Where are all the spires?

The Renaissance stands as an enduring monument to what humanity can achieve when it weds creativity to craftsmanship and crowns it with a reverence for truth through beauty. From the 14th to the 17th centuries, Europe awoke to a cultural flowering that transformed architecture into something far greater than mere building—it became a testament to human aspiration and divine order. Consider the dome of Florence’s Cathedral, raised by the genius of Filippo Brunelleschi, or the noble basilicas of Rome: these were not crude shelters but creations designed to stir the soul, their symmetry, proportion, and harmony lifting the gaze heavenward in awe. Stonemasons, sculptors, carpenters—these artisans poured their lives into their labour, their meticulous craft hailed as a bridge between the mortal and the eternal. In the Italy of the 1500s, such beauty was not seen as an indulgence; it was an investment in posterity, a mirror to a civilisation that valued meaning above utility.

Yet we've lost that desire for truthful shape. The 20th century ushered in a sterile faith in modernism—championed by the likes of Le Corbusier, who dared to call buildings “machines for living in.” Glass towers and concrete hulks now scar our skylines, exalting efficiency and profit over inspiration. Ornamentation has been cast aside, symmetry traded for harsh lines, and craftsmanship dismissed as a costly luxury. This is no mere shift in taste; it is a cultural capitulation. We have turned our backs on the sacred, bartering the pursuit of beauty for a fixation on function. Our cities no longer reach upward with purpose; they sprawl to cram in bodies, leaving the spirit unmoved. We have advanced the use of space, perhaps, however this erosion of visual ambition betrays a deeper malaise—a society that has forgotten how to carve its dreams and collective morale in stone. It's why we wander through Bath and feel like we're inside a fantastical museum, how vastly different things were then.

But a new dawn beckons, borne on the wings of technology. Humanoid robots, soon to dominate construction, promise to slash labour costs to levels unseen since the dark days of forced slavery, when grand visions rose on the backs of the oppressed. Today, robots offer a nobler prospect: what if the economic shackles that have throttled architectural ambition were broken? The price of intricate designs, sculpted spaces, and bold visions could become less unusual, constrained only by the energy to fuel a legion of mechanical robots. The excuses for forsaking tall spires—those tired pleas of cost—would vanish, clearing the path for a renaissance of creativity, unbound by budgets and set free by meaning once more.

Let us be clear: technology alone will not redeem us. The Renaissance thrived not on wealth but on a culture that cherished its masters—artisans honed in guilds, whose hands shaped legacies in wood, stone and steel. Today, their heirs toil over financial games in the City. Our finest minds chase fleeting inefficiencies, not enduring greatness, and everyday problems scream out for practical solvers. Maybe with robots to shoulder the grunt of labour, humanity’s role could turn to artistry and vision once again. Picture a world where building becomes a crucible of invention, luring brilliant minds back to a craft where they might shape structures that pulse with enduring life.

00_67c6ec18

Tall spires, tall thought

Buildings are not mere commodities; they mould our very being across generations. A soulless tower may be cheap to raise, significant in its tallness, but its toll on our sense of place, purpose, and potential defies calculation over centuries.

Let us harness then the might of robotic labour and the worth of craftsmanship to erect structures that rise from our earth with intent—not just to house us, but to exalt us. Let them stand as spires, whether in shape or spirit, drawing our eyes and hearts upward, rekindling the wonder that once marked our noblest feats. We need no more glass tombs; we need buildings alive with meaning, anchored in our heritage yet straining toward something grander. In this age we have a chance to proclaim our humanity through the spaces we interact, as machines march alongside us, are we to resume our machine aesthetic? The true cost lies not in labour or material, but in the absence of inspiration, and it is a debt we must refuse to bear.