
Louis Sullivan Would Like to Clarify His Thoughts on Ornamentation
Louis Sullivan here, calling from the great beyond with a plea for today’s architects caught in the endless battle between neoclassicists and modernists. Rest in peace, you say? Not with what I’ve been hearing. Let’s chat.
I may be deceased, but I’m not deaf. I’ve detected voices suggesting ancient Greco-Roman motifs give modern structures meaning, artistry, and historical value. I know of claims that Beaux-Arts styles enhance building users’ emotional and sensory architectural experiences. I am aware of reductive attacks equating modernist minimalism with sterility or worse. It all sounds hollow to my desiccated ears, not to mention familiar.
The conflict afflicting architecture today mirrors the struggle I encountered long ago. Now, as then, there is a persistent dissatisfaction with the present, which clashes with an ever-present fear of the future. I have it from on high that longings for the past are reactionary retreats into the familiar, driven by insecurity. That weakness may serve politicians, but not architects. Timidity and delusion are perilous mindsets for us, especially in a nation beset by economic upheaval, as in my day, or your world’s looming environmental collapse.
Many of you will recall my 1896 Lippincott’s Magazine article, “The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered,” in which I observed that “form ever follows function.” I intended the statement as a rallying cry for designing buildings detached from rigid rules. The neoclassicists of my time perceived the statement as a rejection of centuries of tradition. They were correct; that was precisely my intention. I advocated for architecture inspired by natural forms and organic growth. I wanted to steer the profession away from preordained shapes and outdated orders. My peers dismissed me as heretical, labeling my work unrefined and lacking the grandeur the public had come to expect from architecture with a capital “A.” But I didn’t back down; I kept going. I embraced modern materials and soaring technologies, even as the establishment scorned steel-framed structures for lacking the symbolic weight of thick stone walls.
Underneath their criticisms, I sensed a bias rooted in European tradition. Like any good Yank, I resisted. I contended that America warranted an architectural voice of its own, free from the Greco-Roman derivatives of the Old World.
I pushed back then, as do many of you now, but let’s be honest—modernists took “form ever follows function” out of context.
Here’s the full version of what I wrote:
It is the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic, of all things physical and metaphysical, of all things human and all things superhuman—of all true manifestations of the head, of the heart, of the soul—that the life is recognizable in its expression, that form ever follows function. This is the law.
Modernists aren’t doing themselves any favor justifying banal architecture by cherry-picking my writing. Nor do they advance their cause in how they defend their work. I’ve yet to hear a compelling response to the dogmatic, if not hegemonic, claims that today’s architecture has lost its sense of identity, belonging, and beauty. What I read online by modern architecture proponents is a muddle of jargon-filled defenses, knee-jerk reactions, and insular rhetoric that says much but means little. Classicists, meanwhile, present a return to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian in terms easily digested by the lay public. They call traditional styles an antidote to the plain-Jane homogenization of contemporary buildings. And how do modernists respond? By doubling down on uninspired boxes.
Neoclassicists knew where I stood with my remark. I suspect not many modernists did then or do now. This is disheartening and causes endless rolling in my grave. Let me clarify: a building’s design (its form) should naturally and directly express its purpose (function). But function shouldn’t be the sole driver of form. Narrowly focusing on utility overlooks beauty, and beauty is important. Good design often embraces elements to add or enhance meaning and artistic resonance—elements like ornamentation. Form and function are not subordinate to one another; they are partner ingredients in a stew boiling with other tasty treats.
I published on this topic more than 130 years ago, though admittedly in a tone and voice that may now feel foreign or dated to today’s readers. For this reason, I dusted off the manuscript and gave it to ChatGPT to update my prose and summarize my thoughts, hoping to make my points more accessible to a modern audience. Well, AI is what AI does. Nevertheless, the core of my thesis remains intact.
Ornament in Architecture (2)
Adapted from an original article by Louis Sullivan, published in 1892 in Engineering Magazine.
It’s undeniable that a building, even when stripped entirely of ornamentation, can embody a sense of nobility and dignity through its sheer mass and proportion. Ornament, in and of itself, does not inherently enhance these core qualities. So why, then, should we use ornament at all? Isn’t the unembellished simplicity of a well-designed structure enough?
Candidly, it would be aesthetically and intellectually beneficial to forgo ornamentation entirely for a while. A temporary abstinence would allow us to focus on crafting well-formed, beautiful buildings in their unadorned state. By necessity, we would avoid many undesirable tendencies while learning through contrast how powerful it can be to design in a way that is natural, vigorous, and grounded. Only then could we safely consider whether ornamentation might add to the beauty of our structures and what new charm it might bring.
Once we have mastered the art of pure, simple forms, we will instinctively avoid anything that diminishes their clarity and nobility. We will see ornament not as a necessity but as a luxury, something that can enrich a design but is not its foundation. We might naturally desire to express romanticism through ornament, adorning our strong and elegant forms with layers of poetic imagery. Done thoughtfully, this can double the building’s power to move us, much like a melody enriched by harmonious voices.
A true artist would approach this with care. Ornament, when created with such intentionality, becomes beautiful and inspiring. But ornament created without this spirit lacks the higher possibilities of art. A building that is a true work of art is, by its very nature, an emotional expression—alive, almost literally. In this context, ornament must flow from the same emotional impulse as the structure itself. The mass and composition of the building may carry a profound weight, but the ornamentation adds intensity. Both elements must arise from a unified source of feeling.
This approach demands much from the architect: a sustained emotional focus and a singular vision throughout the design process. A building conceived and executed with this depth of feeling will resonate with a serene and enduring nobility. This quality distinguishes the great monuments of the past and offers a vision for the future.
However, mass, composition, and ornamentation should only be separable in theory—for purposes of study—not in practice. A well-designed building can stand without ornament, but one that incorporates ornament harmoniously cannot be removed without losing its essence.
It has become common to think of ornament as something that can be added or omitted as an afterthought. I disagree entirely. The presence or absence of ornament must be determined at the outset of the design process. As a creative art, architecture is as subtle in its rhythms as music, its closest relative. If the rhythms we create are to be meaningful, the thoughts that precede them must be equally so.
If we believe architecture should aspire to be a living art—a reflection of our culture and spirit—we must approach ornament with the same seriousness. I believe we are beyond imitating or merely reminiscing about past styles. We should be striving for spontaneous, authentic expressions. Note that this does not mean ignoring history but rather engaging with it in an enlightened and respectful way while remaining true to the voice of our time.
When ornament is thoughtfully integrated, it should feel as though it has grown organically from the structure itself rather than being stuck on. Ornament should enhance the building, just as a flower naturally enhances the plant from which it blooms. In this sense, ornament and structure become one, amplifying the other’s beauty.
If we aim for true unity in design, ornament must not merely reflect the spirit of the structure; it must express it. By this logic of growth, certain types of ornament naturally belong to certain types of structures, just as a specific leaf belongs to a specific tree. Ornamentation should harmonize with the character of the building, whether it is bold and massive or delicate and intricate. Each structure, like each individual, should have its own distinct identity.
A building’s individuality goes beyond its outward form; it must possess an inner harmony, much like the human spirit. The more we study and observe buildings, the more we uncover their layers of expression and discover hidden qualities and deeper meanings. Great works of architecture, like great works of art, are inexhaustible; they reveal more to us with each new encounter.
When ornamentation is approached with this understanding, it rises above triviality to become a vehicle for profound and dramatic expression. Its possibilities are limitless, offering a richness and poetry that can elevate architecture to new heights.
With its freedom from the constraints of tradition, America is uniquely positioned to realize this vision. Here, the soul of humanity is free to grow and create. But to achieve this, we must return to Nature as our guide, observing her simplicity and endless variation. By attuning ourselves to her rhythms, we can rediscover the beauty of authentic, living art. In doing so, we can bring forth a new era of architecture, one that speaks to the soul and carries the fragrance of creativity into the future.
That’s it, more or less, my thoughts from another century in contemporary language. I firmly believed them then. I believe them more than ever now. Neoclassical construction after the Baroque era isn’t art, science, or architecture. It’s manufactured nostalgia reinterpreted through modern biases. But neoclassicists do offer one valid critique of Modernism: abandoning ornamentation.
Less isn’t always more. Too many modernists misinterpreted me and took Adolf Loos at his word when he stated, “Ornament is a crime.” He and I have had numerous discussions about this since our deaths. Whenever I remind him of the frequent use of decorative details in some of his work, Loos counters that he only complained about excessive and unnecessary ornamentation. He describes it as wasted labor, materials, and time, which makes it economically and culturally “criminal.” In that respect, he and I agree. I’m still working on Mies, but you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve persuaded Herr Loos to posthumously acknowledge that not all decoration is bad and that the right architectural ornament can be very good indeed. In fact, given the threat of global climate change today, he and I agree that well-decorated buildings are not only wonderful; they may even be necessities.
If I were to fully rewrite “Ornament in Architecture” for contemporary architects, I would describe artistically integrating low-tech adornments into buildings that actively scrub carbon from the sky or address other environmental challenges. The toolkit could include accouterments inspired by pitcher plants, or Namibian desert beetles that capture, channel, and store rainwater; leaf-like structures that more efficiently convey plumbing than straight-run pipes; flower-like solar panels that follow the sun to improve energy efficiency; and vegetated walls and roofs that mimic nature’s curative ecosystems.
If I were still practicing architecture, my work might imitate termite mounds’ passive ventilation and cooling shells. I’d learn from mangroves how to redirect rain runoff to prevent flooding. I’d study how tree canopies shade outdoor spaces. There are endless opportunities to organically grow structural systems and façades into architecture that expresses Mother Nature’s inner and outer workings.
Call it biomimicry if you like. I call it ornamentation and wonder from six feet under if it might not be where classical and modernist-oriented architects could find common ground. (Imagine if Corinthian column capitals were ornamented with real acanthus leaves.) The tension architects of both persuasions face today isn’t new, but it is more urgent. Standing on the fences of history and ideology and throwing brickbats at each other isn’t doing anyone any good.
So, design with boldness, my fellow architects. Think with clarity. Build in harmony. Let today’s buildings resonate with the rhythm of life, which is more rich, complex, and layered than Vitruvius or Le Corbusier could ever have imagined.
When I was alive, I believed architecture should resonate with the cadences and logic of the natural world. In the afterlife, I’ve witnessed rivers carving canyons, their patient flow shaping stone into profound beauty. I have marveled at the slow embrace of lichen, weaving delicate patterns across weathered surfaces, transforming them into living art. I hereby revise my contention that form follows function. What I should have said is that form follows nature.
I hope our little talk has helped.
Louis Sullivan here, signing off—but forever listening in.
This fictional narrative is inspired by the writings and philosophies of Sullivan and Loos. The views expressed are the author’s creative interpretation, not a literal account of their thoughts or statements. Featured image: Chicago’s Carson, Pirie, Scott & Co. Building, now called the Sullivan Center, via Wikimedia Commons.