden's modernist Glass Cube in 1984.
Today, the Summit Park area is filled with countless new and under-construction modern homes, designed by award-winning firms such as Klima Architecture and Brach Design. No two homes are the same, and there's a palpable willingness to experiment. It feels like an architectural playground, and I like to think that it all started with John Sugden's simple glass cube.
This is a longstanding joke / criticism among nerds:
Namely, it is the fact that the charging port for Apple's Magic Mouse is on its bottom, meaning, when it's being charged, you can't use it. This would be annoying if you ignored the low battery warnings and let it die in the middle of working on something critically important. And so lots of people think it's a ridiculous design. But is it? Here's an excerpt from a
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:
John Sugden (1922-2003) was one of the most important Utah architects of the 20th century. Born in Chicago in 1922, he studied at the Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT) under the legendary Mies van der Rohe, and worked at Mies's firm from 1945 to 1952 before moving to Utah.
For those who may not be familiar, Mies is a big deal in the architectural community. Some of his most noteworthy projects include the Farnsworth House (which hosted a 100th anniversary collaboration between Braun and the late Virgil Abloh in 2021); the Barcelona Pavilion (and its accompanying chair); Crown Hall at IIT (which is high on my list of buildings to visit); the Seagram Building in New York; and, of course, the Toronto-Dominion Centre complex.
Sugden moved to Utah in 1952. He would then spend the rest of his career defining what the International Style — a major architectural movement that dominated modernism from the 1920s to the 1970s — could be in a mountain context, while educating the next generation of architects at the University of Utah's Graduate School of Architecture.
His first major project in Utah was a house for his mother: the Roberta Sugden House in Salt Lake City (1955). It is a classic steel-and-glass structure that takes obvious cues from the Farnsworth House but that was adapted to the Utah landscape. Today, it remains an icon of Mid-Century Modernism in the city.
His own home and studio followed in 1984. Referred to as "The Glass Cube," or the Mountain House Studio, it is located in Park City (just down the street from Parkview Mountain House in Summit Park). A perfect 33 x 33 x 33 foot cube, the home marks an important turning point for architecture and design in the area.
By the 1980s, modernism had entered into a mid-life crisis in urban settings. Architects and designers were beginning to reject its austerity and lack of ornamentation in favor of a new movement: Postmodernism.
But in the Wasatch Mountains, and outside of perhaps only Aspen, the International Style had yet to truly make its mark. Mountain homes simply did not look like this; they were heavy and rustic, and they had gabled roofs. Sugden changed that. His home/studio was the opposite of this: light, transparent, flat-roofed, and industrial in its orientation.
It's also worth mentioning that the construction of the Glass Cube roughly aligns with the rebirth of Park City. By the early 1950s, it was a dying ghost town in the mountains. Many of the silver mines that had made it a wealthy place at the end of the 19th century had already shuttered, and the city was without an economic purpose.
The first ski operations opened in 1963 under the banner of Treasure Mountain Resort. However, it was a makeshift operation, and it would not be until 1971 that Aspen-developer Edgar Stern would acquire Treasure and transform it into Park City Mountain Resort.
By 1974, he had successfully lured the US Alpine Ski Team to the city. And by 1981, he had moved on to even grander ambitions with the opening of his latest project down the street: Deer Valley Resort. It was also around this time (1982) that Toronto-based Noranda stopped all work and closed the last mining operations in the city.
Then came Sugden's modernist Glass Cube in 1984.
Today, the Summit Park area is filled with countless new and under-construction modern homes, designed by award-winning firms such as Klima Architecture and Brach Design. No two homes are the same, and there's a palpable willingness to experiment. It feels like an architectural playground, and I like to think that it all started with John Sugden's simple glass cube.
This is a longstanding joke / criticism among nerds:
Namely, it is the fact that the charging port for Apple's Magic Mouse is on its bottom, meaning, when it's being charged, you can't use it. This would be annoying if you ignored the low battery warnings and let it die in the middle of working on something critically important. And so lots of people think it's a ridiculous design. But is it? Here's an excerpt from a
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:
Yes, with the charging port on the mouse’s belly, you cannot use it while it charges. There are obvious downsides to that. But those positing the Magic Mouse as absurd act as though Apple doesn’t know this. Of course Apple knows this. Apple obviously just sees this as a trade-off worth making. Apple wants the mouse to be visually symmetric, and they want the top surface to slope all the way down to the desk or table top it rests upon. You can’t achieve that with an exposed port.
This is an argument that feels right. Apple is not the kind of company that makes arbitrary design decisions. And the deliberate decision they have made is that a more perfect design is more important than solving for the few instances where a user was negligent and forgot to charge their mouse. Gruber goes on to say, the "charging port placement is an opinionated design, not an absurd design."
But this then raises another question: Is opinionated design the right approach?
For well over a century, one of the maxims of good design has been that form should follow function. In other words, the shape and design of an object should relate to its intended use. And so, in this instance, if "function" involves using the mouse while it's being charged then maybe, by this criteria, it isn't a good design. Then again, it is a wireless mouse. Maybe Apple doesn't want you to use it while it's charging.
Let's consider another design object that you touch with your hand: Walter Gropius' famous door handle.
Originally designed in 1922, the simple design consisted of a square bar and a cylinder. And its job was to communicate to you that, in order to use it, you should grab the cylindrical part, and not anywhere else. So on this level, the design was responding to its intended use, to our hands. Grab here. But is this truly an example of form following function? It's debatable.
Architect and professor Witold Rybczynski, who I would say generally isn't a fan of modernism, has argued that it's not. His critique of the overall Bauhaus movement -- of which Gropius was the founder -- was that it was actually a design school dedicated to "form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function."
In some ways, he's right. You can tell when something came out of the Bauhaus, just as you can tell when something is from Apple. There's a particular aesthetic and stubbornness to maintaining it. That's why the Magic Mouse can't be charged while in use and why Apple, equally famously, clung to the simplicity of a single-button mouse. Two just didn't look as nice.
But I see this as an honorable quality. Having an opinion is better than not having one. And there are lots of objects out there without one.
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.
Yes, with the charging port on the mouse’s belly, you cannot use it while it charges. There are obvious downsides to that. But those positing the Magic Mouse as absurd act as though Apple doesn’t know this. Of course Apple knows this. Apple obviously just sees this as a trade-off worth making. Apple wants the mouse to be visually symmetric, and they want the top surface to slope all the way down to the desk or table top it rests upon. You can’t achieve that with an exposed port.
This is an argument that feels right. Apple is not the kind of company that makes arbitrary design decisions. And the deliberate decision they have made is that a more perfect design is more important than solving for the few instances where a user was negligent and forgot to charge their mouse. Gruber goes on to say, the "charging port placement is an opinionated design, not an absurd design."
But this then raises another question: Is opinionated design the right approach?
For well over a century, one of the maxims of good design has been that form should follow function. In other words, the shape and design of an object should relate to its intended use. And so, in this instance, if "function" involves using the mouse while it's being charged then maybe, by this criteria, it isn't a good design. Then again, it is a wireless mouse. Maybe Apple doesn't want you to use it while it's charging.
Let's consider another design object that you touch with your hand: Walter Gropius' famous door handle.
Originally designed in 1922, the simple design consisted of a square bar and a cylinder. And its job was to communicate to you that, in order to use it, you should grab the cylindrical part, and not anywhere else. So on this level, the design was responding to its intended use, to our hands. Grab here. But is this truly an example of form following function? It's debatable.
Architect and professor Witold Rybczynski, who I would say generally isn't a fan of modernism, has argued that it's not. His critique of the overall Bauhaus movement -- of which Gropius was the founder -- was that it was actually a design school dedicated to "form follows predetermined aesthetics rather than form follows function."
In some ways, he's right. You can tell when something came out of the Bauhaus, just as you can tell when something is from Apple. There's a particular aesthetic and stubbornness to maintaining it. That's why the Magic Mouse can't be charged while in use and why Apple, equally famously, clung to the simplicity of a single-button mouse. Two just didn't look as nice.
But I see this as an honorable quality. Having an opinion is better than not having one. And there are lots of objects out there without one.
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.
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