There is no such thing as prodigy in architecture as there is, say, in music. You will not find a child architect. There is too much experience to be had, too much to know. The intelligence required to master our discipline is the kind of intelligence with which we know not one thing well but a little about a lot of things. We are generalists and our intelligence is general.
Our intelligence derives from lived real-world experience, that is, direct and mediated experience in contact with the world around us—people and place, art, and nature. We experience the world first-hand through our practice. We try things, fail, and try again. We also imitate and emulate our peers and our predecessors. We experience the world second-hand through their histories, traditions, mistakes, and successes.
There are core things to know and skills to have, chief among them the ability to draw and make models. We learn to “read” drawings and models that are abstractions of three-dimensional configurations of the physical world. We deploy mathematics (geometry, calculus), science (physics, thermodynamics), statistics (demographic, economic) and law (contracts, law and regulations).
We are partly psychologists and sociologists (and therapists). We must know how to present to, hear from and “read” individuals and a room full of individuals, those who are our partners, interlocutors, and challengers in the effort to make something. We must know how to navigate and negotiate often conflicting, even contradictory objectives and goals. We must cultivate empathy. How else are we to know what people want? Or how are we to communicate sometimes abstract and difficult-to-describe concepts about which we think every day to people who do not?
We must cultivate what psychologists call “situational awareness”, meaning not just knowing how to read the room but also how to assess the prospects that any proposition--planning, programming, design or otherwise--will or will not prevail within the webs of relationships that are communities, their cultures, and geographies. This takes experience and experience takes time.
As architects we know that there are so many kinds of things to experience, to know, and to act upon, sometimes so ineffable, so resistant to representation by words, numbers, or even pictures that it will never be possible to write algorithms for machines or gather enough data to train them on that will ever capture all of what we know—maybe in fragments, but never entirely or even generally.
We know from evolutionary science and neuroscience that the brain, the parts we call “old” such as the cerebellum and those we call “new” such as the neocortex evolved over millions if not billions of years, meaning over all those years of lived real-world experience. Neither part is more nor less human than the other, they are in constant communication and interaction with each other, as well as our bodies, and our environment—all of which adds up to those complex apparatuses that neuroscientists call our minds.
As architects, the efforts of our minds are informed by logic but not entirely—even though in retrospect the outcome may appear (or be made to appear) entirely logical. We are instead informed by the interplay of intuition (direct cognition rooted in in the old brain) and logic (mediated cognition rooted in the new brain) and in an iterative process we may never succeed to fully articulate.
As architects the complexity of the open ended range of both explicit and implicit variables at play requires more often than not that we evaluate promising outcomes based on what “looks” or “feels” right. In other words, we employ aesthetic intelligence, meaning intelligence that puts to work our minds—our whole brains, our bodies (hands, eyes, gut, and heart) and our environment (physical, social, and otherwise).
Then there is this: creativity. What is it? Is it imagination, open-mindedness, flexibility of mind, insight, discernment, wisdom? We seem to agree that in the pursuit of science and art creativity is indispensable. But creation is not possible without first having the desire to create and then a goal. And yet, in creative pursuits the goals are never entirely clear—neither from the outset nor ever (as they are in games like Jeopardy or Go or the SATs or the Bar Exam). Part of the art in what we do is to first identify then navigate constantly changing goals. We create problems as much as we create solutions.
Traditional symbolic and more recent neural network AIs get their goals—their problems to solve—from people in the form of computer codes, algorithms, data, letters, numbers, and pictures. But how will a computer, especially one that’s a black box that’s instructed by symbols and data with no lived real-world experience or desire of its own ever come up with its own goals? What makes us think that a Frankensteined code crunching data masher with a few appendages and no lived real-world experience—evolutionary, historical, or personal-—will ever, except to the extent that we allow it to fool us, suddenly spring to life or create anything on its own? These machines are tools, maybe useful ones we can choose to use or abuse. But machines don’t live or create, people do.