Some places you visit, and you never get over them—paragons of grace, charm, and beauty.  Hemingway called Paris a moveable feast.   The thriving Latin Quarter with its casual (insouciant) students, and cozy bistros.  Montparnasse with its legendary cafés (like La Rotonde), and aura of artists and writers (think Simone de Beauvoir).  Saint-Germain-des-Prés with its chic shops, and the Sorbonne.  The Luxembourg Garden with its fountain, pool, sculptures, trees, and flowers.  (E.g., see Joan DeJean’s How Paris Became Paris: The Invention of the Modern City).

Fabulous! 

On the other hand . . . there are far too many locales which strike one as, well . . . misbegotten.  (Don’t worry—I won’t name your town.)  (Yet.)  Dirty.  Unhealthy.  Messy.  Broken down.  Boring.  Dangerous.  Ugly.  Depressing.  Lonely.  Dysfunctional.  Poor.  And . . . dare one say it?  Ignorant.  Crushing the spirits and lifestyles of residents and visitors alike. 

Wretched...

Do such contrasts not . . . disturb the mind?  This phenomenon has been called the atmospheric dimension of architecture—the effect of urban design on cognition, affect, behavior, and relationships.

The Daedalus Principle

Well, what gives?  One hand of humanity builds a dreamlike city, the other hand builds a nightmare.

Knossos, on Crete, was a glorious piece of functioning palatial architecture, splendidly designed and carefully built, and magically decorated with colorful frescoes of animals, plants, and people which look fresh, lively, cheerful, and bright even today, four thousand years later (e.g., see Anna Michailidou’s Knossos: A Complete Guide to the Palace of Minos).  Knossos was the beating heart of a thalassocracy, a relatively egalitarian, federated seagoing empire of strength, peace, beauty, productivity, and prosperity, lasting thousands of years (reminiscent of the legendary civilization of Atlantis, possibly linked to that amazing progenitor civilization Çatalhöyük).

What strikes many people as curious is that this cornucopia of art and architecture is sitting out in the middle of the Aegean Sea, far from anything else.  How is it that the citizens of an island, distant from the bustling, competitive, classical, archaic centers of civilization, like Egypt or Sumer, found the vision and discipline to create a community of such precision, elegance, and longevity?

The classical Greeks opined, via their myths, that on Crete dwelt a genius designer by the name of Daedalus.  Thus, the term Daedalus perhaps can be expanded usefully to signify: a robust civic development mentality consisting of enterprise, economic power, rigorous education, engineering excellence, and pervasive architectural and artistic sophistication; a mentality dedicated to creating an environment of cleanliness and health, prosperity and beauty, sensibly managed on behalf of all citizens—architectural happiness. 

The Hand that Crafts the Cradle

The public (widely conceived) seems to be laboring under the illusion that wonderful towns and cities, on the one hand, and regrettable towns and cities, on the other hand, just happen.  They don’t (e.g., see Joel Kotkin’s The Human City: Urbanism for the Rest of Us).

Wonderful towns and cities are the product of wonderful people purposely designing, building, and maintaining splendid environments.  Regrettable towns and cities are the result of careless people allowing their environment to decay into wrack and ruin, or never even rise to some reasonable level of order, civilized charm, and civic competence.  Wonderful towns and cities follow active, healthy nurturing.  Regrettable towns and cities follow passive, lethal neglect (and, all too often, sad locales allow themselves to be the victims of civic corruption).

Daedalus Examples

A Daedalus civitas might be defined paradigmatically as: a town or city almost universally admired, and even loved, a splendid environment in which to thrive.  To give a flavor of the concept, here are some outstanding examples (conceivably, offspring of Knossos, heart of Europe’s first civilization): Paris, in France; Rome, in Italy; Capri, in Italy; Vienna, in Austria; San Sebastian (Donostia), in Spain; Buenos Aires, in Argentina; Casino Square, in Monte-Carlo; London, in England; and . . . the Mall, in Washington, D.C.  

That last an absolutely shocking entry, of course, but the explanation is that Washington was designed in the 18th century by a French architect, Pierre L’Enfant.  As noted by Scott Berg, a L’Enfant biographer, "The Mall was designed as open to all comers . . . very . . . egalitarian." 

(Honorable mention, probably, should be granted to the vast Alhambra in Spain.  This is Granada’s majestic architectural jewel—a timeless dreamscape of glorious living, elevating spirits to paradise, while still on Earth.)

The Daedalus Protocol

The Dedalus Protocol might be defined as: a checklist of civic characteristics that people, at all levels of society, seem to relish in towns and cities, and even in private residences and hotels, across times and places.  Here is the is Protocol: 

Planning.  Okay, some places do evolve piecemeal, and everyone loves them anyhow.  The Latin Quarter is one of the prized neighborhoods of Paris, yet it reflects the meandering, patched-together construction of its origin—the Middle Ages.  The entrancing, casually winding, labyrinthine, Plaka neighborhood of Athens, similarly, is a product of building an addition here, then there, and lengthening a street to the left, then to the right, as the need arose, over eons.  Utterly charming.

But manifest civic order is almost universally appealing.  As soon as a rational layout registers, people tend to experience a sense of relief and reassurance—everything architecturally makes sense, therefore . . . life is going to be manageable.  (E.g., see Stephane Kirkland’s Paris Reborn: Napoleon III, Baron Haussmann, and the Quest to Build a Modern City).

Paris’s Avenue des Champs-Élysées runs straight down to, and enters at 90 degrees, the Place de la Concorde, which is essentially a rectangle (technically an octagon).  A thoroughfare exits the Place de la Concorde at 90 degrees, crosses a bridge straight across the Seine, and connects with Boulevard Saint-Germain, which angles away at about 45 degrees.  As soon as you grasp the geometric arrangement, you can easily find your way, from the Arc de Triomphe, for a photograph, to the Café Deux Magots, for a glass of Beaujolais.  

Architecture.  No buildings, no city.  However, perhaps a felicitous distinction could be made between construction, which does, indeed, contain people (we’re looking at you, Bauhaus), and architecture, which not only shelters humanity, but adds a grand, uplifting artistry to communities (e.g., see the electrifying architectural visions in the tribute review Joseph Urban, by the Tiffany design director, John Loring).  The famed industrial designer Norman Bel Geddes began in theater design, thus, his work may have partaken, a bit, of dramatic, philosophical romanticism (e.g., see Donald Albrecht’s Norman Bel Geddes Designs America).  However, his view was that buildings should impart a sense of majesty and rightness not only to the place, but also to the people.  The buildings should say to the average visitor or resident, “You are magnificent, and your world is going to keep on getting better—more systemic, less chaotic, more spacious, more prosperous, more beautiful”.   Architecture, in some way, should be glorious and inspiring.  Frank Lloyd Wright was loath to praise the efficiency of the International Style, as it seemed to sabotage the beauty of the built world.

Trees.  One of the pleasures of living is breathing.  But it’s very important in breathing to inhale oxygen.  This is not something we often think about.  But at one time the Earth didn’t have any oxygen.  Think about that for a moment.  (E.g., see the Nobel-prize winning biologist Christian de Duve’s Life Evolving: Molecules, Mind, and Meaning.) 

Trees are our friends.  And they have a storied veneration across time (e.g., see the Kabbalah’s devotion to the Tree of Life).   Trees convert carbon dioxide, which can kill us, into oxygen, which keeps us alive.  At some level in our collective psyche, we seem to know this.  Consequently, there is something universally gratifying about seeing oodles of trees in and around civic areas.  For example, that iconic Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in the core of Paris, is magnificently lined with big trees.  The heart of New York City is Central Park, its trees radiantly green in spring and summer.  The Alhambra is lushly packed with trees—a bucolic, life-giving touch of respite from a busy world.

Water.  Many people, walking across the desert, under a hot sun, have experienced the intriguing phenomenon of intense thirst.  Those same people then have discovered the refreshing miracle of water.  (Those who made it back.) 

The Minoans, as at Knossos, were obsessed with plumbing and hygiene (perhaps noticing a correlation between cleanliness and survival).  The queen had her own fancy bathtub.  A public bath was the centerpiece, 4,000 years ago, of Mohenjo Daro, the fantastic city of Harappan civilization in Ancient India (e.g., see Andrew Robinson’s The Indus: Lost Civilizations).  Bathing is an artform, of course, in Japan and Türkiye. 

Again, at some level in our collective psyche, we seem to find an abundance of water in civic areas, and even in nature, extremely reassuring, heavenly, perhaps, and water is certainly hygienic, as well as necessary for life.  Water adds a soothing yet electric frisson to almost any building or urban area (e.g., see Charles Moore’s Water and Architecture).  Fallingwater is a fabulous house which seems to float above a stream in the middle of the Pennsylvania woods, a stunning, timeless architectural icon linked to water (e.g., see Frank Lloyd Wright: Natural Design, Organic Architecture: Lessons for Building Green from an American Original, by Alan Hess and Alan Weintraub). 

Thus, a signature of splendid places to work and live is fountains, pools, and canals.  A major part of the charm of Amsterdam is its canals.  Rome has its fantastic Trevi Fountain, luscious setting for an almost-kiss between Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg, in La Dolce Vita.  The Alhambra complex’s Generalife has the much-photographed, gracious Long Pond Fountain, a dreamlike drizzle of water.  Wherever they occur, visitors and locals alike seem to be almost mesmerized by the splash and sparkle of fountains.  People often just sit around and stare at the water.  Some kind of archetypal connection, perhaps, making towns and cities gifted with water seem, at a profound level, comfortable, fluidly luxurious, refreshing, and reassuringly safe. 

Parks.  Who doesn’t like to sit in a park on a sunshiny day, eat ice cream, and watch the children excitedly feed the ducks paddling vigorously around on the pond?  Parks call for a design mentality—a fascination with the process of refashioning nature so that it’s still refreshingly “natural”, but just a little more artistic than Mother made it all by Herself.  (E.g., see David Bourdon’s Designing the Earth: The Human Impulse to Shape Nature, and John Dougill’s Zen Gardens and Temples of Kyoto: A Guide to Kyoto's Most Important Sites.)  Walkways, rows of trees, benches to sit and appreciate a pond, or cleverly aligned vistas, and then, in the cool of the evening, the magical glowing and flickering of the lamps and lanterns. 

The problem with parks in a town or city is that they cost money to keep up, and they occupy land which could be profitably exploited by wealthy developers, should they so choose.  Well, that’s where Team Daedalus comes in.  Every thriving municipality needs a coterie of intelligent, wealthy individuals who are determined, and equipped, to fight for the architectural rights of the public (and the public must support that fight).  All that is because small, excessively deep-pocketed, self-seeking groups are forever pursuing their own gain, pushing slickly against public benefit.   So, for a community to prosper beautifully, to create the city-as-garden, there must be a group of spirited, skilled, well-organized, well-funded architectural paladins, linked to a concerned citizenry, all willing to defend common interests, like parks.

(Daedalus developers, are you there?)

Flowers.  In spring, sunlight, warmth, and rain suddenly appear.  And, if the land is fertile, it is suddenly ablaze with flowers.  Who doesn’t like flowers?  (Okay, T.S. Eliot, when he opined that, “April is the cruellest month”, but The Wasteland is a piece of work, and not necessarily a piece of helpful work).  Flowers (even lilacs) are colorful, pretty, delicate, bright, lively, and harmless, a universally recognized symbol of fertility, love, generosity, and goodness.  

Just as flowers brighten up anyone’s day, relationship, or home, flowers brighten up a town or city.  The good news is that they are not too expensive; all they need, mostly, is some dirt and water and sunshine, and a bit of love, and many are hardy enough to last all year.

(Is that asking too much?)

Broad Avenues.  Baron Haussmann, civic sculptor of modern Paris, was not one to shy away from demolishing concatenations of crumbling constructions and replacing them with sumptuous boulevards.  That Avenue des Champs-Élysées, stretching magisterially from the Arc de Triomphe all the way to the Place de la Concorde, is a signature of the grace and power of the City of Light, reassuring to residents, and impressive to visitors.  Regent Street in London, 5th Avenue in New York City, Las Ramblas in Barcelona, Avenida da Liberdade in Lisbon, Unter den Linden in Berlin, Kalakaua Avenue in Honolulu, Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills—broad thoroughfares not only attract commerce, and wealth, but bespeak confidence and enterprise in the citizenry, and generate a shining civic self-image.  (As well as, usually, their own page in the visitors’ guidebooks; good marketing supports every community!)

Statues.  What people like is, well . . . people.  Study the news—it’s almost all pictures of faces.  Some of those faces belong to great leaders.  Great leaders, with a little luck, make great nations.  Honoring great leaders encourages ordinary citizens, the heroes-in-waiting, to rise up and meet those risky challenges with the derring-do which can stamp glory upon an epoch.

Statues are a fine way to honor the sacrifices of leaders.  In the center of stately Trafalgar Square in London is a statue of Lord Nelson, injured hero of the Battle of Trafalgar.  Even revered mythical figures can give a sense of mission and élan to a community.  By Parliament and Big Ben, at the end of Westminster Bridge, rides the bronze Warrior Queen Boadicea and her daughters.  Statues have an uncanny way of anchoring thoroughfares and plazas—suddenly, there is a meaningful origin and destination for traveling, a centerpiece for assembly, icons representing a proud community.

Ironically, in the archetypal past, the heroes and lords of the world were lovely, brave, clever young women.  For example, in the center of the Parthenon stood a gigantic statue of Athena, made of ivory and gold.  And that dignified feminine sculptural legacy is still with us.  The premier statues in the Louvre are the Venus de Milo, and the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  At the apex of the Supreme Court building in Hong Kong stands the Goddess Themis.  In the harbor of New York City stands Lady Liberty.  At the top of the majestic Brandenburg Gate in Berlin, in bronze, rides Nike in her chariot. 

(Not to neglect the contemporary statue, at Kensington Palace, of that aristocratic huntress of glamour, love, and compassion, Princess Diana.)

Plazas.  Folks have a powerful predilection for gathering together.  If you don’t think so, mosey on down to the Piazza Duomo in Amalfi, Italy, grab a tiny table at a trattoria, sip a glass of white wine, and revel in the passeggiata as it parades by.  There are lots of reasons people crowd together (e.g., see Monica Smith’s Cities: The First 6,000 Years). 

Marriage, for one.  Variety is good for the species.  Plazas are a handy place to survey the cool moves of the candidates . . . and the competition.  Various kinds of friendships can blossom.  Business, for example, prospers on the basis of contacts, and plazas are a useful place to meet and greet others who might have something to buy or sell.  Plazas are usually nicely designed, often with trees and fountains, and thus are pleasant places to have a Chablis and charcuterie, or a cup of cinnamon coffee and some almond strudel.  With luck, some strolling musicians will be seeking a hatful of coins, along with a smattering of applause.  Why not dance to accordion and mandolin music as the sun goes down?  “That’s Amore”!

Shops.  Sure, you can grab everything you really need at a big box store on the outside of town.  (If anyone needs it . . . China has a factory for it.)  

But there’s nothing quite like meandering along a row of cozy small shops, each cleverly designed, featuring unusual, fascinating artwork, chic clothing, exotic wines and foods, candles and incense, and books and magazines, often staffed by friendly, interested, knowledgeable clerks from distant lands, with some vague accent, and that exotic cognoscenti air.  Now, granted, shops featuring a narrow range of goods aimed at a narrow clientele have a harder time showing a profit, and paying their rent, than ones which sell a thousand coffee makers at half price.  It seems like the more fascinating a business is, the more touch-and-go it is financially.

(When was the last time you ate at a Cambodian restaurant, or bought a hand-dyed Peruvian alpaca throw, or a bottle of Harris Gin from the Hebrides Islands, or a first edition of Ireland’s The Ginger Man?  Would your life not be more interesting if you could?)   

Once again, the problem calls for civic-minded architectural paladins, with a streak of Daedalus sophistication, and a hefty checkbook, to figure out how to support fascinating shops which may struggle to turn a profit, but which contribute to the richness of civic life.  Such shops can line a plaza (like the pueblos in New Mexico’s Taos and Santa Fe), or fill side streets off a main thoroughfare, creating a bustling commercial community (something like the Avenue Montaigne running off the much larger Avenue des Champs-Élysées, or Jermyn Street by Picadilly Circus).

Bistros/Trattorias/Cafés/Tavernas/Pubs:   Greeks live in tavernas.  At five o’clock the watering holes of Athens, Santorini, or Heraklion begin to fill up.  The parents wander in after work.  The children wander in after school, and after meeting with their friends.  The taverna workers all know the families.  Everyone looks out for everyone else.  A cold Hellas, a gyro sandwich, the music of bouzoukis, and pretty soon, someone is dancing the sirtaki (okay, maybe some Anzacs, or visitors from Miami).   This is the spirit of life, which the Greeks call kefi. 

Brits come alive (Brit bonhomie-bravado, if you will) in their pubs, all dark-wood paneled and trimmed in bright brass. (“You seen Tommy yet?  Tell him I said, ‘Hullo!’”)  The Admiralty on Trafalgar Square.  The Swan in Holborn.  McNiell’s in the Hebrides.  (“All You Need Is Love”; “Hello, Goodbye”.)  Mates getting together after work.  One buys a round for all.  Then another buys a round for all.  Rugby and cricket.  EastEnders and Coronation Street. The Tories and Labor.  All the problems of the world are eventually settled, though not to everyone’s satisfaction.  Then it’s home . . . to the family, to the garden, to the dog or cat by the fire, and tea.

It's not so different in France, Italy, Hong Kong, or Japan.  Inns, in the most general sense of the term, are part of the rich and satisfying fabric of a community.  Part of the architecture of good living.  In their own way, things of beauty.  Worth protecting. 

Promenades.  In Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, along the Pacific Ocean, runs the Malecón.  Locals and visitors can stroll along this pedestrian-only boardwalk, beneath the palm trees, take in the sea breeze, and view the ocean and the bronze sculptures of dolphins and people, and every so often, stop for some wood-grilled shrimp, taco chips, guacamole, and a cold beer. 

The Promenade des Anglais, in Nice, France is a similar idea—people like to walk along arm in arm, under the palm trees, in the fine weather, take in the beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea, nod to the neighbors (ignoring the mean ones, of course), and maybe stop for some steak frites, bearnaise sauce, and champagne. 

Life could be worse.

And it is worse if there’s no place to promenade.  Once again, it takes architectural planning, budgetary savvy, and a determined defense of the public’s right to a satisfying lifestyle, if glorious civic amenities are to be generated and sustained.  Promenades rack up a ton of prime real estate, property which could hold multiple hotels, and make one or more developers rich.  (Though, again, perhaps the right developers—Daedalus types—could be fruitfully engaged in the construction of the promenade.)

Swans.  Okay, not every municipality can feature swans, but they are a marvelous addition to a surprisingly broad array of extraordinary residences.  The poet W.B. Yeats, in “The Wild Swans at Coole”, wrote, “I have looked upon those brilliant creatures/They drift on the still water/Mysterious, beautiful”.  Swans, in their mystical grace, cruise the Thames of England.   Swans, improbably, float across their pond at the Hotel Bel-Air in California.  And swans faithfully patrol their canal in front of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. 

Swans, in their serene majesty, say, “Everything is going to be all right.  We’re in complete control.  Don’t let yourself be bothered by those pesky little ducks.”

Protocol Profile

By the way . . . how does your town measure up?   You can rate each of the twelve features intuitively on a scale of 1-10, 10 being excellent (take a bow), and 1 being something quite different (look up at the ceiling, hum a happy tune).  Scoring each feature results in a sort of architectural personality profile for a town.  The zigzag line across the twelve columns, connecting the dots, indicates strengths (high points), and areas needing development (low points).  And glancing over such a profile gives a sense of a town’s average.  Some towns, like the Basque San Sebastian (Donostia), are phenomenally clean, neat, well-maintained, and attractive, and might score 10’s nearly across every category. 

12 Steps to Architectural Recovery

So, all that amounts to a sort of 12-Step Recovery Program for ailing communities.  Too many municipalities seem addicted to things like bribery, nepotism, captious nitpicking and dueling special interests, bad planning, cramped traffic, boring new construction, potholed streets, broken sidewalks, abandoned buildings, vacant lots full of garbage, burned-out streetlights, rusted and twisted fences, graffiti, chronic crime, and dying businesses.  (Can we really live like this?) 

Here, in sum, is the Daedalus Recovery Program:

1. Plan!  Sure, a little patchwork/adding-on here and there might be necessary.  But it usually works better, overall, for some Daedalus types—some community organizers with their hearts in the right place, assisted by trained designers and planners—to discuss the problems and goals of the community, and to visualize a preferred direction of architectural change.  Then draw the blueprints.  (Then find the money, of course.)
2. Build it beautiful, and they will come.  Yes, gorgeous architecture costs more than big metal boxes.  But as every business knows—good art sells.  That’s why business brochures are handsomely designed and printed, websites are knockouts, and salespeople are well-dressed.  Every community is an economic entity.  Splendid architectural design thus can be seen as a rational civic investment.
3. Plant trees.  True, they call for watering and trimming.  But almost nothing refreshes and humanizes a neighborhood like trees.  Landscaped neighborhoods usually can charge more for sales and rentals.  Lines of trees convey a sense of majesty to any street or road.  Plant some!  You’ll see.  (Of course, you’ll have to wait a while.)
4. Build fountains.  C’mon.  They aren’t that expensive.  And everyone loves them, from children to old people.  They impart a strange freshness to almost every setting.  If you don’t think so, go look at the main fountain in Monte Carlo, that civic signature of everyone’s glamourous dream existence.  (It’s just past the Aston Martins, and in front of those secret agents in tuxedos lurking by the Casino, if you’re looking out from your table at the Café de Paris; “Garçon!  Chartreuse, et quelques chocolats, s'il vous plaît!”) 
5. Build a park.  You’re right, that’s a lot of land.  Then bunches of trees and bushes have to be planted.  Maybe a fountain and a pond put in.  Walkways.  Benches.  And someone has to mow the grass.  But create a park, and it will fill with laughing children.  You will transform your community.
6. Plant flowers.  Give me a break!  You can grow flowers from a packet of seeds.  All right, someone has to tend them to keep them fresh and attractive.  And that person has to be paid.  But every town needs jobs, and simple ones are good for certain people.  Just as candles make a restaurant come alive, flowers make urban areas come alive.  What’s more romantic?
7. Slap down some broad avenues.  Okay, not easily done.  When Haussmann started ripping up those charming old, twisting Medieval lanes and replacing them with wide, majestic streets running straight as an arrow from point to point, he got a lot of pushback.  But who now would complain about the iconic majesty of the Avenue des Champs Élysées?
8. Sculpt some statues.  All cities and many towns have sculptors, and they are all looking for work.  “It’s not in the budget”, says the mayor.  Well, every decision is a tradeoff.  Budgets are yearly decisions, but towns and cities are forever.  Think of the kids.  And the kids’ kids.
9. Construct some plazas.  I know what you’re saying—clearing out a block to put in a fountain, trees, flowers, and benches is political poison.  But if the evicted merchants complain, promise them a plum location on the new plaza, and a favorable lease.  If the evicted residents complain, promise them plum apartments above the new shops.  If the media complain, tell them to get back to their gossip and celebrities. 
10. Recruit some unique shops.  There’s always a new crop of entrepreneurs hungry to capitalize on intriguing opportunities and riveting ideas.  Birria tacos.  Custom flamenco guitars.  Seafood crêpes.  Swedish crystal.  Candles.  Danish silver.  Gyros.  Scottish tartans.  Tibetan handcrafts.  A curiosity about interesting shops is that they tend to attract calm, cosmopolitan, well-heeled customers.  If you don’t think so, take a stroll down Ocean Avenue in Carmel-by-the-Sea, California.  (Nothing like that in your town?  Talk to your chamber of commerce.)
11. Make room for the eternal Red Lion.  One of the myths, partly true, surrounding the beloved J.K. Rowling, mother of Harry Potter, is that she composed her epic fantasy in that quaint Edinburgh café, the Elephant House.  Hemingway had his exotic El Floridita in Havana, Sloppy Joe’s in Key West, and Harry’s Bar in Venice.  Great gathering spots, like those Red Lions in London, can become welcoming hearts of whole communities. 
12. Go ahead—construct a promenade.  You’re right, again.  This is more complicated than installing a new traffic light on Main Street.  But it’s a rare town or city that doesn’t have a prized natural feature which would benefit from a promenade, inviting families to walk along a meandering path, beneath the trees and lamps, greeting friends, telling stories, and taking in the view of the river, the lake, or the valley below.  Kiosks can offer coffee and snacks, bratwursts and wine, creating jobs for locals. 

(As Walt Disney said, “If you can dream it, you can do it”.) 

Lastly, for some frosting on that civic 12-step architectural program cake, consider the 13th Step . . . importing some serene swans, and setting them adrift.  As Yeats wrote, “They paddle in the cold/Companionable streams or climb the air/Their hearts have not grown old”.

The Daedalus Roles

Twin interacting levels, A, the public, and B, the architectural paladins, can be proposed for the concept of Daedalus:

1. The public.  Most people have a remarkably sharp sense of beauty, when they choose to apply it.  They crowd around the Venus de Milo in the Louvre, the Trevi Fountain in Rome, and a red Lamborghini on the streets of Tokyo (should one drop by).  No one looks at the Eiffel Tower and says, “It’s all right, I guess, but not as great as a Route 66 donut shop”.  The trick is getting the public to demand and support interesting public artistry.  (Education!  Media!  Chamber of commerce!)
2. Architectural paladins.  But the real drivers of civic glory are going to be well-placed, generously funded individuals who care about public beauty, and are in a position to make it happen.  (Smarts!  Money!  Civic dedication!)  Such public-minded worthies need to be cosmopolitan themselves, as well as assisted by teams of trained designers, something like Frank Lloyd Wright’s legendary Taliesin Fellowship.  Developers, especially those successful ones easing towards the twilights of their careers, might pick up that civic beauty gauntlet.

Daedalus Education

1. The public.  Media usually have sections dedicated to politics, sports, and entertainment.  Why not have a section of the media dedicated to the beautification of the community?  Businesses almost certainly would flood the media with press releases regarding new designs for fountains and pools, sustainable cedar and laurel and pine groves, artistic stonework, and much more, so that there would be plenty of convenient content.  Schools usually teach art, but the emphasis too often seems to lean (far beyond reason) towards the idiosyncratic, bizarre, and pointless (we’re looking at you, Duchamp and Pollock).  Why couldn’t schools instruct in practical design—city planning, architecture, landscape, and interiors?  (Not to speak of grooming—e.g., see John Molloy’s Dress for Success—clothing being, in a sense, mobile architecture, as well as grounds for promotion, world-wide.)  As knowledge grows, motivation increases, and behavior follows.  Via sound design education, the whole citizen level of artistic sophistication could be raised!  (Wouldn’t that be nice?)
2. Architectural paladins.  Almost every community has a loose association of cognoscenti which takes design and art seriously.  Such people typically have art books in the home, take time with their furnishings and paintings, join drawing classes, visit museums, and travel.  They retain a vivid and appreciative image of, amongst others—the Eiffel Tower and the Champs de Mars, the Schönbrunn Palace, the Grand Canal of Venice, the statues of Winged Victory and David, the Trevi Fountain, the mystical romance of those spectacular Mayan cities soaring above the dark jungle, and Japan’s meticulously designed and maintained bullet trains, shrines, temples, gardens, and Gion District. 

Thus, architectural paladins possess a rich mental warehouse of fabulous artistic achievements, and can cheerfully apply it to their own communities.  And, crucially, they are able to line up the design professionals, the funding, and the business/political support necessary for the realization of delightful civic visions.  Via press releases, community meetings, video presentations, articles, books, and model constructions, Daedalus types can inspire communities to reach for civic cleanliness, health, convenience, and prosperity, and architectural majesty, all within a framework of social justice.

The Sage of Taliesin

“The longer I live the more beautiful life becomes.
If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it.
Your life will be impoverished.
But if you invest in beauty,
It will remain with you all the days of your life.”
- Frank Lloyd Wright

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Steve Davidson is a clinical psychologist in Laguna Beach, California, and a contributing editor to The Montreal Review. He has developed a new theory of personality and psychotherapy called human operations. It conceives of people as goal-oriented systems aimed at surviving and thriving, as described in his book An Introduction to Human Operations Psychotherapy.