The Third Level of Architecture Hell
Roko says "AI made you this machine for living in, and you will love it."
Welcome to the third level of Architecture Hell. This level is further, slimier, freakier than the first two. There is the same blistering heat of large box homes crushed onto small lots, the same cackling of Lucifer as millions of dollars are charged for misaligned windows and cheap finishes. But those on those first two levels, the houses we were subjected to looked like a house. Yes, they were someone’s slightly poorly executed idea of a French chateau or farmhouse, but they were clearly a house. Down here in the third level of architecture hell, all of that has been abandoned. True, these structures have walls, windows and doors—they do, presumably, house people, but the concept of a home or even any fantasy that that word may be attached to was abandoned at the very onset of the SketchUp-copy-paste-fever-dream that birthed what we are going to explore today.
Set on the edge of an exclusive area of Denver, Colorado, these structures fill up the modest mid-century plots that were sub-divided all over the area for typical sprawling midwest ranch houses. Towering above their gingerly restored neighbors, it is impossible to miss the white monoliths and also impossible not to gasp that someone would build a CVS in the middle of such a nice residential neighborhood. It is only when you’re close enough to spy the listless trappings of residential life (garden hose slumped against a wall, newspaper pressed into the wet walkway, a smattering of Amazon prime boxes) does it become clear that this is no drive-through pharmacy, but a home. And what is more, a multi-million dollar one.
It’s hard to digest this one all at once. They eye can’t rest or decide where is the center, the front, the balance of this house. There is a small hovering raised roofline in the middle, then two hovering but lowered and differently sized rooflines at each edge. Every window-size in the catalogue is slapped on and the panels of white facade can only be some missing material that was meant for a live/work condo-block near SoDoSoPa.
On the ground level, all the rest of the materials are put to use—dark wood paneling, cream travertine tiles, off-white stacked stone all jostle for attention. The lights under the stairs make it easy to see from far away, but leave each step in darkness so be careful if you approach at night. Although with the runway of column uplights, you’ll probably be fine. And, of course, we have high-contrast black downspouts helpfully revealing each drainage problem the homeowner will have every rainy season.
Usually I don’t poke around inside, but I had to look up the online “recently sold” listing. Nothing out of the cookie-cutter-office-turned-house ordinary (“my buddy is a supplier with a great deal on commercial finishes!”) but I had to call attention to the robot arm faucets that would leave me laying awake at night, awaiting their sentient ascent up the stairs to clean my teeth in my sleep.
The BO$$ of this neighborhood, however, is around the developer-leveled corner. In what could only be described as someone’s attempt to build a house with plans based on how a child drew Hudson Yard on their Chili’s placemat, it honestly brought me joy to see in person. I imagine it’s what it feels like for avid bird watchers to spot a particularly unbelievable specimen—is it really standing there right in front of me?
I will admit, it’s hard to describe, hard to choose where to begin. Should I examine the five different facades? The floating rooflines? The array of window types, each with their own mullion size and margins? The new-construction retail front door? The plastic after-market planters?
Clearly, the most striking feature is the accordion of black Tootsie Rolls coyly revealing some cheeky windows, as a treat. Why they exist at all is a question only overshadowed by why are some close, some far? Why don’t they go all the way to the overhang roof? Why are they finished in paneling? How does one decorate them for Christmas?
Like so many mysterious elements in these “designs”, I sometimes fantasize that the contractor with access to the model accidentally moved a structural element outside the walls of the house, showing them protruding out like unearthed ribs and, to all of our chagrin, ended up keeping it that way.
Of course, no construction monstrosity would be complete without an after-thought downspout. I particularly like that this one is not only black against a cream facade, and also smack next to the front door, but also a truly insulting Home-Depot mashup of two drainage system Hail-Marys stacked on top of each other. Mwah.
If you want to peek around inside, HERE is that listing. Pay particular attention to the black “marble” tile wall, the laminate flooring and the view of your neighbors from every window.
Of course, if it’s your home, I do agree for the most part that you should be able to do whatever you want. I am not convinced, however, that these homes are what the new owners really want. I imagine they want something new, something grand, something with high ceilings and something that will impress their friends when they have them over for catered dinners. But the disconnect comes when those are the only design drivers since we can see that although that checklist is completed, these structures are deeply lacking in what makes architecture appealing (soothing!)—how it relates to the natural world and ultimately the human condition. The owners probably also wanted something that would feel comfortable to be in, that their kids would connect emotionally to, that felt like a person should live there, that the people constructing it cared and that would age well and fit into the canon of modern architecture (or maybe I’m wrong and they just wanted a house that would look baller in the background of their teenager’s TikToks!). If it’s built for the algorithm, it will look that way no matter what.
Thank you for joining me on this dissent into Architecture Hell—as before, I know these are not literally soothing things, but I hope that being able to look at something and understand why it is not soothing will help you identify what is soothing. And now, go forth into the world, spot the high-contrast downspout and subsequently cheer when you stumble upon the concealed drainage systems we all deserve.
Wow! That really is architecture hell, so awful. And definitely not soothing, but helps with deciding what soothing is.
Thank you for this!