From my current status as an old fossil, the 60s, are very vivid for me despite the distractions of the era and mind altering substances, and the quote on the left. Although it seems alarmingly naive now, there was a period when the ‘summer of love’ and the peace movement seemed to truly offer a hope for a better future. It was not to be of course.

But this is not why I am here. I want to tell you a quick story about my time at art school. Fuelled by heady intellectualism, the history of art, the pain of exploring my own creativity and the splendid counterculture of hippie thinking I was wide, wide open to new ways of thinking. My course reflected the hugely controversial debate about the future of arts education, spurred by student activism such as the Hornsey sit-ins and was ‘conceptual design’ —a truly radical but bizarre affair—our first ever brief was to design an environment for a house fly.

The real purpose of the course was to create, what today we would call, disruptors, challenging every pre-conceived notion about everything. At that time Hammersmith School of Art was a Bauhausian experiment where builders, art students, architects, product designers and, I kid you not, ecclesiastical embroiderers routinely worked across disciplines.

One term we had a co-design project with the architect students. They were defensively armed with plastic templates with cut out shapes, the more easily to draw the outline say of a bed or a bath, or chair. But we, of the long hair and lofty attitudes were aghast. ‘Oh no’ we said ‘we must consider what sleep is and then design an environment in which it can occur’.

The end result meant we had bizarre rectangular rooms with organically shaped sleeping pods lined with tree moss inserted in them.

Is there a ‘design disconnect’ between the architecture that most architects prefer and the architecture that most non-designers prefer?

When I worked in advertising and we were presenting a radical departure from the norm we would say—people do not know what they like, they like what they know. This may explain why architects and non-architects simply don’t see things the same way. In David Halpern’s groundbreaking 1987 study of UK students, volunteers—half of them architects—rated photos of unfamiliar faces and buildings. Everyone agreed on which faces were attractive, yet when it came to architecture, the results were jarringly opposed. The building adored by architects was the very one non-architects despised, and the more time architects spent studying, the more their tastes strayed from common sense (Halpern, 1995).

This isn’t an isolated oddity. A 2001 Canadian study reinforced the divide by showing that architects consistently fail to predict the public’s preferences when rating 42 diverse urban structures. Clinging to their high-minded ideals, architects were repeatedly at odds with residents, who favoured designs that were both practical and inviting (Brown, 2001).

The disconnect persists today. A 2015 Create Streets survey found that when faced with four urban street design options, a staggering 87 per cent of non-specialists chose the conventional, less innovative solutions. Meanwhile, nearly half of the professionals in planning, architecture, and the creative arts supported the more radical alternatives—a split that extends even to awards. Ironically, prestigious prizes have gone to these avant-garde designs despite their unpopularity with the broader public.

What does this tell us? It exposes a stubborn, elitist disconnect in modern design—a schism where professional acclaim and public taste rarely align. Historically, our built environment was steeped in symbolism and communal meaning. From Europe’s majestic cathedrals to the culturally rich public spaces of Islamic cities and pre-Hispanic America, architecture was once a shared language that resonated deeply with its community. Today, however, the prevailing design ethos risks severing that connection, privileging abstract aesthetic theories over the tangible needs and tastes of everyday people.

Studies consistently reveal this divide. David Halpern’s seminal 1987 research found that architecture students’ preferences diverged sharply from non-specialists, with the gap widening as their education progressed. More recent work by David Milner and Nikos Salingaros confirms this: architects tend to champion minimalist, modernist designs while the public prefers traditional, ornamented styles. This is not merely anecdotal; surveys from Canada to Chile show the same pattern. Non-architects value warmth, familiarity, and “homeliness,” while architects praise innovation, simplicity, and abstraction.

A 2020 survey conducted by the National Trust found that 78% of the general public preferred buildings with traditional architectural features, such as pitched roofs and symmetrical facades, compared to only 20% of architects. Another study by Create Streets highlighted that 74% of people felt happier in streetscapes dominated by classical or vernacular architecture, with modernist blocks receiving a positive response from less than 10% of respondents.

This disconnect isn’t just theoretical; it has tangible consequences. When public spaces and housing developments fail to resonate with their intended users, they risk alienation, disuse, and even hostility. High-profile examples abound, from the Brutalist estates of the mid-20th century—criticised for their cold, inhumanity—to the glass-and-steel towers dominating city skylines today, which often feel detached from their urban contexts.

Consider Robin Hood Gardens in London, a Brutalist experiment hailed by architects but loathed by many residents. Its demolition in 2017 was a metaphor for the failure of imposing architectural visions that ignore lived experience. Jane Jacobs warned of this in The Death and Life of Great American Cities (1961), arguing that cities thrive on complexity, diversity, and human engagement—not stark, monolithic blocks.

The economic and social impacts are significant too. Poorly designed developments often suffer higher crime rates, reduced property values, and lower occupancy rates. A report by the Centre for Urban Design highlights that poorly integrated developments are up to 40% more likely to face social issues than those designed with community needs in mind.

The roots of this divide are multifaceted. Architectural education plays a significant role. Schools often privilege avant-garde theory over practical engagement, shaping a professional class detached from public sentiment. As Nikos Salingaros argues in A Theory of Architecture (2006), this fosters a “culture of architects designing for architects,” where aesthetic theories are valued over human-centred design.

Architectural awards and media exacerbate the problem, celebrating designs for their originality rather than their functionality or popularity. As Common Edge’s Michael Mehaffy puts it, “the profession has cultivated a kind of aesthetic esotericism, where obscurity is mistaken for depth.”

Another factor is the shift towards large-scale commercial developments driven by economic efficiencies rather than human needs. Developers often prioritise profit margins, pushing architects to produce cost-effective, generic designs that lack local character. This trend has been criticised by the Prince’s Foundation, which advocates for contextually sensitive and sustainable urbanism. (Prince’s Foundation, 2021).

Why does this matter? Because architecture isn’t just art; it’s the backdrop to our lives. Poorly designed spaces can harm mental health, stifle community interaction, and erode a sense of place. Research from the UK’s Design Council shows that well-designed neighbourhoods can improve mental health outcomes by up to 30% and increase physical activity by 25%. (Design Council, 2020).

Contrast this with vernacular architecture, which evolved to meet human needs organically. Studies by Alain de Botton in The Architecture of Happiness (2006) highlight how traditional forms and proportions resonate deeply, rooted in millennia of human experience. Streets lined with mixed-use buildings, greenery, and welcoming facades foster social interaction and a sense of belonging—qualities often absent in sterile modernist designs.

Bridging this divide requires humility and collaboration. Architects must engage with the communities they serve, valuing local input as much as professional expertise. Initiatives like the UK’s National Model Design Code (2021) hint at progress, emphasising beauty, sustainability, and local character. However, more must be done to democratise the design process.

Communities need platforms to voice their preferences—whether through local forums, participatory design workshops, or urban rooms like the Kingston Society’s initiative. These spaces enable dialogue between professionals and residents, fostering mutual understanding and co-creation.

The Kingston Society has an important role to play here. By championing human-centred design, we can push for developments that reflect the character of our town and its people. Let us hold architects and planners accountable, ensuring that future projects are not just innovative but also inclusive, beautiful, and rooted in the needs of Kingston’s residents.

The design disconnect is not insurmountable. By prioritising empathy, context, and collaboration, we can bridge the gap between Venus and Mars, in fact bring us down to Earth—creating a built environment that uplifts and unites us all. Let’s start here, in Kingston, and lead by example.

*the views expressed here are not necessarily the views of The Kingston Society.