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

The street in front of our hotel is about 8.3m wide. (I actually measured it.) And this is generous for Palma's Old Town. The building directly in front of us is also 6 storeys tall and has exactly zero setbacks and stepbacks. It is one straight elevation all the way up. In other words, it is an urban condition that does not follow any of today's generally accepted rules of planning. The street should be wider. And the building should have a bunch of stepbacks, right? Maybe not. Lots of people seem to love this kind of dense, unplanned, and walkable built form in Europe. Eating outside on a narrow street is a feature. But for whatever reason, when people return home, many don't seem to want it anymore, or worse, they actively oppose it. It's an interesting dynamic that I don't fully understand. Because personally, I enjoy visiting places that I could see myself living in. What about you?

This is a photo taken from the base village of Val Thorens. I took it while we were sitting on a massive terrace in the middle of it. But what stood out to me even more than the terrace itself was the buildings that frame it. They are all about 8-9 storeys, have no step-backs, and were clearly orchestrated to create a defined "street wall."

These framing buildings can be just as important as the public spaces themselves; they form the "walls" of the public realm and create a sense of enclosure. In this case, the buildings also follow a similar aesthetic. They were designed to pay homage to traditional Savoyard architecture, which is known for its use of local woods and stones.

The other thing I find noteworthy is that all of this is only about 50-some years old. Val Thorens the resort opened in 1971. And it only became an idea sometime around 1969 when Pierre Schneblelen -- an engineer and developer -- decided that he wanted to build Europe's highest ski resort. (The base of the resort sits at 2,300 m and the peak elevation is 3,230 m.)

As time passes, it's easy to take these kinds of places and experiences for granted. But they only exist because someone, at some point, had a vision. And when that vision was initially presented, it was probably perceived by many, or by most, to be crazy. That's just how these things go, and so I like reminding myself of that.

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

The street in front of our hotel is about 8.3m wide. (I actually measured it.) And this is generous for Palma's Old Town. The building directly in front of us is also 6 storeys tall and has exactly zero setbacks and stepbacks. It is one straight elevation all the way up. In other words, it is an urban condition that does not follow any of today's generally accepted rules of planning. The street should be wider. And the building should have a bunch of stepbacks, right? Maybe not. Lots of people seem to love this kind of dense, unplanned, and walkable built form in Europe. Eating outside on a narrow street is a feature. But for whatever reason, when people return home, many don't seem to want it anymore, or worse, they actively oppose it. It's an interesting dynamic that I don't fully understand. Because personally, I enjoy visiting places that I could see myself living in. What about you?

This is a photo taken from the base village of Val Thorens. I took it while we were sitting on a massive terrace in the middle of it. But what stood out to me even more than the terrace itself was the buildings that frame it. They are all about 8-9 storeys, have no step-backs, and were clearly orchestrated to create a defined "street wall."

These framing buildings can be just as important as the public spaces themselves; they form the "walls" of the public realm and create a sense of enclosure. In this case, the buildings also follow a similar aesthetic. They were designed to pay homage to traditional Savoyard architecture, which is known for its use of local woods and stones.

The other thing I find noteworthy is that all of this is only about 50-some years old. Val Thorens the resort opened in 1971. And it only became an idea sometime around 1969 when Pierre Schneblelen -- an engineer and developer -- decided that he wanted to build Europe's highest ski resort. (The base of the resort sits at 2,300 m and the peak elevation is 3,230 m.)

As time passes, it's easy to take these kinds of places and experiences for granted. But they only exist because someone, at some point, had a vision. And when that vision was initially presented, it was probably perceived by many, or by most, to be crazy. That's just how these things go, and so I like reminding myself of that.