The architecture profession has lost a lot of its integrity

Host: The city stood in steel and glass, gleaming like a lie told too well. Skyscrapers rose in lines too perfect, their surfaces cold, sterile, reflecting not dreams, but commerce. The rain had just stopped, leaving puddles that mirrored the neon — blue, white, artificial.

Inside a half-finished high-rise, the air smelled of dust, cement, and disillusionment. Blueprints lay scattered across a metal table. A single lamp flickered, throwing shadows over two faces — one worn, skeptical; the other, resolute, bright-eyed with faith that refused to die.

Jack stood by the window, his hands stuffed into his coat, watching the skyline — an army of buildings with soulless faces. Jeeny sat on a crate, a rolled plan in her lap, her hair tied back, her voice measured, gentle, but sharp where it mattered.

Pinned to the wall, above a row of renderings, was a quote, scrawled in pencil, half smudged by time:
“The architecture profession has lost a lot of its integrity, especially in the USA. The general architect here has no scruples, no ambitions.” — Helmut Jahn

Jeeny: “Do you really agree with that, Jack? That we’ve lost our integrity?”

Jack: “I don’t agree, Jeeny. I know it. Architecture used to be about vision, legacy, meaning. Now it’s about contracts, deadlines, and client appeasement. Integrity doesn’t fit in a budget.”

Host: The wind howled through the unfinished structure, rattling the plastic sheets** draped** across frames like ghosts of ideals.

Jeeny: “That’s a pessimist’s comfort — to call it all corrupt so you don’t have to try. There are still architects who build for humanity, who care about the soul of a city.”

Jack: “A soul? This city doesn’t have one. It’s designed by committees, approved by politicians, built by banks. Look at that tower across the river — the one wrapped in LEDs. They called it a ‘visionary project.’ You know what it is? A billboard that breathes.”

Jeeny: “But someone still designed it, Jack. Someone still drew it on paper and believed it could stand. You can’t tell me that ambition is gone.”

Jack: “No, ambition isn’t gone. It’s just rotted. It’s not about beauty anymore — it’s about branding. The modern architect isn’t a dreamer, Jeeny, he’s a salesman in a hard hat.”

Host: The light flickered, buzzing in the silence that followed, like a fly trapped in glass.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. There are still those who build to elevate, not to impress. Tadao Ando — he carves light into concrete like it’s scripture. Diébédo Francis Kéré — he builds schools in Burkina Faso with earth, not for profit, but for dignity. You can’t tell me that’s not integrity.”

Jack: “And for every Kéré, there are a hundred developers who pay architects to erase skyline history for a profit. We used to build cathedrals, now we build malls. We used to create space for souls, now we sell space by the square foot.”

Host: He turned, walking toward the table, his boots crunching on broken plaster. The blueprints fluttered as the wind crept in — the pages shaking like nervous hands.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re mourning a religion, not a profession.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. Architecture was once sacred, Jeeny. It was about order, proportion, grace. It reflected the spirit of a civilization. Now it reflects only its commerce.”

Jeeny: “But maybe commerce is the new culture, Jack. You keep waiting for a renaissance, but the world has moved on. Cities aren’t temples anymore — they’re machines. And even machines need architects who care.”

Jack: “Care? For what? For efficiency, for aesthetic algorithms that simulate emotion? These buildings are soulless, Jeeny. They don’t breathe; they consume.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walking closer, her eyes steady, her voice low but alive with fire.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the problem isn’t the profession — it’s the professionals. You’re angry because you’ve forgotten why you started. You used to sketch dreams, Jack — now you only count columns and costs.”

Jack: “Dreams don’t pay the bills, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but they build the future. Every era needs its builders, even if the materials are corrupt. You think Helmut Jahn was wrong — but he was warning us. He wasn’t condemning the profession, he was challenging it to find its soul again.”

Host: Jack’s breath slowed. He looked down at the plans, his hands resting on the paper, veins visible, trembling slightly.

Jack: “Do you really think it’s still possible? To build something that’s not just functional, but human?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because architecture isn’t about buildings — it’s about belief. About creating a space where life can happen, not just exist. Integrity isn’t a lost art; it’s a choice, one that every architect, every creator, has to make, every day.”

Host: The wind died. The lamp stabilized. For a moment, the room was still, and in that stillness, even the unfinished walls seemed to listen.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple, Jack. It’s hard. That’s why so few choose it. But if we don’t, then we’ll keep building monuments to our own emptiness.”

Host: He nodded slowly, the fight in his eyes softening into understanding. He picked up a pencil, its tip dull, worn, but still capable of marking change.

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time to redraw the lines.”

Jeeny: “That’s all it ever takes — one line, drawn with integrity, can redesign the world.”

Host: Outside, the clouds parted, a ray of light slipping through the steel and dust, striking the blueprints on the table. The lines glowed, alive in the morning’s honest light.

And for the first time in a long time, the city — or perhaps the man — breathed.

Because integrity, like architecture, does not vanish — it merely waits for the hands brave enough to rebuild it.