Today I'm going to speak to you about the last 30 years of architectural history. That's a lot to pack into 18 minutes.
Danes vam bom govoril o zadnjih 30 letih arhitekturne zgodovine. To je dosti za samo 18 minut.
It's a complex topic, so we're just going to dive right in at a complex place: New Jersey. Because 30 years ago, I'm from Jersey, and I was six, and I lived there in my parents' house in a town called Livingston, and this was my childhood bedroom. Around the corner from my bedroom was the bathroom that I used to share with my sister. And in between my bedroom and the bathroom was a balcony that overlooked the family room. And that's where everyone would hang out and watch TV, so that every time that I walked from my bedroom to the bathroom, everyone would see me, and every time I took a shower and would come back in a towel, everyone would see me. And I looked like this. I was awkward, insecure, and I hated it. I hated that walk, I hated that balcony, I hated that room, and I hated that house.
Je kompleksna tema, zato bomo vanjo skočili na kompleksnem mestu: New Jersey. Zato, ker pred 30 leti, jaz sem iz Jerseyja, bil sem šest let star, živel pa sem pri starših v mestecu Livingston in to je bila moja otroška spalnica. Za vogalom moje sobe je bila kopalnica, ki sem si jo delil s svojo sestro. Med mojo sobo in kopalnico je bil balkon, ki je nudil razgled na dnevno sobo. Tam so se vsi družili in gledali TV, tako da vsakič, ko sem šel od sobe do kopalnice, so me vsi videli, in vsakič, ko sem se stuširal in se vrnil v brisači, so me vsi videli. Izgledal pa sem takole. Bil sem neroden, negotov in sovražil sem to. Sovražil sem tisto hojo, sovražil sem tisti balkon, sovražil sem tisto sobo in sovražil sem tisto hišo.
And that's architecture. (Laughter) Done. That feeling, those emotions that I felt, that's the power of architecture, because architecture is not about math and it's not about zoning, it's about those visceral, emotional connections that we feel to the places that we occupy. And it's no surprise that we feel that way, because according to the EPA, Americans spend 90 percent of their time indoors. That's 90 percent of our time surrounded by architecture. That's huge. That means that architecture is shaping us in ways that we didn't even realize.
No, to je arhitektura. (smeh) Končano. Ta občutek, ta čustva, ki sem jih občutil, to je moč arhitekture, ker pri arhitekturi ne gre za matematiko in ne gre za coniranje, ampak za tiste visceralne, čustvene povezave ki jih čutimo do prostorov, v katerih smo. In nobeno presenečenje ni, da tako čutimo, saj ameriška agencija za varovanje okolja (EPA) pravi, da Američani 90 odstotkov svojega časa preživijo v zaprtih prostorih. To je 90 odstotkov našega časa obkroženi z arhitekturo. To je ogromno. To pomeni, da nas arhitektura oblikuje na načine, ki se jih sploh ne zavedamo.
That makes us a little bit gullible and very, very predictable. It means that when I show you a building like this, I know what you think: You think "power" and "stability" and "democracy." And I know you think that because it's based on a building that was build 2,500 years ago by the Greeks. This is a trick. This is a trigger that architects use to get you to create an emotional connection to the forms that we build our buildings out of. It's a predictable emotional connection, and we've been using this trick for a long, long time. We used it [200] years ago to build banks. We used it in the 19th century to build art museums. And in the 20th century in America, we used it to build houses. And look at these solid, stable little soldiers facing the ocean and keeping away the elements.
To nas naredi nekoliko lahkoverne in zelo zelo predvidljive. To pomeni, da ko vam pokažem takšno zgradbo, vem, kaj si mislite: Mislite si "moč" in "stabilnost" in "demokracija." In vem, da si to mislite, ker temelji na zgradbi, ki so je Grki zgradili pred 2.500 leti. In v tem je trik. To je sprožilec, ki ga arhitekti uporabijo, da bi ustvarili čustveno povezavo z oblikami, iz katerih gradimo svoje zgradbe. To je predvidljiva čustvena povezava in ta trik uporabljamo že zelo zelo dolgo. Pred [200] leti smo ga uporabili za gradnjo bank. V 19. stoletju smo ga uporabili za gradnjo muzejev. In v 20. stoletju ga v Ameriki uporabljamo za gradnjo hiš. Poglejte te trdne, neomajne majhne vojake, obrnjene proti oceanu, zadržujoč vremenske neprilike.
This is really, really useful, because building things is terrifying. It's expensive, it takes a long time, and it's very complicated. And the people that build things -- developers and governments -- they're naturally afraid of innovation, and they'd rather just use those forms that they know you'll respond to.
To je res res uporabno, saj je gradnja grozljiva. Je draga, zahteva veliko časa in je zelo komplicirana. Ljudje, ki gradijo - razvijalci in vlade - pa se po naravi bojijo inovacij in raje uporabijo kar oblike, za katere vedo, da se boste odzvali nanje.
That's how we end up with buildings like this. This is a nice building. This is the Livingston Public Library that was completed in 2004 in my hometown, and, you know, it's got a dome and it's got this round thing and columns, red brick, and you can kind of guess what Livingston is trying to say with this building: children, property values and history. But it doesn't have much to do with what a library actually does today. That same year, in 2004, on the other side of the country, another library was completed, and it looks like this. It's in Seattle. This library is about how we consume media in a digital age. It's about a new kind of public amenity for the city, a place to gather and read and share.
Zato končamo z zgradbami, kot je ta. To je prijetna zgradba. To je Livingstonska javna knjižnica, ki so jo dokončali v 2004 v mojem rojstnem mestecu in, veste, ima kupolo in tole okroglo zadevo in stebre, rdeče opeke, in nekako lahko uganete, kaj poskuša Livingstone s to zgradbo sporočiti: otroci, vrednosti nepremičnin in zgodovina. Vendar to nima veliko veze s tem, kar knjižnica danes dejansko počne. Istega leta, 2004, na drugi strani države so dokončali še eno knjižnico, ki zgleda takole. Je v Seattlu. Ta knjižnica predstavlja, kako v digitalni dobi konzumiramo medije. Gre za novo vrsto javnega dobra za mesto, kraj za zbiranje, branje in deljenje.
So how is it possible that in the same year, in the same country, two buildings, both called libraries, look so completely different? And the answer is that architecture works on the principle of a pendulum. On the one side is innovation, and architects are constantly pushing, pushing for new technologies, new typologies, new solutions for the way that we live today. And we push and we push and we push until we completely alienate all of you. We wear all black, we get very depressed, you think we're adorable, we're dead inside because we've got no choice. We have to go to the other side and reengage those symbols that we know you love. So we do that, and you're happy, we feel like sellouts, so we start experimenting again and we push the pendulum back and back and forth and back and forth we've gone for the last 300 years, and certainly for the last 30 years.
Kako je torej mogoče, da v istem letu v isti državi dve zgradbi, obe knjižnici, izgledata tako različno? Odgovor je ta, da arhitektura deluje po principu nihala. Na eni strani je inovacija in arhitekti konstantno težijo k novim tehnologijam, novim tipologijam, novim rešitvam za načine, kako danes živimo. In pritiskamo, pritiskamo, pritiskamo, dokler vas vseh popolnoma ne odtujimo. Oblečeni smo v črno, postanemo zelo depresivni, zdimo se vam prisrčni, navznoter smo mrtvi, ker nimamo izbire. Moramo na drugo stran in ponovno uporabiti simbole, za katere vemo, da jih imate radi. To naredimo in vi ste srečni, mi pa se počutimo prodane in znova začnemo eksperimentirati in potisnemo nihalo nazaj, naprej in nazaj, naprej in nazaj, in to že zadnjih 300 let in zagotovo zadnjih 30 let.
Okay, 30 years ago we were coming out of the '70s. Architects had been busy experimenting with something called brutalism. It's about concrete. (Laughter) You can guess this. Small windows, dehumanizing scale. This is really tough stuff. So as we get closer to the '80s, we start to reengage those symbols. We push the pendulum back into the other direction. We take these forms that we know you love and we update them. We add neon and we add pastels and we use new materials. And you love it. And we can't give you enough of it. We take Chippendale armoires and we turned those into skyscrapers, and skyscrapers can be medieval castles made out of glass. Forms got big, forms got bold and colorful. Dwarves became columns. (Laughter) Swans grew to the size of buildings. It was crazy. But it's the '80s, it's cool. (Laughter) We're all hanging out in malls and we're all moving to the suburbs, and out there, out in the suburbs, we can create our own architectural fantasies. And those fantasies, they can be Mediterranean or French or Italian. (Laughter) Possibly with endless breadsticks.
V redu, pred 30 leti smo prihajali iz sedemdesetih. Arhitekti so eksperimentirali s tako imenovanim brutalizmom. Gre za beton. (smeh) To lahko uganete. Majhna okna, razčlovečena merila. To je res surovo. Ko pa se bližamo osemdesetim, ponovno začnemo uporabljati tiste simbole. Nihalo potisnemo nazaj v drugo smer. Vzamemo oblike, za katere vemo, da jih imate radi in jih posodobimo. Dodamo neonke in dodamo pastelne barve in uporabimo nove materiale. In vi to obožujete. In ne moremo vam dati dovolj tega. Vzamemo Chippendale omare in jih spremenimo v nebotičnike, nebotičniki pa so lahko srednjeveški gradovi iz stekla. Oblike so postale velike, pogumne in barvite. Škrati so postali stebri. (smeh) Labodi so zrasli do velikosti zgradb. Noro je bilo. A osemdeseta so, to je kul. (smeh) Vsi se družimo v nakupovalnih središčih in vsi se selimo v predmestja, tam zunaj v predmestjih pa lahko ustvarjamo lastne arhitekturne fantazije. Te fantazije pa so lahko mediteranske ali francoske ali italijanske. (smeh) Po možnosti z neomejeno količino krušnih palčk.
This is the thing about postmodernism. This is the thing about symbols. They're easy, they're cheap, because instead of making places, we're making memories of places. Because I know, and I know all of you know, this isn't Tuscany. This is Ohio. (Laughter)
Tako je to s postmodernizmom. Tako je to s simboli. Preprosti so, poceni, ker namesto ustvarjanja prostorov, ustvarjamo spomine na prostore. Ker vem, in vem, da tudi vsi vi veste, da to ni Toskana. To je Ohio. (smeh)
So architects get frustrated, and we start pushing the pendulum back into the other direction. In the late '80s and early '90s, we start experimenting with something called deconstructivism. We throw out historical symbols, we rely on new, computer-aided design techniques, and we come up with new compositions, forms crashing into forms. This is academic and heady stuff, it's super unpopular, we totally alienate you. Ordinarily, the pendulum would just swing back into the other direction. And then, something amazing happened.
Arhitekti postanejo frustrirani in začnemo potiskati nihalo nazaj v drugo smer. V poznih osemdesetih in zgodnjih devetdesetih začnemo eksperimentirati s tako imenovanim dekonstruktivizmom. Znebimo se zgodovinskih simbolov, zanašamo se na nove, računalniško podprte tehnike oblikovanja in pridemo do novih kompozicij, kjer oblike trčijo v oblike. To so akademske in močne stvari, zelo nepriljubljene, popolnoma vas odtujimo. Navadno bi nihalo zanihalo nazaj v drugo smer. A potem se je zgodilo nekaj neverjetnega.
In 1997, this building opened. This is the Guggenheim Bilbao, by Frank Gehry. And this building fundamentally changes the world's relationship to architecture. Paul Goldberger said that Bilbao was one of those rare moments when critics, academics, and the general public were completely united around a building. The New York Times called this building a miracle. Tourism in Bilbao increased 2,500 percent after this building was completed. So all of a sudden, everybody wants one of these buildings: L.A., Seattle, Chicago, New York, Cleveland, Springfield. (Laughter) Everybody wants one, and Gehry is everywhere. He is our very first starchitect.
Leta 1997 so odprli to zgradbo. To je Guggenheim Bilbao, Franka Gehryja. In ta zgradba je do temeljev spremenila odnos sveta do arhitekture. Paul Goldberger je rekel, da je bil Bilbao eden od tistih redkih trenutkov, ko so se kritiki, akademiki in splošna javnost popolnoma zedinili glede zgradbe. New York Times je to zgradbo oklical za čudež. Turizem v Bilbau se je povišal za 2.500 odstotkov, ko je bila ta zgradba končana. Tako kar naenkrat vsi želijo eno od teh zgradb: Los Angeles, Seattle, Chicago, New York, Cleveland, Springfield. (smeh) Vsi želijo svojo in Gehry je povsod. Je naš čisto prvi zvezdniški arhitekt.
Now, how is it possible that these forms -- they're wild and radical -- how is it possible that they become so ubiquitous throughout the world? And it happened because media so successfully galvanized around them that they quickly taught us that these forms mean culture and tourism. We created an emotional reaction to these forms. So did every mayor in the world. So every mayor knew that if they had these forms, they had culture and tourism.
Kako je mogoče, da te oblike - divje so in radikalne - kako je mogoče, da postanejo tako vseprisotne širom po svetu? To se je zgodilo zato, ker so se mediji tako uspešno navduševali nad njimi, da so nas hitro naučili, da te oblike pomenijo kulturo in turizem. Ustvarili smo čustven odziv na te oblike. Tako kot vsak župan na svetu. Vsak župan je torej vedel, da če bodo imeli te oblike, bodo imeli kulturo in turizem.
This phenomenon at the turn of the new millennium happened to a few other starchitects. It happened to Zaha and it happened to Libeskind, and what happened to these elite few architects at the turn of the new millennium could actually start to happen to the entire field of architecture, as digital media starts to increase the speed with which we consume information. Because think about how you consume architecture. A thousand years ago, you would have had to have walked to the village next door to see a building. Transportation speeds up: You can take a boat, you can take a plane, you can be a tourist. Technology speeds up: You can see it in a newspaper, on TV, until finally, we are all architectural photographers, and the building has become disembodied from the site. Architecture is everywhere now, and that means that the speed of communication has finally caught up to the speed of architecture.
Ta fenomen se je na prelomu tisočletja zgodil še nekaj zvezdniškim arhitektom. Zgodilo se je Zahi in zgodilo se je Libeskindu, in kar se je zgodilo nekaterim od teh elitnih arhitektov na prelomu tisočletja, bi se v resnici lahko začelo dogajati celotnemu področju arhitekture, ker digitalni mediji začenjajo zviševati hitrost, s katero konzumiramo informacije. Razmislite, kako konzumirate arhitekturo. Pred tisoč leti bi se morali sprehoditi do sosednje vasi, da bi videli zgradbo. Prevoz se pohitri: lahko greste s čolnom ali letalom, lahko postanete turist. Tehnologija se pohitri: lahko jo vidite v časopisu, na TV, dokler nismo na koncu vsi arhitekturni fotografi in zgradba postane izvzeta iz svojega mesta. Arhitektura je zdaj povsod in to pomeni, da je hitrost komunikacije končno dosegla hitrost arhitekture.
Because architecture actually moves quite quickly. It doesn't take long to think about a building. It takes a long time to build a building, three or four years, and in the interim, an architect will design two or eight or a hundred other buildings before they know if that building that they designed four years ago was a success or not. That's because there's never been a good feedback loop in architecture. That's how we end up with buildings like this. Brutalism wasn't a two-year movement, it was a 20-year movement. For 20 years, we were producing buildings like this because we had no idea how much you hated it. It's never going to happen again, I think, because we are living on the verge of the greatest revolution in architecture since the invention of concrete, of steel, or of the elevator, and it's a media revolution.
Arhitektura se namreč kar hitro premika. Ne traja dolgo, da si zamislite zgradbo. Dolgo traja, da jo zgradite, tri ali štiri leta, vmes pa bo arhitekt oblikoval dve ali osem ali sto drugih zgradb, preden bo vedel, ali je tista zgradba, ki jo je oblikoval pred štirimi leti, bila uspešna ali ne. To pa zato, ker v arhitekturi nikoli ni bilo dobre povratne informacije. Zato končamo z zgradbami, kot je ta. Brutalizem ni bil dveletno gibanje, bil je 20-letno gibanje. 20 let smo gradili zgradbe, kot je ta, ker nismo vedeli, kako zelo jih sovražite. To se ne bo nikoli več zgodilo, vsaj mislim, ker živimo na pragu največje revolucije v arhitekturi od izuma betona, jekla ali dvigala, in sicer revolucije medijev.
So my theory is that when you apply media to this pendulum, it starts swinging faster and faster, until it's at both extremes nearly simultaneously, and that effectively blurs the difference between innovation and symbol, between us, the architects, and you, the public. Now we can make nearly instantaneous, emotionally charged symbols out of something that's brand new.
Moja teorija je, da ko na to nihalo dodate medije, začne vedno hitreje nihati, dokler ni na obeh ekstremih skoraj sočasno, to pa uspešno zamegli razliko med inovacijo in simbolom, med nami, arhitekti, in vami, javnostjo. Zdaj lahko skoraj v hipu naredimo čustveno nabite simbole iz nečesa, kar je popolnoma novo.
Let me show you how this plays out in a project that my firm recently completed. We were hired to replace this building, which burned down. This is the center of a town called the Pines in Fire Island in New York State. It's a vacation community. We proposed a building that was audacious, that was different than any of the forms that the community was used to, and we were scared and our client was scared and the community was scared, so we created a series of photorealistic renderings that we put onto Facebook and we put onto Instagram, and we let people start to do what they do: share it, comment, like it, hate it. But that meant that two years before the building was complete, it was already a part of the community, so that when the renderings looked exactly like the finished product, there were no surprises. This building was already a part of this community, and then that first summer, when people started arriving and sharing the building on social media, the building ceased to be just an edifice and it became media, because these, these are not just pictures of a building, they're your pictures of a building. And as you use them to tell your story, they become part of your personal narrative, and what you're doing is you're short-circuiting all of our collective memory, and you're making these charged symbols for us to understand. That means we don't need the Greeks anymore to tell us what to think about architecture. We can tell each other what we think about architecture, because digital media hasn't just changed the relationship between all of us, it's changed the relationship between us and buildings. Think for a second about those librarians back in Livingston. If that building was going to be built today, the first thing they would do is go online and search "new libraries." They would be bombarded by examples of experimentation, of innovation, of pushing at the envelope of what a library can be. That's ammunition. That's ammunition that they can take with them to the mayor of Livingston, to the people of Livingston, and say, there's no one answer to what a library is today. Let's be a part of this. This abundance of experimentation gives them the freedom to run their own experiment.
Naj vam pokažem, kako se to odvije na projektu, ki ga je moje podjetje nedavno zaključilo. Najeli so nas, da nadomestimo to zgradbo, ki je pogorela. To je center mesteca Pines na otoku Fire v zvezni državi New York. To je dopustniško naselje. Predlagali smo zgradbo, ki je bila drzna, ki je bila drugačna od vseh oblik, ki jih je skupnost bila vajena in bilo nas je strah in našo stranko je bilo strah in skupnost je bilo strah, zato smo pripravili serijo fotorealističnih upodobitev, ki smo jih dali na Facebook in na Instragram in pustili, da ljudje začnejo početi, kar počnejo: delijo, komentirajo, všečkajo, sovražijo. A to je pomenilo, da je dve leti, preden je bila zgradba dokončana, že bila del skupnosti, tako da, ko so upodobitve izgledale natanko tako kot končni produkt, ni bilo presenečenj. Ta zgradba je že bila del te skupnosti in potem tisto prvo poletje, ko so ljudje začeli prihajati in deliti zgradbo na družbenih omrežjih, je zgradba prenehala biti samo stavba in je postala medij, ker to niso samo slike zgradbe, to so vaše slike zgradbe. In ko jih uporabljate, da poveste svojo zgodbo, postanejo del vaše osebne pripovedi in s tem v bistvu delate kratek stik v našem kolektivnem spominu in ustvarjate te naelektrene simbole, ki jih razumemo. To pomeni, da več ne potrebujemo Grkov, da nam povedo, kaj si naj mislimo o arhitekturi. Lahko drug drugemu povemo, kaj si mislimo o arhitekturi, ker digitalni mediji niso spremenili samo odnosov med vsemi nami, spremenili so tudi odnos med nami in zgradbami. Za trenutek pomislite na tiste knjižničarje v Livingstonu. Če bi tisto zgradbo želeli zgraditi danes, bi najprej šli na splet in poiskali "nove knjižnice". Preplavili bi jih primeri eksperimentiranja in inovacij, premikanja mej tega, kar je lahko knjižnica. To je strelivo. To je strelivo, ki ga lahko vzamejo in nesejo županu Livingstona, ljudem Livingstona in rečejo, da ne obstaja enoten odgovor na to, kaj vse je lahko knjižnica danes. Bodimo del tega. To obilje eksperimentiranja jim daje svobodo, da naredijo svoj eksperiment.
Everything is different now. Architects are no longer these mysterious creatures that use big words and complicated drawings, and you aren't the hapless public, the consumer that won't accept anything that they haven't seen anymore. Architects can hear you, and you're not intimidated by architecture. That means that that pendulum swinging back and forth from style to style, from movement to movement, is irrelevant. We can actually move forward and find relevant solutions to the problems that our society faces. This is the end of architectural history, and it means that the buildings of tomorrow are going to look a lot different than the buildings of today. It means that a public space in the ancient city of Seville can be unique and tailored to the way that a modern city works. It means that a stadium in Brooklyn can be a stadium in Brooklyn, not some red-brick historical pastiche of what we think a stadium ought to be. It means that robots are going to build our buildings, because we're finally ready for the forms that they're going to produce. And it means that buildings will twist to the whims of nature instead of the other way around. It means that a parking garage in Miami Beach, Florida, can also be a place for sports and for yoga and you can even get married there late at night. (Laughter) It means that three architects can dream about swimming in the East River of New York, and then raise nearly half a million dollars from a community that gathered around their cause, no one client anymore. It means that no building is too small for innovation, like this little reindeer pavilion that's as muscly and sinewy as the animals it's designed to observe. And it means that a building doesn't have to be beautiful to be lovable, like this ugly little building in Spain, where the architects dug a hole, packed it with hay, and then poured concrete around it, and when the concrete dried, they invited someone to come and clean that hay out so that all that's left when it's done is this hideous little room that's filled with the imprints and scratches of how that place was made, and that becomes the most sublime place to watch a Spanish sunset.
Zdaj je vse drugače. Arhitekti niso več ta skrivnostna bitja, ki uporabljajo velike besede in komplicirane risbe, in vi niste več nesrečna javnost, potrošniki, ki ne bodo sprejeli ničesar, kar še niso videli. Arhitekti vas lahko slišijo in vas arhitektura ne ustrahuje. To pomeni, da nihalo, ki niha naprej in nazaj, od stila k stilu, od gibanja k gibanju, ni več pomembno. Lahko gremo naprej in najdemo ustrezne rešitve za težave, s katerimi se sooča naša družba. To je konec arhitekturne zgodovine in pomeni, da bodo jutrišnje zgradbe videti precej drugačne od današnjih. To pomeni, da je javni prostor v starodavnem mestu Sevilji lahko edinstven in prikrojen načinu, kako funkcionira moderno mesto. To pomeni, da je stadion v Brooklynu lahko stadion v Brooklynu in ne nek posnetek zgodovine iz rdečih opek, za kar mislimo, da predstavlja, kako bi stadion naj izgledal. To pomeni, da bodo roboti gradili naše zgradbe, ker smo končno pripravljeni na oblike, ki jih bodo proizvajali. In to pomeni, da se bodo zgradbe prilagajale kapricam narave in ne obratno. To pomeni, da je parkirna hiša na Miami Beach na Floridi lahko tudi prostor za šport in za jogo, pozno ponoči pa se lahko tam tudi poročite. (smeh) To pomeni, da lahko trije arhitekti sanjajo o plavanju v reki East River v New Yorku, potem pa zberejo skoraj pol milijona dolarjev od skupnosti, ki je podprla njihov namen, ni več samo enega naročnika. To pomeni, da nobena zgradba ni premajhna za inovacijo, kot tale paviljon za severne jelene, ki je mišičast in žilav kot živali, za opazovanje katerih je narejen. In to pomeni, da zgradba ne rabi biti lepa, da bi jo lahko imeli radi, kot ta grda mala zgradba v Španiji, kjer so arhitekti izkopali luknjo, jo napolnili s senom, potem pa okoli tega nalili beton in ko se je beton posušil, so povabili nekoga, da pride počistit to seno, tako da je na koncu ostala le ta majhna nagravžna sobica, ki je napolnjena z odtisi in praskami od tega, kako je bila narejena in to postane najbolj sublimno mesto za opazovanje španskega sončnega zahoda.
Because it doesn't matter if a cow builds our buildings or a robot builds our buildings. It doesn't matter how we build, it matters what we build. Architects already know how to make buildings that are greener and smarter and friendlier. We've just been waiting for all of you to want them. And finally, we're not on opposite sides anymore. Find an architect, hire an architect, work with us to design better buildings, better cities, and a better world, because the stakes are high. Buildings don't just reflect our society, they shape our society down to the smallest spaces: the local libraries, the homes where we raise our children, and the walk that they take from the bedroom to the bathroom.
Ker ni pomembno, ali naše zgradbe gradi krava ali robot. Ni pomembno, kako gradimo, pomembno je, kaj gradimo. Arhitekti že vedo, kako narediti zgradbe, ki bodo bolj ekološke in pametnejše in prijaznejše. Čakali smo le na vas, da si jih želite. In končno nismo več na nasprotnih straneh. Najdite arhitekta, najemite arhitekta, delajte z nami na oblikovanju boljših zgradb, boljših mest in boljšega sveta, ker je veliko na kocki. Zgradbe niso samo odraz družbe, ampak oblikujejo našo družbo vse do najmanjših prostorov: lokalnih knjižnic, domov, v katerih vzgajamo svoje otroke, in njihove hoje od spalnice do kopalnice.
Thank you.
Hvala.
(Applause)
(aplavz)