Illustration by Evan Bliss And Saba Salekfard.

“Too proper for the black kids, too black for the Mexicans… what’s normal anyway…” opines mixed-race, LA-born R&B artist Miguel on his 2015 track, “What’s Normal Anyway.” The artist’s self-identified ethnic identity quandary serves to mirror our understanding of the gradated nature of mental health conditions. Mild encounters with anxiety, obsession, and mania, amongst other symptomatic states, are a fundamental part of the human experience. In the classical model of mental health disorders, it is only when these symptoms are abnormally heightened and chronic enough to cause consistent distress that the shift from ‘normal’ to ‘disordered’ occurs. Subjectivity is unavoidable in this act of categorization.

Thus emerges the contemporary notion of “neurodiversity,” or the recognition that diverse neurological states previously perceived as disordered may in fact be normal variations, and still fall within the boundaries of a healthy mind.1 In some ways, this could simply be considered a turn-of-phrase, a recognition of the difficult pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey maneuver associated with diagnosing a particular mental health condition, especially considering that many of them share a slew of overlapping symptoms. However, it is significant insofar as it begins to decouple the stigmas and value judgments associated with neurological differences. Atypical neurology becomes more like left-handedness than a lack of proper faculties.2 This model is “contrasted to the pathology paradigm of representing neurominorities as problematic and pathological solely due to their deviance from the neurotypical majority.”3

Architecture is deeply vested in the visual and the aesthetic—designers often privilege and valorize the visual effects of architecture, canonizing those works that are handsomely realized. The conversation around iconic and image-able architecture is familiar and well understood, and only heightened by substantial social media distribution and consumption. Designers are heavily biased towards the visual—whereas membership in a perceived minority group often comes with visual cues, these often aren’t present with mental health issues. It is our duty as designers to be mindful of this. To cite the classic adage that is often thrust at those demonstrating a different way of navigating, or “living in their own world”—this speaks to neurodiversity’s core nature. As an outside observer, the person at hand does not “occupy” the same space as their peers. Regarding established minority groups, through our policies in the west beginning in the 20th century, we have attempted to mitigate the lack of integration of minority groups, especially in urban centers. The same cannot be said for neurodiverse individuals, a patently invisible and deeply underserved minority.

The relationship between architectural space and the neurological spectrum remains a salient one.

Architecture is fundamentally an organizational, structural, and relational enterprise—perhaps this is why we often speculate on its political possibilities and ability to influence the actions of its audience. It is deeply informed and shaped by the political calling-cards of power and normative hierarchy at every turn—from the old-guard inequalities and biases that undergird practice, to the nature of real estate markets, down to the essence of architecture as a compositional exercise. To architect is to imagine and re-imagine structures at every scale, spanning the tangible and intangible. Given this bias toward structure, a relationship between the discipline of architecture and the information-organizing patterns of the mind dovetail naturally. Architecture is equipped to address the full spectrum of cognition, given its robust toolkit of organizing devices—among them program, function, form, and aesthetics. The brain itself is a sequence of three-dimensional part-to-whole-relationships, both in its physical form and in its processing operations, well suited for architectural engagement.

To advocate for a linear and conclusive relationship between cognition and the built environment would be shortsighted. Instead, the conversation might be best framed though non-didactic provocations. We have proposed a set of architectural vignettes—they are spatial snippets, new building blocks or geometric primitives. They are intended to form environments that function as ‘plaster casts’ of heightened mental states. The vignettes adhere and conform to the boundaries of these conditions but don’t seek to augment them. These represent common symptoms (anxiety, obsession, mania) that when experienced simultaneously, form the structure of classical mental illnesses (i.e. generalized anxiety disorder, bipolar disorder, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder). The associated spaces, or micro-worlds, have arisen from addressing the question of “what is the shape of (insert symptom).” These vignettes do not intend to instruct but simply to assume a supportive stance towards the symptoms they are intended to accompany. Much like the technological engagement that Gen-Z’ers experience as ‘digital natives,’ these spaces seek to be ‘symptom native’ for their occupants.

Given this bias toward structure, a relationship between the discipline of architecture and the information-organizing patterns of the mind dovetail naturally.

Throughout its history, architecture has assumed various postures when seeking to impart or transmit emotion, meaning, or other content or messaging. Together, these tracings form a broad survey of the history of architecture and design theory. In the past, when the church was the seat of government and primary broadcaster of knowledge, one found the walls of its worship spaces adorned with instructive narratives formed through literalist representation. In contemporary architectural history, postmodernism also sought to act through representation and communication, albeit with more populist messaging. In the words of the great postmodernist Charles Jencks, “I do believe architecture, and all art, should be content-driven. It should have something to say beyond the sensational.”4

Rather than to represent and communicate passively, architectural spaces might also form vessels that more actively seek to affect their users. This premise informs the work of architects like Peter Zumthor and his phenomenological comrades. Through their spaces, emotional transformation is sought. These architectures act to modulate the inhabitant’s mental state as they pass through a sequence of spaces, to cull forth an emotional narrative through material and mass, light and shadow—to inhabit and be drawn in to an architectural mood ring. Zumthor’s career-defining Therme Vals thermal baths in rural Switzerland are most illustrative of this approach, in both their design and program. The focus on materiality, texture, and atmosphere serve to orchestrate a sensorial experience, serving to support the physically and mentally restorative agenda of the building.

Through our policies in the west beginning in the 20th century, we have attempted to mitigate the lack of integration of minority groups, especially in urban centers. The same cannot be said for neurodiverse individuals, a patently invisible and deeply underserved minority.

In a similar vein of ‘active’ architecture predicated on modulating an occupant’s state are hospitality design best practices that are used in the context of healthcare design. These are the tools of corporate practices, fueled by the almost too good to be true thesis that if a hospital looks and feels like a hotel, it will yield quicker recoveries and improve the general mood of patients. In her research for the 2017 book “Welcome to Your World: How the Built Environment Shapes our Lives,” the author and architecture critic Sarah Williams Goldhagen uncovered a notable discovery regarding in-patients suffering from manic episodes associated with bipolar disorder. In the research study, patients actually recovered from mania more quickly if they were in a room that received more morning light than in a room that received more afternoon light. If all other architectural aspects of the patient’s room are held constant, the daylighting strategy alone is enough to produce a marked difference in the prevalence of behavior patterns commonly perceived as negative.5

The third paradigm, a space of acceptance or familiarity, is how the Space of Anxiety, Space of Mania, and Space of Obsession operate. This approach is less heavy-handed and cocksure (“boy, do we have just the answer for what ails you!”)—the intent is not to ‘save’ anyone or explicitly solve anything. The spaces do not serve to seduce one into a state of mind dictated by the architect. They are not representational—they do not seek to communicate a story or metaphor through architecture. Simply, they work to hold a mirror to one’s internal state, manifesting from the inside out instead of from the outside in. The design intent is to play out a situation where we fully accept a landscape of neurodiversity, one where the outliers on the bell curve are no longer deemed abnormal but simply cognitively different. This recognition would allow for the appropriate spaces to emerge that meet them where they’re at.

In 1990, President George H. W. Bush signed into law the landmark Americans with Disabilities Act.6 Any practicing architect in the United States will be well acquainted with it by now—its provisions touch every part of the building design and planning process, from parking and egress to restrooms and beyond. At their core, these codes serve to make space more equitable for occupants at all physical ability levels. This is achieved through means that are separate, but provide the same functionality as another architectural element—i.e., an entry stair that ascends a grade is accompanied by an ADA-compliant wheelchair ramp.

ADA regulations provide one genre of accommodating space for minority groups—they provide a wholly separate implement. Typically, this implement does not serve a particularly useful purpose for those for which its not designed. If one is able to ascend steps in a matter of seconds, walking up a wheelchair ramp does not provide a useful experience for that individual.

The design intent is to play out a situation where we fully accept a landscape of neurodiversity, one where the outliers on the bell curve are no longer deemed abnormal but simply cognitively different.

If ADA regulations present one of the most prominent intersections of the needs of minority groups with the design of architectural space, than the proposed spaces of heightened mental states present an alternative model. Where the Space of Anxiety, Space of Mania, and Space of Obsession diverge from the ADA template is that they propose spaces that might conform or bring utility to all users on an as-needed basis. Not all of us have generalized anxiety disorder, but all of us experience the symptom or sensation of anxiety from time to time. Being in the Space of Anxiety allows one to be fully present with and ‘own’ the feeling of anxiety. The same holds true for encounters with mania and obsession. The addition of these spatial types serves to expand, rather than segment, the architectural toolkit.

The relationship between architectural space and the neurological spectrum remains a salient one. Through the disciplinary act of drawing, we have sought to address and acknowledge—though not to represent or repair—this reality. As a minority group whose status is often invisible from the outset, those on the edges of the neurotypical gradient ought to be thoughtfully acknowledged by designers. Technology and democratized communication have facilitated collective growth in our awareness of the oft-sidelined concerns and realities of protected groups—we must bring about this same awareness and responsiveness for mental health concerns, and do it through our native medium of space.

1   Pier Jaarsma and Stellan Welin, “Autism as a Natural Human Variation: Reflections on the Claims of the Neurodiversity Movement,” in Health Care Analysis, Volume 20, Issue I (2012), 20-30.

2   “In Support of Michelle Dawson and Her Work,” autistics.org. February 15, 2012. Nick Walker, Loud Hands: Autistic People, Speaking (Washington, DC: The Autistic Press, 2012).

3   Ibid.

4   “Totally cosmic: the Life Mound of Charles Jencks,” The Guardian. June 22, 2011. https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2011/jun/22/charles-jencks-life-mounds-architecture.

5   Goldhagen, Sarah Willams. Welcome to Your World: How the Built Environment Shapes Our Lives. (New York: Harper Publishing, 2012).

6   From the George H.W. Bush Presidential Records of the George Bush Presidential Library, Folder Title: Fact Sheet on ADA [Americans of Disabilities Act], Unrestricted.

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