If you’re on this list, it’s likely you’re a fan of beauty in all things:

Music, painting, sculpture… but especially architecture. It defines our civic spaces and affects our daily lives. I’ve got a secret for you:

Despite the best efforts of today’s “mainstream”, you’re not alone in admiring beautiful construction and wanting more of it—the overwhelming majority does also.

In 2020, the National Civic Art Society concluded that 72% of Americans prefer traditional architecture over modern alternatives when applied to courthouses and federal office buildings. In case you didn’t catch it, that’s nearly 3 out of 4 Americans.

The classical architecture preference even remained constant across almost all demographic strata studied:

• Sex

• Age

• Race

• Income Level

• Education Level

• Geographic Area

• Political Affiliation

In all of these categories, that preference never dropped below 62% in any subgroup. 

This belies an unpopular truth: That our preference for traditional architecture is rooted not merely in cultural taste, but in biology.

But why do we like it?

Before we go any further, let’s define what we mean by “traditional architecture.”

Traditional, or “classical” architecture is not a specific style, but a method of designing buildings with mathematically harmonious proportions and symmetry.

It’s true that we often do this with Greco-Roman elements like columns, pediments, etc., but it’s by no means limited to that. You can design “classical” architecture in an inexhaustive number of ways: art deco, colonial, industrial… what matters ultimately is proportion and symmetry.

What does any of this have to do with our preference for classical architecture? The streamlined version is two-fold:

1. It makes us feel safe

Our species grew up learning how to scan for threats. Survival depended on being able to quickly scan and (correctly) interpret one’s surroundings.

The predominant feature of classical architecture is that it is readable. The proportions, symmetry, and axioms of traditional architecture mean that we can easily read a building’s façade and feel secure in our surroundings.

2. It makes us feel human

The proportions and symmetries found in traditional construction echo other proportions and symmetries we’re used to seeing—like those of the human face.

When you follow the rules of classical architecture, you end up creating façades that feel, at least on a subconscious level, human. In fact, the etymological root of façade is indeed face!

An ancient principle

Ratios that exist in nature being applied to construction is an ancient concept. The Greeks and Romans pioneered it, reflecting the very proportions of nature and humanity in their buildings. Roman architect Vitruvius, for example, designed church floor plans based on the harmonious proportions of human body parts.

This practice was revived from antiquity during the Italian Renaissance, and carried through the centuries ever since. “Vitruvian” principles were encoded into the mighty cathedral in Milan, and were famously developed by Leonardo da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” study of the ideal male body.

So, in addition to making us feel safe, the rules of traditional architecture make us feel more human as well.

Once you see it…

We’ve talked a lot about proportion thus far, so now take a look at some basic, practical examples. The most important thing to know when you read a classical building is that it should be broken up into three parts:

• The Base Section

• The Middle Section

• The Top Section

This sounds simple, and it is. But with anything, the devil is in the details. Take this photo, for example:

What you see here are distinct base, middle, and top sections. But what else do you notice? Do you see how the proportions change as your eye moves upwards?

The windows, for example, are tallest in the base. They get shorter in the middle, and are shortest at the top.

Also, did you notice that not all of the windows in the middle section are the same height? The first set of windows immediately above the base are slightly longer, to assist your eye in blending the sections together.

Let’s take one more example:

Here we have the same thing: base, middle, and top. One thing to notice here is decreasing window height as your eye ascends. Another is that horizontal lines have been used to help blend the base and middle sections together.

This is a basic but ancient order of things that has let construction appeal more harmoniously to the human eye for millennia.

You can’t unsee it…

When you first look at these buildings, your initial instinct is probably “I just like it.”

It’s the same thing that happens, subconsciously, when you see a pretty face. When you see someone attractive, you don’t think “I like them because of the symmetry in their cheekbones and the degree of taper in their jawline.” That’d be absurd. And yet, underlying that attraction are measurable, mathematical harmonies.

The way you view the built environment is no different. But next time you see a building you like, try to consider why you like it. Try to find the base, middle, and top sections. Try to find the change in window height as your eye lifts. Search for any ornamentation or visual tricks used to blend different sections together.

It’s simple, but these elementary rules have been studied for millennia and are the basis of all great architecture. Beauty in architecture has always been a balancing act between the order and symmetry that soothes us and the injection of artistic creativity that intrigues us. Go too far in either direction and it loses something fundamental:

“All beauty lies in the tension between order and chaos, simplicity and complexity, pattern and randomness.”

What you observe won’t always be as clear cut as these examples, but you’ll find those three primary segments in any standout example of classical architecture.

They’re hiding in plain sight. Now that you’ve seen it, you can’t unsee it…

Artwork of the Week

To break things up a bit, I’ll share one great work of art with you each week and tell you its story.

Prometheus Brings Fire to Mankind:

Heinrich Füger’s 1817 depiction of Prometheus is a classic work of Neoclassicism you might recognize.

Neoclassicism, one of the dominant art styles of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, sought to revive the styles and subjects of classical antiquity while simultaneously promoting Enlightenment ideals like reason and progress.

Füger's painting is a prime example, portraying the scene from Greek mythology where Prometheus, a Titan, defies the gods of Olympus by bringing fire to humanity. This fire, the Götterfunken or “divine spark”, symbolizes that knowledge and enlightenment. 

(Schiller’s Ode to Joy, used in Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, opens with “Joy, divine spark…”)

In Füger’s painting, it’s portrayed as the gift that enables human progress, being handed down quite literally from the divine to the lifeless, darkened human lying in the corner. For Füger and other Enlightenment intellectuals of the time, man was indeed considered “left in the dark” without the gift of reason.

While humanity was uplifted by this divine exchange, Prometheus was not. His decision to bring fire to the humans incurred the wrath of Zeus, leading to his eternal punishment.

That’s part of what makes this painting interesting: the pose and expression of Prometheus. While his body is posed triumphantly, his eyes betray his doubt: perhaps he’s just heard the cry of Zeus, and fears the wrath that is yet to come…

Füger's rendition is imbued with Neoclassical characteristics like clarity of form, sober colors, and a composition reminiscent of classical friezes, emphasizing order and harmony. By establishing a plethora of Enlightenment ideals—reason, progress, and defiance of authority—Füger’s work encapsulates the spirit of an era. An era that, for better or for worse, continues to influence our own.

To wrap things up, I’ll leave you with a question to ponder this week:

Why did Prometheus’s decision to bring fire to humanity invoke the wrath of Zeus?