There is a powerful need for symbolism, and that means the

Host: The city stretched before them — a cathedral of steel and glass, where the skyscrapers glimmered like frozen prayers. The night was a hush of neon and reflection, and the river below ran like a dark ribbon, mirroring towers that reached for heavens they’d never touch.

High above it all, on a rooftop terrace, Jack and Jeeny stood beneath the hum of electric lights. Behind them, a half-finished blueprint lay pinned under a weight of coffee cups and cold ambition. The wind tugged at the edges of the paper, the city breathing beneath them like a living organism.

Jeeny stepped closer to the edge, her long black hair whipping against the skyline.

Jeeny: “Kenzo Tange said, ‘There is a powerful need for symbolism, and that means the architecture must have something that appeals to the human heart.’”

Jack: (Lighting a cigarette.) “Yeah. But look around — all glass, all steel. No heart. Just math that touches the clouds.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the vast dark — a fragile echo of the buildings’ own longing.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what he meant, Jack. Architecture used to be poetry — temples, cathedrals, arches that told stories. Now it’s spreadsheets with windows.”

Jack: “That’s progress. People don’t build temples anymore. They build offices. You can’t fill a skyscraper with symbolism when it’s already full of shareholders.”

Jeeny: (Turning toward him, her voice soft but cutting.) “But you can fill it with meaning. You just have to remember who it’s for. Architecture isn’t about the building — it’s about the being who enters it.”

Jack: “That’s a nice slogan, Jeeny. But emotion doesn’t hold up a roof. Concrete does.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we still stand in awe before the Parthenon? Why does light through stained glass still make people cry? The structure lasts, but it’s the spirit that survives.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of a street musician below — a violin’s trembling notes threading through the mechanical pulse of the city. For a moment, even the cold glass towers seemed to pause and listen.

Jack: “You sound like you’re trying to romanticize geometry.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m trying to remind you that geometry once was sacred. Every line meant something. Every arch bowed to the sky. Even the angles whispered worship.”

Jack: (Exhaling smoke.) “You think architecture can still move people like that?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, we’re just building cages for our comfort.”

Host: Jack turned toward the skyline, the glow of the city reflected in his grey eyes — tiny constellations of doubt and wonder. The wind caught the edges of the blueprint again, threatening to lift it away. He placed his hand down firmly on the paper, pinning it — as if afraid to lose not just the plan, but the idea of order itself.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in that. When I started designing, I thought every building could speak — that the walls could hold emotion. But then clients wanted efficiency, not elegance. They wanted brand identity, not identity.”

Jeeny: “And you gave it to them?”

Jack: “Of course I did. You either build dreams or you build careers. You can’t do both.”

Jeeny: “Kenzo Tange did.”

Host: The silence that followed was long, stretching between them like the space between two pillars — fragile, vital.

Jack: “He lived in a different world. One where people still believed in symbols.”

Jeeny: “People still believe. They’re just starving for something to believe in. That’s why Tange said what he did — because we need buildings that remind us of ourselves.”

Jack: (Quietly.) “And what are we now?”

Jeeny: “Displaced. Surrounded by monuments to efficiency. Lost inside the architecture of our own isolation.”

Host: The words hung heavy in the air, pressing against the hum of the city. A plane passed overhead, its lights tracing a brief, luminous arc — a comet of human intention cutting through indifference.

Jack: (Almost whispering.) “When I was a kid, my father took me to see the Notre-Dame. I remember looking up at the gargoyles, the arches, the stained glass. It didn’t feel like a building. It felt… alive. Like it knew me.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what symbolism does. It turns walls into witnesses.”

Jack: “But we’ve forgotten how to build that way.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’ve just stopped trying.”

Host: The wind tugged at her hair again as she stepped beside him, leaning over the blueprint. Her finger traced the drawn lines — cold and perfect, without story or soul.

Jeeny: “What if this tower — this thing you’re designing — what if it wasn’t just a monument to progress, but a message? Something that could speak?”

Jack: “Speak to who?”

Jeeny: “To everyone who’s forgotten what it feels like to be small beneath something sacred.”

Jack: (Looking down at the plans.) “You make it sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “Faith and architecture were never that far apart.”

Host: The rain began to fall — soft, deliberate, painting the blueprint in small silver constellations. Jack didn’t move. The paper began to warp slightly, the ink blurring — but Jeeny didn’t stop tracing her finger across the lines.

Jeeny: “You see this curve here? If it bent toward the east, it would catch the sunrise every morning. Imagine that — a building that begins each day with light.”

Jack: (Half-smiling.) “You’re designing cathedrals again.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m designing hope.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping on metal rails and empty coffee cups. The city below reflected their silhouettes in every puddle — two dreamers on a rooftop, trying to teach steel how to feel again.

Jack: “You know… maybe Tange was right. Maybe symbolism isn’t luxury — it’s necessity. We build to survive, but we design to mean something.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The heart isn’t a distraction from architecture — it’s the foundation.”

Host: She smiled then — a small, luminous thing against the storm. Jack crushed his cigarette beneath his heel, the ember dying like an old idea, making room for a new one.

Jack: “You think I can still make something that speaks?”

Jeeny: “You just did. You just needed to listen.”

Host: The city stretched endlessly beneath them — towers like prayers, streets like veins. Somewhere far below, lights flickered in windows — millions of hearts beating inside their boxes of steel and glass.

The camera pulled back slowly, the two of them framed against the glowing architecture of humanity — fragile, flawed, reaching upward still.

And as the night deepened, Jack whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “Maybe buildings don’t just hold people. Maybe they hold our longing.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her gaze soft and eternal.

Jeeny: “Then build that longing, Jack. Build something that remembers us.”

Host: The rain blurred the skyline into watercolor. The city exhaled.

And in that fleeting breath of light and shadow, they both understood what Kenzo Tange had meant —

that architecture, like art, must speak not to the mind that calculates,
but to the heart that hopes.

That the symbol isn’t the building itself —
it’s the human being standing in awe before it.