Since Stonehenge, architects have always been at the cutting

Hear the words of Norman Foster, master-builder of our age: “Since Stonehenge, architects have always been at the cutting edge of technology. And you can’t separate technology from the humanistic and spiritual content of a building.” In this reflection, he binds the work of stone and steel with the mysteries of the human soul. He reminds us that the act of building is never merely the stacking of materials, but the shaping of a world where spirit and matter meet.

When Foster speaks of Stonehenge, he calls to mind one of the oldest monuments of mankind—a circle of massive stones raised by hands without the machines of modernity. To construct it required not only imagination but mastery of the technologies of its time: the moving of colossal weights, the alignment with the heavens, the design that endures millennia. Yet Stonehenge was not merely an engineering feat—it was also a temple, a place of wonder, where men sought communion with the stars and the divine. Thus from the beginning, architecture stood at the crossroads of technology and spirituality.

The architect, then, is not only a craftsman but also a priest of space, shaping environments where human beings may live, worship, dream, and remember. Foster reminds us that the cutting edge of technology—whether it be the arch, the dome, the flying buttress, or the steel skeleton—has always been married to human purpose. The cathedrals of medieval Europe soared not only because stone masons mastered new techniques, but because they were driven by a vision of reaching heaven itself. Each innovation was born from the desire to embody the humanistic and the spiritual within walls of stone.

History bears many witnesses to this truth. Consider the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. When Emperor Justinian ordered it built, he demanded not only strength and grandeur but also the transcendence of heaven upon earth. The architects, Anthemius and Isidore, employed daring new methods, suspending a vast dome that seemed to float upon light. The technology was breathtaking, but it was in service of the spiritual—a sanctuary where worshippers felt the presence of eternity. Here, Foster’s insight lives: there is no separating the engineering from the meaning, the structure from the spirit.

The meaning of his words grows clearer when we look to our own time. Modern skyscrapers rise through feats of technology, but they also shape the humanistic content of the city. A library of glass may symbolize transparency, a parliament building may embody democracy, a memorial may speak silently of grief and remembrance. The steel, the glass, the stone—these are only vessels. What they hold is the spirit of the people who build and use them. To design without this union is to create structures without soul.

Thus Foster’s words are not merely an observation, but a charge to all who build, whether with stone, with ideas, or with lives. Innovation alone is not enough; it must be wedded to meaning. A building without spirit is but a machine for shelter. But a building with spirit becomes a place where humanity grows, where memories dwell, where the sacred and the ordinary intertwine.

The lesson is clear: let us honor technology, but never forget its purpose. When we create, let us ask not only, “Can this be built?” but “What does this mean for the human spirit?” Whether in architecture, in invention, or in daily labor, we must hold fast to the union of function and meaning, of progress and purpose.

Practical action follows: when you enter a space, pause to ask what it teaches your soul. When you build, even in the smallest ways, consider how it shapes human dignity. Support the creation of places that embody both efficiency and beauty, both strength and compassion. For as Norman Foster reminds us, technology and spirit are one, and the greatness of a building—or a life—is measured not only in its height, but in the depth of humanity it contains.