When Buildings Learn to Dance

What profession do you admire most and why?

The first building that ever made me feel small in the best possible way was my childhood church, St. Ignatius. On Sunday mornings, the sun would slip through the stained-glass windows like it had secrets to tell, scattering pools of ruby, sapphire, and gold across the worn wooden pews. The carved columns stood like sentinels, each swirl and groove a frozen fragment of a story.

Sometimes—okay, often—I wasn’t listening when the priest was speaking. My ears would drift in and out of his words, but my eyes… my eyes were busy wandering. They followed the steep roofline up, up, up until it disappeared into shadow. They lingered on the saints and angels etched into wood, imagining whispered conversations between them. I’d trace the lines of a carving with my gaze until it felt like I could step inside the scene and become part of it.

That was my first lesson in the magic of architecture—that a building could be both a shelter and a story, both a place you enter and a place that enters you.

I admire architecture because it is the rare marriage of science, math, and art. It begins within the strict walls of possibility—gravity, budget, physics, codes—and yet, within those confines, architects ask the most delicious question: what if?

What if we nudge this corner? Arch that roofline? Add a window that greets the morning sun or frames the skyline like a living painting?

The best architecture balances form and function so seamlessly that you can’t see the seams. A library that hushes you before you’ve even crossed the threshold. A cathedral that lifts both your eyes and your spirit in the same breath. A home whose windows seem to smile in the afternoon light.

St. Ignatius was my first glimpse of that balance. Its shape was simple—a steep roofline, clean lines—yet everything came together with such elegance that it felt like stepping into a piece of art every Sunday. It was both humble and transcendent, both shelter and sanctuary.

Architecture reminds me that brick, steel, and glass—arranged with vision—can be a human experience made tangible. And that even the sturdiest boxes can, with enough imagination, learn to stretch, curve, and dance.

— The Wallflower