Modernism had believed it had the answer to everything. The ones who practiced it were convinced that an architectural design could work anywhere—that it had the power to transcend location. Concrete, steel, and glass were seen as a universal architectural language. The design of a house from Basel could be replicated in Buenos Aires. Similarly, an industrial design from Dessau could be replicated in Detroit. The notion of modernism as an architectural design that carried an imprint of progress influenced the overall optimism of the 20th century.
However, buildings always correspond to definite locations. They deteriorate in various light conditions, inhale varied air, and get affected by varied earth. For instance, a flat roof that appears flawless in Zurich may get damaged during a storm in Texas. Similarly, a glass exterior that appears dazzling in Stockholm may get scorching hot in Dallas. The concept of an international architectural style disintegrates in the face of local environmental exposures.
But now, a hundred years on, modernism is finding its feet again. Architects realize that site isn’t a problem to be solved. Site is the very point of architecture. And that’s creating a movement that I’d like to describe as Local Modern: a return to modernism that’s tailored to the particular atmosphere of each location.
Consider Dallas. In that particular climate, the sun is not kind to the eyes. In fact, it’s strong. The strong sun in that city determines everything about that place—shadows are long, it’s very bright, hot. Houses that thrive in such an environment have managed to deal with the sun as a resource as well as an enemy. Roofing of such houses spreads wide. Windows of such houses are shaded. The courtyards of such houses can manage the heat from the sun above. Inside such houses, sunbeams are either redirected or bent.
The very best homes that exist in the modern world of Dallas aren’t imitations of Europe. They reflect a certain Texan practicality that shields against the elements. The concrete is left raw and unworked. The stucco texture is coarse and porous instead of smooth and high-gloss. The corridors that lead through these homes tend to be narrow and long. The design is evident, but it seems as though they’re ready to compromise.
This approach to design reflects both functionality and a change in the culture. In the past, the skyline of Dallas had been an answer to a challenge—to dazzle with gigantic glass rectangles, dramatic angles, and street fronts that were foreshadowed better on architectural renderings than in the face of actual rainfall. The skyline of Dallas presented the very model of business confidence of the latter part of the 20th century. In housing design, however, a more humble form of modernism prevails.
All of this is occurring within the larger movement in America. Across the Southwest, architects look at the promises of modernism in a new light. In Tucson, modern homes are made to provide shade rather than views. The homes have walls that are thick and openings that are limited. The design keeps it cool inside. This fights against the 110-degree days.
In Santa Fe, modernity combines with tradition. Concrete flows smoothly into adobe architecture. Glass incorporates with earth. Modernity pairs well with the mesas of the desert. This doesn’t create a replica but an extension—a sense that modernity and local styles can coexist. Something of the same feeling is found in new buildings in New Mexico.
This kind of modernism that grew in the South—or hot-climate modernism, as it could also be called—looks very different from the original northern kind. The International Style had fallen in love with repetition: grids, modules, and pristine white surfaces. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The philosophy: efficiency and standardization. But the new modernists realize that sometimes it’s better not to repeat. When you ignore climate, it’s not simplicity—it’s stupid.
Josep Maria Montaner observed that the most successful modern architecture was that which had an ability to change. Failures included public housing estates in Britain post WWII, which were rigid and designed like machines that wouldn’t be able to adjust to life. The same principle can be applied to America’s southern states. Flexibility is an intelligent solution in climates that change. A modern house that lacks an ability to adjust to life’s changes ends up as useless.
That’s what gives Local Modern its resonance. It’s an understanding that leaves behind the dogmatic beliefs of modernism that everything should be suited to the same pattern. The role of the architect here is not that of a visionary but of a detail-oriented individual. In the context of Dallas architecture, it involves understanding the ground it’s on, the wind patterns around it, and the sun’s movement before putting that on paper. The designs should look as if they’re a part of nature.
The human aspect of all of this is important as well. The early modernists liked the idea of light and openness as a way of freeing humanity. Glass represented clarity and eliminated the old notion of clutter. The problem with openness, however, is that it provides nowhere to hide. The modern house in Dallas now offers openness balanced by privacy. Courtyards take the place of large windows, and smaller windows high on walls now eliminate the wall of glass. Privacy now offers an alternative notion of good taste.
Honesty with materials has also become more mature. Mid-century modernists glorified factory-manufactured materials as a statement of modernity. Today’s local modernists incorporate them in a more subtle fashion. Steel remains, but it oxidizes with the landscape. Concrete remains widespread, but it’s blended with local ingredients. Stone comes from local sources rather than being imported. The architecture comes from being abstract to being of the place.
This shift is not only found in homes. In Texas, the smaller public structures such as libraries, shelters, and chapels represent the same principles. The new Lake|Flato designs in San Antonio extend the modern grid system from the buildings into the courtyards and covered walkways. Their steel screens and wood trellises serve more than an aesthetic. They answer heat, light, and wind. The elegance comes from functionality.
In Dallas, there is a limited list of architects who apply similar principles to house design. The architecture is like Mies’s design but with a touch of Texan light. Corners of walls and ceilings touch without additional trim. The openings are precise and limited. The design appears simple and genuine. These houses were designed as much by what they eliminated as by what they incorporated.
Modernism, once the same everywhere, has become local. It picks up the accent of its location. The result might not be as easy to photograph—less shiny, less symmetrical—but it’s smarter. It accepts the tension between ideals and reality.
In the end, Local Modern isn’t a style at all. It’s a way of paying attention. It starts with the idea that architecture must fit its location—that a wall is both beautiful and functional, and that beauty must work with the weather. The universal has given way to the specific, and in that change, modernism finds new life.
