Within the field of architectural design, there are several theories about how architecture and design should, optimally, be implemented; two of these are the adaptive reuse theory and provisional composition theory. Adaptive reuse posits that out-of-use or non-functioning buildings can be best optimized by repurposing them for uses other than those for which they were originally constructed, thus reinventing them into entirely new spaces. Provisional composition, on the other hand, suggests that space and time are pre-existing entities and should be worked within, rather than re-manipulated and re-designed.

Francesca Lanz is a proponent of adaptive reuse; her main analytical claim is that the art of interior design has a greater purpose than merely working inside of an architectural space. Her question, put simply, is “Why do some European countries feel more autobiographical affinities to their built environment than others?”[1] She makes use of the neo-positivist small-n design by analyzing two specific cases, and she collects qualitative data on whether the spaces are ‘incident places,’ ‘identity places,’ and/or locations of vast socio-historical change, to show that uncertainty of identity in a built environment can be best rectified by re-imagining the use for historical buildings.

In contrast, proponents of provisional composition, such as Warakanyaka, aim to make the claim that temporal boundaries should be deeply respected, not reworked.[2] Warakanyaka also uses the small-n design, evaluating a single case: the redesign of waste distribution in the Jakarta neighborhood of Lokasari, using data such as geospatial and behavioral mapping to show how using existing gutter systems and neighborhood layouts could easily transform the area into a hub of urban glory.

These two schools of thought, and authors, are not in direct contradistinction to each other. While they disagree on the limitations of time and space in architectural design, they agree that urban spaces have the potential, and the responsibility, to be tremendously transformed for the better of a community, and that this is best studied through specific examples of public urban spaces. Lanz’s dichotomy of ‘incident vs. identity places’ may be a useful tool I can use to classify architectural spaces in my own research, while Warakanyaka’s contrasting opinion has shown me that I can build on this key debate between the two opposing theories—and perhaps find harmony between them.

[1] Lanz, Francesca. “Re-Inhabiting- Thoughts on the Contribution of Interior Architecture to Adaptive Intervention: People, Places and Identities.” Journal of Interior Design 43, no. 2 (June 1, 2018): 1–10. https://doi.org/ 10.1111/joid.12121.

[2] Warakanyaka, Agung Ayu Suci, and Andri Yatmo. “Understanding the Importance of Time in Interior Architectural Design and Method.” Sciences Humaines Et Sociales Web of Conferences Journal 41 (2018). https://doi.org/http://dx.doi.org/10.1051/shsconf/20184104009.

Inherent philosophical commitments, as we have learned, are not necessarily bad things to have. Although no one methodology or theory is the ‘right’ one, it can surely be right for us, for a particular project. In order to understand and then properly employ these methodologies, we must have a firm grasp on what it is we want to explore—what do we know, what don’t we know, and how? This is where ontology enters. Put simply, ontology is the study of being, but also the examination of our beliefs about the nature of reality. Ontology is far more metacognitive than epistemology, its existential cousin, which asks how we come to have those ontological conceptualizations about the nature of reality.

Methodology, on the other hand, is a systematic collection of decisions about how research will be conducted and analyzed. A method is one choice; the methodology is the bundle of choices tied together. Within the schools of ontology and epistemology lie several different approaches to research—at times, vastly differing, at others, nearly indistinguishable—each of which has a range of methodologies emblematic of those approaches. For example, underneath the thought school of epistemology lies the neo-positivist approach to research, whose methodologies typically entail statistical analysis and large sets of data.

I in no way can be an objective observer of the social world. Humans tend to believe they are exceptionally good at self-removal and critical observation; this is merely self-deceiving. The opinions we are inclined to form, the observations we make (versus those which go entirely unnoticed), and perhaps even the reason for selecting the methodology at large are all results of our particular enculturation, largely immutable and often invisible to the self. This has reverberating effects on social science research, which is why it is particularly valuable to employ a large range of diverse pre-existing scholarship when crafting original research. These previous opinions—each of them a result of that particular researcher’s environment, historical moment, and inherent assumptions—can provide a sort of buffer to my own opinions and assumptions, creating a smorgasbord of different backgrounds to draw from. It is not a perfect approach—using a wide range of others’ study to make my own less personal and subjective—but it is certainly a reasonable one.

Jonathan Fox did just this. He did not seek to build his own tools of measurement based on what he thought would be adequate; he instead employed the already-existing Hafner-Burton scale. Whether or not this was the best scale for measuring the extent of state repression is another matter altogether—what matters here is that he buffered his own biases and assumptions by using another researcher’s tools.

David Edelstein, on the other hand, is an example of inherent political assumption as a driver of research. It is implicit that his work is driven by his hesitation towards US policy in Iraq at the time, and that his ulterior goals was to motivate others to heed similar caution. To be certain, his work is plenty buffered by objective historical facts (he spends the first several pages providing exposition for why this research is important regardless of the contemporary situation abroad), but here it is clear that sometimes what motivates us to undertake such projects in the first place are our own opinions.

The list of things we can make valid knowledge claims about is comically short. Even when presenting heavily-researched social phenomena, researchers are required to make all sorts of qualifications and caveats, because they recognize that their work is narrowed by the limits of time and space (although this, in itself, is another one of my fundamental assumptions—that not all knowledge can transcend time). Even when we see things with our own eyes, we see them as we are, not as they are. It is, to be sure, still worth it to make these knowledge claims, because hearing them from other people enables us to examine what might be missing from our own.

Cyber capabilities, weapons of war, and economic horsepower are often studied as tools used by countries vying for influence, strength, and power on the world stage. Ignored, however, are the many forms of soft power used skillfully by leaders, diplomats, and artists alike to project a particular image to the rest of the world. This is certainly worth researching, as how other countries perceive us—and how we perceive them—is essential to how we communicate and negotiate the challenges ahead.

The form of soft power I will focus on has not yet been decided—in fact, it shifts quite often. Currently, I am fascinated by how architecture shapes national identity; how everything from the scale to the colors to the building materials reflect a rich history. For some countries, the legacy of colonialism remains, with buildings for distinct social castes; for others, attempts at modernization and technological development are apparent in sleek, minimalist designs. Whatever the narrative, one thing is for certain: architecture is a visible, tangible projection of a country’s past, present, and future. For now, my research question shall be: how have, and how can, nations use architecture to define their narrative and national identity?

Puzzles abound with this research question. First, the concept of a national identity must be defined; some scholars even argue that the idea of a cohesive identity is merely imagined and impossible to define in areas with vast linguistic, ethnic, and cultural diversity. Which of these histories should architecture choose to reflect? The second puzzle is the trade-off of historical identity and modernity: in the pursuit of sustainability, efficacy, and technological capability, many buildings must be reconstructed or redesigned entirely. How, then, can that happen without erasing the history of the original structure? Finally, how can architecture—or the destruction of it—be used as a weapon in times of political turmoil or war? What do the materials, layouts, light sources, color palettes, and silhouettes communicate? Do architects and artists have a responsibility to adhere to a community’s identity and preference when crafting these structures? Do architects who begin projects in developing countries have an ethical responsibility to strengthen the technological capacity and sustainability of their buildings, and if they do, might it create a form of architectural imperialism in doing so?

These questions are inextricable from the transcendental-situated knowledge debate that Abbott has presented to us. Because architecture is perhaps one of the most resilient art forms we have, and because by nature, it is designed to last throughout decades and centuries, it is critical that I consider whether the historical meaning of these creations still remains throughout time, or whether it changes with new political and social eras.

I first began thinking about architecture and its relationship to identity as I moved up here, to Washington, D.C., from the South. The difference in residential areas was striking: in the South, houses are wide, white, and columned, with huge grassy lawns—not unlike the images of the plantation era. Here, I saw brick, multilevel houses that seemed narrow and industrial—I wondered how much that might have to do with the constraints that crowded-city living places on individuals. Then, I read a piece in Architectural Review about how to destroy architecture is to destroy a community, which referenced a Syrian monument destroyed in a terrorist attack.[1] I realized that residential, commercial, and religious structures alike are inherent to the way we perceive ourselves and our communities, and that the issue transcends geographic boundaries—so it may be worth researching.

[1] Mogliozzi, Zaira. “To Destroy Architecture Is to Attack the Cultural Identity of a Nation.” Architectural Review, February 13, 2016. https://www.architectural-review.com/essays/reviews/to-destroy-architecture-is-to-attack-the-cultural-identity-of-a-nation/10002660.article.