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."

Two of the labels we often hear ascribed to our work is “modern” and “contemporary,” and they are rarely used the same way twice. For one person, modern means clean lines and flat roofs. For another, it simply means anything that isn’t traditional. Contemporary is often treated as just another word for modern, or as a style of its own. Ask five people to define either term and you will likely get five different answers.

Within architecture, the terms are more distinct. Modernism was a specific movement of the twentieth century, and its branches, like midcentury modern, are now historical styles in their own right. One of its central ideas was that architecture should reflect its own time rather than borrow from the past. Over the decades, though, that idea hardened into a recognizable look. Over the decades, though, that idea hardened into a recognizable look. It is the same cycle that shaped many aesthetic directions throughout history. Architecture responds to its moment, the moment passes, and what remains becomes a style of its own. Contemporary, by contrast, is not meant to describe a fixed style. At its root, it simply means of our time.

That is the sense in which we design contemporary homes. Not as another word for modern, and not as a particular look, but as homes that are of their time in every sense. They are grounded in how people live now, in present-day construction and building science, and in today’s expectations around light, energy use, comfort, and connection to the site. A contemporary home might have a flat roof or a steep gable, crisp detailing or warm, familiar materials. What makes it contemporary is not its appearance, but how it responds to the present.

Responding to the present is not the same as designing only for it, though. A home will be lived in for decades. Families grow and change. Needs shift. Building performance and environmental expectations will continue to rise. We design with that future in mind, so a house can adapt and age well rather than date quickly.

This is why we tend not to lead with labels at all. When a style is treated as an appearance to be applied, it becomes just another option to choose from rather than a framework for decision-making. 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 resemble a familiar style, or it may not, but in either case it is rooted in the present and built to serve well beyond it, rather than tied to 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.