What has happened to architecture since the second world war that

Host: The afternoon light was harsh — all glare and glass. A stretch of concrete boulevard cut through the heart of the city like a scar. Buildings of steel and mirror rose high, indifferent and unblinking, their reflections slicing the sky into pieces.

The air was hot, shimmering, dry — as if even the breeze refused to touch this place. Amid the noise of traffic, drills, and construction, two figures stood at the edge of a new development site: a tower of corporate modernism that reached so high it seemed to swallow the clouds.

Jack stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his face expressionless but his eyes — grey, cold — flickered with something like disdain.

Jeeny stood beside him, a portfolio tucked under her arm, her hair catching the sun, her brow furrowed not in anger but in quiet mourning.

The billboard above them read: “The Future of Urban Living — 212 Floors of Tomorrow.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Bernard Levin once asked, ‘What has happened to architecture since the Second World War that the only passers-by who can contemplate it without pain are those equipped with a white stick and a dog?’”

Host: The words cut through the noise like a sigh. The sentence hung between them, both accusation and lament.

Jack: (snorting) “What happened? Progress happened. Steel. Efficiency. Function. We stopped building cathedrals to gods and started building temples to productivity.”

Jeeny: “And lost our souls in the process.”

Jack: “Or maybe we finally grew up. You can’t live in nostalgia, Jeeny. The world’s faster now — tighter, denser, practical. People need places to work, not to worship.”

Jeeny: “You think worship only happens in churches? A building can lift the human spirit, Jack — or crush it. And look around. Everything’s crushing.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, like a wire pulled too tight. Around them, the wind howled between towers, making the sound of a wounded animal.

Jack: (gesturing to the skyline) “You call that crushing? That’s engineering brilliance. These towers — they’re miracles of human will. The old world couldn’t build this high.”

Jeeny: “And yet it stood taller in meaning. Look at that tower, Jack. It’s made of glass, but it reflects nothing human. No warmth, no story. It’s as if the architects forgot people exist.”

Jack: “They didn’t forget — they adapted. You talk like beauty can solve housing crises. People need roofs, not poetry.”

Jeeny: “Architecture is poetry. It’s the art that contains all others — light, form, sound, time. You think efficiency replaces soul, but efficiency without soul is death with Wi-Fi.”

Host: The air around them stilled. Even the machines in the distance seemed to pause, their clanking fading under the gravity of her words.

Jack: (sighing) “You always think buildings should feel something. But feelings don’t pay for foundations.”

Jeeny: “No — but they make us remember why we build them in the first place.”

Host: A bus passed by, its windows flashing the faces of tired commuters. All of them stared blankly, phones glowing, eyes dulled. Their city — shining, modern, perfect — had somehow forgotten to breathe.

Jeeny: (quietly) “When was the last time a building made you feel awe, Jack? Real awe — not admiration for its height, but reverence for its humanity?”

Jack: “Awe doesn’t put a roof over your head.”

Jeeny: “No, but it makes you want to stay beneath it.”

Host: The wind carried dust into their eyes. Jeeny blinked, her gaze drifting toward a nearby church — tiny, half-swallowed by the shadow of a skyscraper. The old stones glowed faintly in the sunlight, like a whisper of something that refused to die.

Jeeny: “Once, cities were symphonies. You could hear history in their walls. Now they’re just algorithms in concrete.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “That’s sentimentality. The war changed everything. After the bombs fell, people didn’t want decoration — they wanted safety, shelter, certainty. Brutalism was honesty made stone.”

Jeeny: “Honesty without tenderness is cruelty. You can call it truth, but it feels like punishment.”

Jack: “So what? You want to go back to gargoyles and gold domes while half the world’s homeless?”

Jeeny: “No. I want buildings that remember people live in them.”

Host: Jeeny’s words cut through the thick air, echoing faintly off the tower’s smooth facade. Jack looked up — the glass caught the sunlight like a blade, too bright to look at for long.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know, when I was a kid, I used to draw cities. Skyscrapers with clouds around them. I thought they were symbols of hope. But you’re right — I can’t remember the last time one made me feel anything but small.”

Jeeny: “Because they stopped being built for people. They’re built for profit margins, for investors. Glass for transparency, but walls that never breathe.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’re good with words. You’d make a terrible architect.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d make a decent human one.”

Host: The sun began to dip lower, painting the skyline in hues of rust and ash. The reflective towers turned the light into something violent, stabbing at the eyes.

Jeeny: “You ever stand in an old town square, Jack? You can feel the proportions of the human body in the geometry — how the windows sit like eyes, the arches like ribs. Modern buildings don’t hold us; they intimidate us.”

Jack: “Maybe they should. Maybe architecture shouldn’t comfort us. Maybe it should challenge us.”

Jeeny: “Challenge, yes — but not humiliate. These towers mock the human scale. It’s as if we built them to remind ourselves how insignificant we are.”

Jack: “That insignificance is the truth. Look at the stars — we’re nothing.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then why build at all?”

Host: A silence followed — heavy, profound. Even the traffic seemed to fade, as if the world itself leaned in to hear his answer.

Jack: (after a moment) “Because it’s all we can do. We build to resist being forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why it must mean something. A building isn’t just shelter; it’s a monument to our longing to matter.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders softened. He stared at the half-finished skyscraper again, but now his gaze had changed — from admiration to contemplation.

Jeeny: “After the war, we built walls to protect ourselves. But we never tore them down. Now we live inside our defenses and call them progress.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think beauty can heal that?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can remind us what healing looks like.”

Host: The sun was gone now, leaving only the electric glow of the city’s veins. Light bounced off the towers — cold, efficient, sterile. But down below, through a gap in the concrete, a small tree grew between slabs, its leaves catching the neon light like green fire.

Jeeny noticed it first, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “See that tree? It wasn’t supposed to grow there. But it did anyway. That’s what architecture should be — stubborn, alive, human.”

Jack: “And fragile.”

Jeeny: “And that’s its strength.”

Host: The wind stirred again, carrying the scent of rain. Jack looked once more at the skyline — the towers, the reflections, the shadows — and then at Jeeny, whose eyes seemed to hold the last bit of sunlight in the city.

Jack: “Maybe the problem isn’t architecture, Jeeny. Maybe it’s us. We forgot to feel.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s remember.”

Host: They stood there, side by side, as the city began to hum with the rhythm of night — lights blinking like distant stars. Above them, the skyscraper gleamed: proud, silent, empty. But somewhere deep within its shadow, that small tree shivered in the wind, a fragile defiance against the geometry of forgetting.

And for a fleeting moment, even Jack could see it — beauty trying to breathe beneath the weight of progress.

In the end, architecture wasn’t about walls or height. It was about whether, standing before it, you still felt like a person — and not a shadow among the glass.