Of course I know very little about architecture, and the older I

Host: The museum café sat high above the city, its wide glass walls opening to a sweeping view of grey concrete, chrome spires, and restless movement below. The late afternoon light fell through the glass in long, fractured beams, cutting across tables where people murmured softly over coffee and plans.

Jack sat near the edge, his hands folded loosely around a small espresso cup, his grey eyes fixed on the skyline — the rigid lines, the metallic order, the illusion of permanence. Jeeny joined him with a quiet sigh, carrying a steaming mug of tea, her brown eyes glinting with curiosity as she followed his gaze outward.

Outside, a construction crane swung slowly, silhouetted against the fading sky, its arm slicing through the clouds like a compass drawing invisible circles.

Jeeny: “I stumbled on a quote this morning,” she said, resting her elbows on the table. “‘Of course I know very little about architecture, and the older I get the less I know.’ — Richard Rogers.”

Jack: “A confession disguised as humility. The man designed the Pompidou Centre and says he knows less? That’s not ignorance — that’s branding.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s honesty. Maybe he’s admitting that understanding the world — or even a single discipline — gets harder, not easier, with time.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s the same old intellectual trick: claim not to know, so people think you’re wise.”

Jeeny: “You really can’t imagine sincerity, can you?”

Jack: “Not in a world where every ‘I don’t know’ is followed by a TED Talk.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, faint but not mocking, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. The sunlight hit her hair in threads of gold and black. Jack leaned back in his chair, his expression sharp but tired, the kind of weariness that comes from having too many opinions and too few beliefs.

Jeeny: “You sound like you think knowledge is ownership — like the more you know, the more control you have.”

Jack: “That’s what knowledge is, isn’t it? Control. Precision. The ability to predict outcomes. Without that, we’re just groping in the dark.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what Rogers meant — that the older he gets, the more he realizes how much of life is dark. Not in a pessimistic way, but in a humble one.”

Jack: “Humility’s overrated. It’s what people say when they’ve stopped learning.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s what they say when they’ve learned too much to pretend anymore.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, brushing rain against the glass — light, uneven, like a hesitant memory. A child’s laughter echoed briefly from the next table, then faded. The city pulsed beyond, alive with noise and pattern, yet impossibly distant.

Jeeny: “Think about it, Jack. Architecture is about structure — but Rogers built his career by exposing what others hide. Pipes, ducts, the guts of the building. He turned honesty into art. Maybe that’s what this quote is: a kind of architectural confession. He’s saying the structure of knowledge itself becomes transparent — you start seeing through it, and what you find is uncertainty.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But it sounds like an excuse for doubt. The man’s an expert; he should know more, not less.”

Jeeny: “But expertise doesn’t protect you from wonder. Sometimes, it kills it. You start with curiosity and end with arrogance.”

Jack: “So ignorance is enlightenment now?”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness of ignorance is. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Socrates said that too, didn’t he? ‘I know that I know nothing.’ Funny how centuries later, people still romanticize confusion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because confusion is honest. Certainty has a way of lying to us.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. He turned toward her, the city lights behind him flickering like restless stars. His voice dropped, softer now.

Jack: “You’re saying wisdom is doubt?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying wisdom is movement. The kind that comes from realizing no structure — no belief, no theory, no building — is ever finished.”

Jack: “That sounds fragile.”

Jeeny: “It’s alive.”

Jack: “Alive things collapse.”

Jeeny: “So do dead ones. They just don’t notice.”

Host: A long silence followed. The café was quieter now, only the sound of rain against the glass and the distant murmur of an espresso machine breaking the stillness. Jeeny sipped her tea; Jack stared at the skyline, where cranes loomed like metal gods constructing futures they would never live to see.

Jack: “You really believe ignorance is beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Not ignorance — humility. The kind that keeps us searching. Think of it this way: a building that thinks it’s finished will decay faster. The ones that adapt, evolve — they last.”

Jack: “Buildings don’t evolve, Jeeny. They erode.”

Jeeny: “And people?”

Jack: “Same.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just refuse to see the kind of growth that doesn’t fit blueprints.”

Jack: “Because blueprints keep things from falling apart.”

Jeeny: “And yet, everything falls apart anyway.”

Host: A pause. The kind that feels heavier than words. The rain had turned to drizzle, and outside, the skyline glowed beneath the first hints of night.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the first building you ever loved?”

Jack: “Loved?” He frowned. “I don’t fall in love with buildings. I respect them.”

Jeeny: “Of course you do.”

Jack: “But if you’re asking — yeah. The library near my childhood home. Big, brutalist thing. Concrete, cold, symmetrical. I liked that it never changed.”

Jeeny: “And you think that’s strength?”

Jack: “Consistency. Dependability.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s fear.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “Of time. Of seeing what’s inside when the walls start to crack.”

Host: Jack looked away, his reflection in the window merging with the city’s shifting light. Jeeny’s tone softened — less a challenge now, more a confession.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I thought I’d grow up and understand everything — people, choices, the world. But now I feel like Rogers. The older I get, the less I know. The less certain I am of what any of this means.”

Jack: “That’s not failure. That’s entropy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s grace — to keep asking instead of pretending we’ve answered.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful way to justify confusion.”

Jeeny: “Or to honor it.”

Host: The last of the sunlight vanished. The café lights flickered on, soft and golden. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the city into watercolor. The crane outside stood still now — its work done for the day, or maybe paused between unfinished tasks.

Jack leaned forward, his voice low.

Jack: “You know what scares me about what you’re saying?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “If you never arrive at knowing, how do you build anything that lasts? How do you stand on ground that keeps shifting?”

Jeeny: “You stop trying to build for eternity. You build for now. You build knowing it might not last — and somehow, that makes it honest.”

Jack: “You’d be a terrible architect.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d be a good human.”

Host: The rain stopped. The city lights shimmered against wet pavement below, reflecting in the glass like constellations of moving thought.

Jack smiled faintly — the kind of smile that concedes, without surrendering.

Jack: “So maybe Rogers was right. Maybe the older we get, the less we know — because the world keeps revealing new questions.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the only architecture that matters — the architecture of wonder.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a wall.”

Jack: “Then keep building around me.”

Jeeny: “Only if you promise not to pretend you’re finished.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the glass, into the soft night air where rain clung to the edge of the world like dew on memory. Inside the café, two figures sat against the endless geometry of the city — a man of walls and logic, a woman of light and motion.

The crane’s arm stood still, a quiet monument to incompletion.

And as the lights flickered, you could almost hear the hum of a deeper design — not in the buildings, but in the conversation itself: the fragile, enduring architecture of not knowing.