Early in our conversations with clients, we are often asked a version of the same question: “What style of architecture do you do?”

It is a reasonable question. Most people have been taught to understand houses through familiar categories. Cape Cod. Tudor. Craftsman. Modern. These labels offer a shorthand, a way to quickly place a home into a known bucket. But while those terms can be useful references, they are not how we think about architecture, and they are not how we believe truly responsive homes are designed.

Historically, architectural styles did not emerge as aesthetic choices made in isolation. They were born from very real conditions. Labor availability. Economic constraints. Geographic location. Climate. Material access. Cultural values. What we now refer to as “traditional” architecture was once simply contemporary building responding to the realities of its time.

"Architecture, of all the arts, is the one that acts the most slowly, but the most surely, upon the soul."

Modern design is no different. In fact, the idea of modern architecture is inherently fluid. It is not a fixed aesthetic, but a lens. A way of looking at what is happening now and responding accordingly. What was once considered modern inevitably splinters over time, branching into its own identifiable paths. Midcentury modern was once just modern. So was international style. Over time, each became something more specific, named only in hindsight.

Seen this way, modern is not a predetermined look. It is a process of engagement with the present. Materials, construction methods, building science, environmental awareness, cultural expectations, and patterns of daily life all shift. Architecture that is meaningfully modern responds to those shifts rather than attempting to replicate a moment that has already passed.

In that sense, yes, our work is modern. It is grounded in current ways of living, contemporary construction, and present-day expectations around light, energy use, comfort, and connection to the site. But we tend to avoid leading with that label, because outside of the discipline, “modern” is often understood as a narrow aesthetic rather than a broader way of thinking.

That disconnect is where labels begin to fall apart. When modern is treated as an appearance to be applied, it becomes just another style to choose from, rather than a framework for decision-making. That is not how we approach our work. Our focus is not on selecting a stylistic category, but on understanding a place and the people who will inhabit it, then allowing the architecture to grow from that understanding. The result may read as modern, or it may not, but in either case it is rooted in the present rather than in a predefined image of what a house is supposed to be.

A quote I came across early in my architectural education has stayed with me:

“Architecture, of all the arts, is the one that acts the most slowly, but the most surely, upon the soul.”

It is attributed to Ernest Dimnet, a French writer and clergyman. I have always understood his point to be that while architecture can certainly make an immediate impression through dramatic forms or striking materials, its deeper influence is far more pervasive when viewed over time. Architecture works quietly. Gradually. Day by day. But over the course of years, it shapes how we feel in a space, how we relate to one another, and how we experience the world around us.

That long view is important. A house is not a static object to be admired from the street. It is something lived in. Walked through. Gathered within. Repeatedly experienced over years and decades. The decisions made early in the design process shape those experiences far more than any stylistic label.

This is not to say that adapting or reinterpreting familiar styles is impossible, or that there is anything inherently wrong with doing so. There is plenty of work in the world that is perfectly serviceable, and often beautiful, that relies on precedent plans or recognizable frameworks. For us, however, the strongest and most lasting homes tend to be those where the plan, the exterior, and the site are developed together from the outset as a reflection of the people who will live there, rather than assembled later to fit a predefined label.

For that reason, every project begins with the site. The land is not a neutral backdrop, but an active participant in the design process. Topography, trees, views, access, solar orientation, neighboring homes, and broader context all influence how a house should sit, how it should be entered, where spaces should be located, and how they relate to one another. These conditions are not constraints to be worked around, but inputs that help shape the architecture from the very beginning.

From there, the plan emerges as a response to real opportunities and limitations rather than as an abstract diagram. That plan cannot be drawn without understanding what it will mean for the exterior of the home. A long, low plan results in a very different way of life than a compact, stacked one. A home organized around a courtyard behaves differently than one oriented linearly toward a distant view. These decisions are driven by use, movement, and experience, with the architectural expression developed in tandem.

Occasionally, clients ask us to take a single floor plan and apply multiple exterior “styles” to it. Traditional. Modern mountain. Craftsman. Tudor. On custom homes especially, we gently push back on that approach. A floor plan and an exterior are not independent layers that can be snapped on and off. They are deeply intertwined. Changing one fundamentally changes the other. Treating them as separate exercises often results in architecture that feels forced or superficial.

It is also true that different architectural languages have historically supported different ways of living. Homes that lean more modern have often emphasized openness, visual connection, and fluid movement between spaces. Strong examples of traditional architecture have often favored clearer room separation and more defined thresholds. These tendencies are not rules, nor are they exclusive. Openness does not belong solely to modern homes, and defined rooms are not owned by traditional ones. They are tools, used intentionally based on how a home is meant to function and feel.

That distinction matters because homes shape how people live their lives, often more than we realize. An open plan home, a long rambler, and a stacked three level house will naturally be occupied in different ways. People gather differently. Move differently. Interact differently with each other and with the site. Over time, those patterns become habits, and those habits quietly shape daily life.

Our role is not to impose a look. It is to create a framework that supports a life. When architecture grows out of that mindset, labels tend to fall away. What remains is something more durable, more personal, and ultimately more meaningful.