14

Epistemic Dissonance: Reconfiguring

Valuation in Architectural Practice
Ignacio Farias

Introduction
Consider the following situation:
It's 6pm. Jos has been working all day on the possible layout of a social housing
project trying to fit as many housing units as possible i n a slightly triangular
slot, while following the design principles they attain at Elemental, which do
not just involve leaving space for the houses to grow, but also arranging groups
of families around common yards. Jos has just finished a layout he considers to
be the best possible solution, even though the slot's triangular corner remains
a bit underutilized. Tomorrow morning Jos is joining one of the partners in a
meeting with a municipality's chief of urban development who commissioned
the project. I ask what else he needs to prepare. He says he will probably stay late
night trying out other possible layouts. He mentions possibilities that go against
Elemental's design principles and others where he already sees some potential
problems. I am puzzled and ask why on earth he would stay late trying out things
that he already knows are not good. His answer is that you never know. I don't
say anything, but lucubrate that presenting bad options to the client might be
a strategy to avoid the client questioning the suggested best option. During the
meeting, I realize Jos was right, you simply never know. It turned out that the
client had actually quite different concerns, so that instead of discussing the
different layouts he explains current municipal plans for building a consistorial
house. In this new scenario, the layouts came to be seen and assessed from a
completely new angle, leading the architects to suggest building the consistorial
house in the otherwise underutilized triangular slot corner. Such a possibility
would change the slot's capacity for a social housing project and accordingly
what counts as a good and a bad layout.

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Architectural design is a process deeply imbued i n valuation practices
i n v o l v i n g projects' conditions and constraints, as well as projects' architectural forms. The excerpt above provides a good example of the omnipresence of valuation practices: Jose spent a good part of the day figuring out
the best possible solution for a social housing project. D u r i n g the meeting
w i t h the client, new conditions were revealed, forcing the architects to reevaluate the commission's conditions and constraints and suggest a solut i o n they couldn't have considered before. Indeed, not o n l y the divergent
evaluative criteria of architects, specialists (from structural engineers to
light designers) and certainly clients, but also the s h i f t i n g nature of a project's conditions and constraints lead to a constant redefinition of what are
considered good and bad architectural answers. This constant flow t h r o u g h
different valuation moments, this need to constantly reassess what the
situation actually is and h o w designed architectural forms would simultaneously respond to its different elements, is the everyday condition of
architectural work.
I n t h i s context, i t becomes p a r t i c u l a r l y fascinating to look i n more
detail at moments and situations like the one Jose engaged i n the n i g h t
before the meeting w i t h the client, and i n w h i c h v a l u a t i o n is put o n hold,
resisted as i t were, i n order to enable the exploration of options that otherwise m i g h t seem irrelevant i f n o t simply unsatisfactory a n d u n w o r t h y
of p u r s u i n g . One could speak here o f anti-valuation moments i n larger
transvaluation processes, that is, situations, i n w h i c h people restrain
f r o m assessing or g i v i n g value to certain entities or courses of action,
so that first alternatives and eventually new values can emerge. Perhaps
the most classic example of such a n t i - v a l u a t i o n moments i n organizations are b r a i n s t o r m i n g sessions as proposed b y Osborn i n 1957: "don't
criticize, q u a n t i t y is wanted, combine and improve suggested ideas, and
say a l l ideas that come t o m i n d , n o matter h o w w i l d " (cited i n Sutton and
Hargadon 1996: 685). It is i m p o r t a n t to emphasize that these moments do
not involve definitive rejections or renunciations to v a l u a t i o n , but rather
temporary configurations, i n w h i c h i t is deemed convenient to distrust
current values, abstain f r o m v a l u a t i o n and experiment i n the hope that a
proximate future w i l l b r i n g new values. As such, anti-valuation moments
are constituents of d y n a m i c valuation processes. By creating breaks,
i n t r o d u c i n g hiatuses, m a k i n g interjections, o p e n i n g interstices t h r o u g h
w h i c h the new and unexpected slips i n , they are capable of reconfiguri n g v a l u a t i o n processes. I n architectural practices, these moments can
thus transform the v a l u a t i o n processes t h r o u g h w h i c h design decisions
are made and unmade.

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Decisions and Dissonance: From Evaluative

to Epistemic Uncertainties
The key role of anti-valuation moments i n architecture becomes particularly evident, when we consider that architectural operations fundamentally
involve decision-making. Schumacher (2011) suggests understanding design
as a practice entangled i n a recursive chain of decisions. From this perspective, visual architectural representations, such as sketches, plans, diagrams,
renderings, cardboard and polystyrene models, or 3D animations, appear as
incomplete "epistemic objects" not just requesting knowledge and Interpretations f r o m involved actors (Ewenstein and W h y t e 2009), but also, and crucially, calling out for architectural decision-making and u n m a k i n g . Visual
representations allow going back to decisions that have already been made
and trigger new decisions, rendering the design process recursive. This is
crucial, as it allows architects to engage creatively w i t h the indeterminacy
produced by the existence of various design alternatives of uncertain value.
Schumacher's description thus suggests that architectural practice is f u n damentally imbued i n a process of constant valuation of multiple alternatives, w h i c h go through multiple valuation trials before and after becoming
a design proposal.
Yet such decision-oriented accounts of architectural design take as a
given an important condition for decision-making, that is, the actual existence of design alternatives. As is well k n o w n f r o m Derrida's discussions
on decision-making and responsibility, for a decision to be considered the
responsible action of an actor, it needs to be made under specific conditions
of "undecidability:" A decision that d i d not go t h r o u g h the ordeal of the
undecidable would not be a free decision, it would o n l y be the programmable application or u n f o l d i n g of a calculable process (Derrida 1992: 24).
Accordingly, i n order for any decision to be made, it is imperative that there
are alternative courses of action among w h i c h it is not possible to choose
following heuristic formulas, abstract models or imperative principles. O n l y
then it is possible and necessary to actually decide. I n the case of architectural practice, alternatives are however not given by default, but need to be
brought into existence by means of sociomaterial practices. I n every phase of
the design process, alternatives need to be seen, articulated and visualized i n
order for architects and other involved actors to e/valuate t h e m and eventually make a decision.
The key question is then how design alternatives come about i n the first
place. The hypothesis I'd like to explore i n this chapter is that they often
emerge or appear i n anti-valuation moments characterized by what I shall call

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epistemic dissonance. Different f r o m Jos's night shift explorations and from
rule-based brainstorming sessions, these moments occur due to the variety
of epistemic positions vis--vis ongoing projects held by collaborating architects. This epistemic diversity produces unplanned, surprising or even disrupting moments of epistemic dissonance; moments i n w h i c h how architects
see a project and what they k n o w about it is unexpectedly challenged and
transformed, thus opening interstices for hitherto u n k n o w n alternatives.
I n order to specify the nature and reach of epistemic dissonance, I shall
t u r n first to Stark's (2009) work o n the sense of dissonance i n organizations. His various case studies demonstrate that uncertainty and undecidability regarding what is good and valuable are not given by default,
but an organizational achievement resulting f r o m specific collaborative
dynamics and sociomaterial configurations. Hereby Stark reverses the trad i t i o n a l understanding of dissonance as an unpleasant, negative emotional
state, or even a dysfunction, that arises rather unexpectedly w h e n people
have cognitions that are m u t u a l l y irreconcilable (Cooper 2007; Festinger
1957). His fundamental c o n t r i b u t i o n demonstrates that h i g h l y innovative
organizations do not t r y to avoid, b u t actually cultivate and foster a shared
sense of dissonance and uncertainty regarding what is considered valuable
among its members. I n an ethnographic study of a web design firm, Stark
and Girard (2002) show that collaborating teams apply at least four different evaluation criteria w h e n assessing websites. Web designers, marketing
experts, computer programmers and content managers all have different
ideas about what makes a "good" website, so that f r i c t i o n and dissonance
are constant. Such evaluative dissonance, Stark (2009) argues, is however
crucial for m a k i n g the company more sensitive and open to new ideas and
innovation.
Stark's understanding of evaluative dissonance can be very helpful for
understanding how uncertainty regarding design decisions comes into play
i n architecture, as architects need to take account of the diverse evaluation criteria of clients and of a large number of specialists involved i n an architectural
project (see Cuff 1992). However, this does not yet provide a comprehensive
explanation of how dissonance and design alternatives are cultivated w i t h i n
architectural offices. W h i l e clients and specialists shape the design process,
bringing i n their o w n evaluative criteria, they do so only i n the context of
meetings often held i n separate rooms or even outside the office w i t h partners or the project leader(s). Accordingly, they are not involved i n the day-today spaces and dynamics i n w h i c h architectural design processes are carried
out. Indeed, most architectural practices, and certainly the ones I had the
opportunity to observe, have m a i n l y mono-disciplinary staffs of architects,
so that evaluative dissonance emanating from specialists and clients do not
shape everyday collaboration. Moreover, architects specifically emphasize the
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importance of developing and sharing c o m m o n assessment criteria, as this
would allow them to "play by heart," as one partner repeatedly emphasized i n
our conversations. Sunley and colleagues (2008) reported similar findings for
the design sector, where senior designers expressed their preference for h i r i n g
younger designers who could be moulded, as well as their concerns about hiring more experienced workers who might hold differing design ideas"You
know we've developed our o w n way of working and our o w n view about what
good design is" (partner cited by Sunley et al. 2008: 690).
I n view of this situation, I shall argue that day-to-day collaboration i n architectural offices is characterized by a different type of dissonance. Instead of the
evaluative dissonance that emerges from the different professional cultures of
interdisciplinary teams, I encountered a k i n d of epistemic dissonance, which
capitalizes on the different perspectives and knowledge level architects have
regarding a project i n order to generate new questions, ideas, options and alternatives. Epistemic dissonance does not rely on differences regarding what is
considered good or valuable i n a project, but on differences w i t h respect to what
is known about a project. A n d what one knows depends, i n t u r n , o n how one
sees a project, how closely or not one is working on it, and which visual representations are being produced and worked w i t h . More specifically, I propose distinguishing between evaluative and epistemic dissonance as shaped by normative
and cognitive expectations respectively (on this distinction see Luhmann
1995). Evaluative dissonance arises from disappointed normative expectations
regarding what good design is for a particular actor. W h e n a design proposal
does not meet the actor's normative expectations, he or she does not abandon
or revise his or her expectations. Quite the contrary, his or her expectations are
maintained and become the source of dissonance. Epistemic dissonances, by
contrast, are related to learning processes. A n actor holds expectations regarding what an object actually is, how it behaves or which effects it produces,
which when suddenly disappointed are called into question, leading to a thorough revision of the knowledge the actor held up to then.

The Practical Organization of Epistemic Dissonance

Ethnographic fieldwork carried out i n three architectural practices i n
Santiago de Chile provided a range of examples of how epistemic dissonance
is practised, organized and exploited o n a day-to-day basis. This research
took place between early September and mid-November 2009 i n Klotz &
Asociados, Sabbagh Arquitectos and Elemental . A l l three are among today's
1

Two research assistants carried out participant observation three days a week in the first two
architectural offices. I did fieldwork at Elemental on a half-day basis and occasionally visited the
1

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most successful Chilean practices. They all operate internationally, their
work is regularly published i n major international journals of architecture
and their f o u n d i n g partners have received numerous honors, including the
Marcus Corporation Foundation Prize, the Premio B o r r o m i n i and prizes
awarded at the Venice Biennale and the World Architecture Festival.
The architectural practice Klotz & Asociados is a home studio comprising around 70 square meters, where up to 12 architects and interns work
together. I n one of our first conversations, Mathias Klotz remarked that his
studio was like an 18th century atelier. W h a t he meant was that the craftsmanship, detail and care that characterize his working practice distinguish
his studio f r o m the more industrial approaches of other architects. I've come
to t h i n k of his role as that of the classical master craftsman, supervising,
controlling and deciding on every detail of the work, while at the same time
t r a i n i n g his assistants and interns i n his understanding of what good architecture is.
Elemental is based i n an iconic 1980s office b u i l d i n g that also houses
three other distinguished architectural studios. The premises consist of a
large workspace w i t h room for around 20 architects, separate offices for two
partners, a model and storage r o o m , and a conference room. Interestingly,
the choice of location was not primarily based o n the p r o x i m i t y to other
architectural practices, but rather o n the quest for a business-oriented context. Elemental was founded i n 2003 as a state-funded innovation platform
based at a prestigious university. W h e n the start-up f u n d i n g ran out, it
became a for profit company w i t h social interest, whose shareholders are the
Universidad Catlica de Chile, COPEC (Chilean o i l company) and the partners. Elemental views itself not o n l y as an architectural practice, but also as
an i n n o v a t i o n platform b r i n g i n g forward architectural solutions to housing
policy and urban p l a n n i n g challenges. It has defined itself for several years
as a "do-tank."
Sabbagh Arquitectos is a two-storey architectural practice that employs
about 40 people. The ground-floor area w i t h t w o conference rooms hosts
m a i n l y meetings w i t h clients and specialists. The production area i n the
basement includes four studios and offices separated by glass walls. The practice was founded i n 1988 and was one of the first of many new architectural
firms set up as the Chilean economy began a 15 years cycle of accelerated
growth. It quickly became one of Chile's largest studios. Its founder was particularly concerned about fashioning the practice not as a master studio but
as a professional service enterprise. This began first and foremost w i t h the

other two offices. Towards the end of my research period, I interviewed a total of 12 partners
and architects of these architectural practices. In addition, I conducted 18 interviews with other
well-known Chilean architects focusing on design process and studio practice.

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chosen namenot simply the owner's first name and surname, rather a more
abstract name that reflected the image of a professional service company.
Despite these substantial differences i n the profiles of the architectural
practices studied, modelled as a master studio, an innovation platform and a
service-oriented enterprise, I focus o n practices and configurations that these
offices share. I n the following sections, I analyze the practical organization
of epistemic dissonance w i t h respect to three dimensions: socio-spatial conditions of casual engagement, socio-cognitive dynamics of review meetings
and socio-technical manufacture of project mediators.

Casual Engagement
I n the office of Elemental's m a i n partner hangs a large board featuring a
table w i t h the development of around 20 ongoing projects. Each project is
represented as a horizontal line and tagged w i t h the initials of the architects involved. Architects are assigned to multiple projects. Some projects
are represented w i t h discontinuous lines as they are i n a "cold phase"waiting for a decision, a signature or a cut-off date. Thus, the board not o n l y
displays projects being worked o n at present, but also those that must be
continued at some point i n time. The exact moment of reactivation is however u n k n o w n for most such projects. The architects' work load thus needs
to be organized as flexibly as possible, so that the office could rapidly adapt
to the reactivation of projects. Interestingly, when one leaves the partner's
office and enters the large space i n w h i c h up to 20 people sit and work, one
encounters no signs of separate projects, responsibilities or team affiliations.
Despite the coming and going of numerous projects, each w i t h a different
team structure, the workstations of most architects and draughtspersons do
not change. The spatial organization of the office thus remains steadfast i n
the face of the unpredictable progress of projects. This, however, poses the
question as to how collaboration for specific projects actually takes place. I n
other words, how does the board hanging i n the partner's office relates to the
work dynamics that can be observed i n the large room?
The fact that project collaboration does n o t occur w i t h i n bubbles or subsystems of c o m m o n activity w i t h clear spatial boundaries does not mean
that it does not occur. However, their structure is more similar to a rhizome
which is open to interactions w i t h all members of the practice and thus has
no outside. W h e n I first met Elemental's m a i n partner, I mentioned that
2

This is also the case in the other two architectural practices we did participant observation
in, and also what many other architects reported in interviews. In this context, the spatial
organization found by Yaneva (2009) at Rem Koolhaas' Office for Metropolitan Architecture
(OMA), where architects are constantly changing work stations, seems to be a rather exceptional
feature.
2

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doing fieldwork i n the office would also involve being present at meetings of
project teams, as t h i s w o u l d be very informative for understanding how people report o n their o w n work and h o w decisions are made. He explained then
that no such meetings take place. They were unnecessary because informat i o n about ongoing projects is always automatically shared thanks to the
fact that everybody works i n the same space. This co-presence, he went
on, means that everybody is up to date about what is happening i n other
projects. He added that a few times a year an overview about new projects
w o u l d be given, so that they could give some order to the constant flow of
i n f o r m a t i o n that fills everyday office life. Later o n , fieldwork confirmed that,
contrary to what I had i n i t i a l l y assumed, project teams were not the most
suitable analytical u n i t for understanding work dynamics i n architectural
practices.
This, however, does not mean that the board hanging at the partner's office
is just an artefact, i n the sense of a faulty or false representation imposed by
the very form of the table. The table is indeed quite reliable, as it clearly
shows w h o is responsible for and w h o is working o n w h i c h project. What
the table, however, does not show is the overlapping between projects i n the
large workspace and the fact that i n this manner the whole studio is party
to every project. Indeed, those w h o are not working directly on a particular
project are still involved i n it i n some way or another, even if this o n l y means
listening i n to conversations, telephone calls or discussions. Every member
of the office thus knows all projects i n greater or lesser detail and is more or
less i n f o r m e d about decisions, unforeseen problems, newly discovered constraints and sudden setbacks. This open, rhizomatic organization of project
work not o n l y means that they can adapt flexibly or undergo major transformations, for example w h e n new projects arrive, current projects are suddenly
suspended or o l d projects are reactivated. I t also makes i t possible for t h e m to
exploit the open workspace as a source of potential and unforeseeable connections. More importantly, this does not seem to be specific of Elemental.
Despite the different office profiles described abovea master studio, an
innovation platform and a service-oriented enterprisewe encountered i n
all three a similar socio-spatial organization: overlapping teams i n relatively
small spaces i n w h i c h everybody effortlessly becomes engaged i n every project and can interact w i t h members of other teams. This appears to be an
important principle leading to almost accidental exploration and exploitat i o n of different epistemic positions and knowledge perspectives w i t h respect
to projects.
Daily p r o x i m i t y and spatial overlapping indeed provide important points
of contact for casual engagement i n a joint exploration of options, possibilities and alternatives. Even if everybody works at their o w n station, the
architectural studio is never silent. Emotional reactions to the work can
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be heard constantly i n the form of grumbling, sighing, groaning, cheering
or expletives. These noises are generally easily interpretable communications
that offer all the people i n the v i c i n i t y the possibility of starting conversations and participating i n their colleague's work by asking how it is going or
walking over to look at the visual elements that provoked such responses. I n
this way, ideas often emerge f r o m quite unexpected corners of the studio. For
instance, an architect may be sitting at his computer and w i t h o u t removing
his eyes from the monitor w i l l make a comment. Or somebody w i l l stand up
to go to the plotter and o n the way stop by a colleague, look briefly at his work
and casually ask a question such as " w h y is the room like that?" or "what
does this thick line mean?" Sometimes someone w i l l make an association
w i t h another project, as i n " i t reminds me of that other commission, but the
problem was solved differently there." Or there may be a direct suggestion
" I would do it this way."
This k i n d of interaction is especially evident when particular exhibits, such
as a model for a consultation w i t h clients or a poster for a competition, are
being prepared i n the office. We observed repeatedly i n these situations that
other members of the practice suddenly took o n the role of the public. Often
all it takes is for someone to stop briefly i n front of a project sketch or a model
i n order to attract the attention of another architect and set off a joint exploration of the project, w i t h its strengths and weaknesses, references, unresolved issues, alternative ideas, possibilities and options. These exchanges are
particularly welcome, as architects preparing a presentation are very eager
to anticipate how the work is perceived by an external observer. Of course,
not all questions, comments, suggestions are equally significant, but such
exchanges often take place w i t h different types of colleagues, whether they
are architects, draughtspersons, interns or even ethnographers like myself.
What is also particularly interesting is that the a i m of such conversations is
not to arrive at an agreement or a decision regarding the project i n question.
Rather, they serve to create a space for sounding out associations triggered b y
an exhibit u n t i l they have been exhausted. It is less about interpersonal communication t h a n a joint exposition of the impressions, ideas or doubts that a
tangible exhibit provokes. The a i m is thus to multiply, compare and contrast
points of view and thereby enable the formulation of alternatives, not necessarily to carry out a dialogue geared towards a decision. Accordingly, the
conversations do not end w i t h a conclusion or w i t h resolutions, rather they
peter out and the contributors d r i f t apart again.
It is important to emphasize that often these comments, associations, ideas
and critiques are not necessarily of any help. I n most cases, the architects
responsible for the project have a good answer to the spontaneous i n q u i r y
of the engaged colleague. But sometimes they do not. Thus, these comments
open up windows of opportunity. W h i l e they do not steer the project i n a
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totally new direction, they reveal alternatives, and where there are alternatives, a decision must be made. The studio thus constitutes a diverse cognitive ecology i n w h i c h different epistemic positions or knowledge perspectives
adopted by different office members towards a particular project are collected
i n a casual way.

Review Meetings
Review meetings are extremely i m p o r t a n t i n a l l the offices we observed.
These are n o t scheduled appointments, rather recurring discussions usually
held between the architect responsible for a project and one of the partners.
The a i m of such conversations is to fine-tune the project p l a n n i n g , discuss
problems regarding the design, explore alternatives, and make decisions.
Review meetings take place w i t h v a r y i n g frequencyseveral times a week
or every t w o weeks, depending o n the partner's schedule. I n one practice,
for example, one partner went o n three business trips to India, Brazil and
Germany d u r i n g the observation period, so that his short presence i n the
practice was used intensively i n order to r u n t h r o u g h a l l the projects, w i t h
half a day dedicated to each commission. The dynamic i n another practice was that the m a i n partner went around all the project studios i n the
office almost daily i n order t o discuss t h e work w i t h the different teams, t o
effect corrections and to make decisions. Interestingly though, such corrections and decisions are not related to e/valuation practices, but to epistemic
problems:
Architectural projects [are] much better when more people are involved in
themwithout exaggerating the numberthan when there is only one observer,
because this observer does not see, unless it is somebody really brilliantthat
happens, but it's not the norm for human beings. (partner#l, 1 November 2009)

Project architects also consider review meetings to be crucial, precisely for

what is often called operational blindness. Architectural design is based on
very meticulous and patient work w i t h an immense number of details. Every
line, drawing, floor plan, and section requires several hours, sometimes several days of work, w h i c h leads to a sort of absorption i n a project. This is what
makes review meetings essential:
You've already been working on it for a long time and then they [the partner or
some external person] come along and say 'there's something wrong here, and
there's another problem there, and that doesn't work done that way.' It's the
pits, [but] these reviews are really important because... Look at it the other way
around: you're so involved i n the stuff that you can't view it from a distance,
(architect*!, 26 October 2009)

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The ability to "view something f r o m afar" is probably one of the most
important sources of epistemic dissonance exploited i n these review meetings. This is a paradoxical phenomenon. The person w h o seems to understand the overall project "best" is n o t the person w h o has been w o r k i n g
on it for the longest time, but someone w h o is n o t involved i n the project
directly and is not so familiar w i t h a l l the details. Moreover, such a perspective from afar enables the partner not o n l y to see the project as a "whole,"
but also to set and consider i t i n relation to other projects being carried out
i n the office or that have been seen or discussed i n another context.
[The partner] maybe has this advantage [because] he's not up to his ears i n things
as much. He jumps from one problem to the next, from one project to another,
and has the advantage of the freshness of the person who has just arrived [...].
It's like the tourist [... ] who sees things that the locals don't [...]. You don't see
the mistakes anymore because you basically don't want to see them, because
you're exhausted and you say 'OK, it's good like that', and you don't have that
distance to be able to say 'It's bad and it looks bad' [...]. [The partner] can maintain this objectivity all the time and for the whole office because he can stand
back and because he's not so personally and deeply involved in any of the projects, (architects, 19 October 2009)

It is interesting to notice that i n this context objectivity means, above all

else, a certain degree of distance f r o m the enormous amount o f time p u t i n
and the personal and emotional investment made by the project architects.
Objectivity is not meant as a form of superior knowledge, but rather as a personal detachment that allows the partner to say things like "this is wrong,
that looks bad, do it again."
But this is only half of the t r u t h of the review meetings. W h e n following
the development of these meetings more closely, and listening to the long
and often very complex conversations, noticing the j u m p i n g back and f o r t h
between the different aspects and paying attention to the challenges and the
restrictions involved i n a project, it becomes clear that i n the large majority
of cases it is not just a question of mere corrections made by detached observers. Indeed, architects and partners agree that the downside of distance can
be making bad decisions:
The effect of not being deeply involved in the project is that you neither
enthuse about it nor fall in love with it. And that allows you [on the one hand]
to be very objective. But [at the same time] you can end up being not very
objective at all, so you express only prejudices [ . . . ] . It's very easy to get carried
away [...] because there are many solutions and many good solutions. At the
end of the day, you always have to decide [ . . . ] . There is a moment when you
have to say 'I'm going i n that direction' and so you take a risk. (partner#2, 22
October 2009)

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Indeed, review meetings are by no means o n l y about eliciting a detached
perspective. A crucial f u n c t i o n is to enhance, transform and question the
partner's visions for the project. Indeed, architects responsible for a project
often have good reason to reject suggestions that are made on the basis of
insufficient knowledge or too general views. Accordingly, review meetings
are instances, i n w h i c h project architects describe, explain and reflect upon
each of the steps taken, the possibilities and constraints considered and decisions made by t h e m . N o t doing this is indeed problematic and makes review
meetings ineffective:
Many decisions are made after trying out lots of different things with a lot of
clarity about the limitations. And often when I talk to [the partner] about the
project. W e l l . . . you know, you forget something [...]. And [he says] 'OK, we'll do
it like that, let's change that like this.' And then later you remember some reason
why you can't do it like that. Yeah.. .all these decisions [...], it's like being in a
maze. (architect#l, 26 October 2009)

Review meetings certainly involve eventually m a k i n g decisions, but their

primary a i m seems to be re-viewing complex chains of decisions. Re-viewing,
i n the sense of v i e w i n g things f r o m a new perspective, requires a balance
between a dialogical reconstruction of decisions made and the exploration of
dissonant observations and insights. Indeed, considerable time is invested i n
giving an account of the path that has been followed by the project architect
t h r o u g h the decision maze, so that it becomes possible w i t h the help of the
distanced perspective of the partner to notice or look for ramifications, back
roads or shortcuts.
Thus, review meetings enable the propagation of design alternatives. What
is crucial is not the co-existence of different criteria of evaluation, w h i c h may
well be shared by architects and partners, but the dissonances that emerge
f r o m their differing knowledge perspectives o n a project. Better decisions are
not arrived at by being closer to a project and having more detailed knowledge or being further afar and looking at the project as a whole, but through
the dissonant combination of such perspectives. This epistemic dissonance
is what is explored and exploited i n these meetings.

Project Mediators
Moments of epistemic dissonance and the ensuing propagation of alternatives do n o t o n l y result f r o m the differing knowledge perspectives of
architects i n the studio. A crucial role is also played by project mediators,
such as sketches, plans, renderings, 3D simulations or models, w h i c h are
created using various media and w i t h different representation techniques.
As H e n n i o n (1993, 1997) has demonstrated for music, these mediators do
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indeed more t h a n provide simple materializations or representations of
already existing mental or ideal forms. Architectural projects do n o t exist i n
an ideal space, but o n l y t h r o u g h material mediators w h i c h enact the project
i n different ways. It is i m p o r t a n t to note that since there is no ideal form
that would provide an ultimate reference point, the reality of a project is
multiple and heterogeneous. Project mediators constitute thus an ontological multiplicity, w i t h each giving body to the project i n a different way, so
that fractures, gaps and discontinuities abound. This is w h y epistemic dissonance cannot be traced back o n l y to the different knowledge positions
of the architects involved. Project mediators are painstakingly crafted b y
architects, precisely i n order to gain insights i n t o the reality of the project that may deviate f r o m their o w n cognitive expectations. Accordingly,
project mediators become independent components of the studio's distributed cognitive ecology and thus another source of epistemic dissonance. I t
is i m p o r t a n t to avoid t w o symmetrical errorsthat of h u m a n i s m , whose
p o i n t of departure is the creative or b r i l l i a n t individual, and that of sociologism, i n w h i c h individual contributions are blanked out i n the name of
an emergent social dynamic. Instead this approach understands cognition
as a distributed sociomaterial process. The cognitive sciences have long discussed how carrying out even simple and everyday cognitions requires collective action by multiple individuals and artefacts (Gieri and Moffat 2003;
Hutchins 1995). Accordingly, cognitive processes i n v o l v i n g inspiration,
creativity and certainly dissonance must be viewed as occurring i n empirical, concrete and local ecosystems and depending o n specific capacities of
people and things, of architects and project mediators.
Architectural plans, for example, enact a project i n significantly different
terms depending on the scale, the projection technique and the m e d i u m i n
which they are drawn. Scales are widely used for different types of drawings,
such as floor plans (1:48), site plans (1:20 or 1:30), etc., as they enable architects to see different things. I t is i m p o r t a n t to notice that architects don't
simply work from larger to smaller scales, but rather switch between scales
(Yaneva 2005). Apart f r o m the scale, the media i n w h i c h the plan is being
worked on, whether i t is printed o n paper and intervened w i t h a pencil or
on a computer monitor and intervened w i t h the mouse, radically alter what
architects can see and do i n a plan. W h e n working o n the computer, an
architect explains, standing back, t a k i n g distance, looking at the project as a
whole, simply becomes impossible:
You plunge so quickly into the details that you end up dealing with every little
door and every little screw [...]. And when you zoom out [on the computer]
you can't see anything. You can't see because the screen is so small [...]. I
find distance can be achieved with plansyou print the plans, you have time
to look at them...yes, to look at the thing carefully [...]. Those are the two

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yardsticks: distance in the form of the plan, the printed paper, and the proximity
is the screen. (architect#l, 26 October 2009)

One and the same set of geometrical lines that constitutes a plan is not
or, rather, does not always do the same t h i n g . What counts is the material m e d i u m i n w h i c h plans are drawn a n d intervened. O n paper or o n the
screen plans enact the architectural project differently and convey insights
and understandings not easily exchangeable. A back and forth between
media, between paper and monitor, is just as necessary and common, as
m o v i n g up and d o w n i n the scale. At stake is the same type of cognitive dissonance between p r o x i m i t y and distance, between detail and whole, already
described for the review meetings. Indeed, review meetings are often held
at tables w i t h various layers of printed plans, among w h i c h architects constantly switch, and i n the p r o x i m i t y of a computer, where things can be
consulted or observed i n a closer scale.
W h i l e most architectural plans, such as elevations, floor plans or cross sections, are t w o dimensional, architects also produce three-dimensional representations of projects. There are, however, multiple projection techniques,
each w i t h different results. One example is isometric projection where, unlike
central perspective, the scale along each coordinate axis of an object is always
the same. The isometric projection method, w h i c h was commonly used by
architects u n t i l the 1970s, offers a representation of the designed object that
significantly deviates from h u m a n perception and from central perspective
techniques, where the scale i n w h i c h an object is represented varies dependi n g o n where it is placed i n space. But, as we all know, objects do not change
their scale, as they move closer to or further away from an observer:
[Isometric projection] allows a more real representation of the object. This side
here, for example, has the same length as that one. The way it is in reality. It's a
mental representation, which allows things to be represented as they really are.
And i n this sense they are more real. (architect#2, 19 October 2009)

Architects often use isometric projection for showing the actual sizes of different sides of an object, something that is especially useful for drawing construction details, w h i c h w i l l be used i n the construction site to actually build
things. Thus, while the reality enacted by the isometric representation is
indifferent to the perspective of the h u m a n eye, to the point that sometimes
is difficult to gauge depth or altitude of objects, it is extremely helpful to visualize objects i n ways that are relevant for their actual manipulation.
Quite different is the case of architectural renderings, probably the most
c o m m o n three-dimensional representations, w h i c h are made by not just
using central perspective, b u t also applying color and texture to surfaces
and placing h u m a n and n o n - h u m a n objects i n space, i n order to create a

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photorealistic visualization of a b u i l d i n g or its interiors. The reality enacted
by renderings is thus neither about the spatial perception of the h u m a n eye,
as i n perspective drawings, nor about the construction or manipulation of
the object itself, as i n isometric projections, but about the photographic look
of the constructed work. A n d , interestingly, architects make renderings not
just for bids, client communication or PR purposes, but also "for the design
process, to see how it [the building] functions" (architect#3, 9 September
2009). Renderings, architects suggest, are unique i n their ability to anticipate
the reality and the appearance of a constructed work and thus to bridge the
insurmountable gap between abstract project representations, such as plans
or perspectives, and the actual building. I n one of the offices, I observed
architects explaining to interns the need of adding "weight" to the renderings, of realistically conveying a sense for the actual materials and the
actual physical weight of the finished construction. The problem, they would
explain to me, is that one needs to counteract the weightlessness of abstract
representations w h i c h wouldn't allow visualizing and grasping the b u i l t reality of the represented object. A rendering would gain i n "weight" through
the addition of hundreds of layers to represent textures, materials, shadows,
lights, h u m a n beings, plants, etc. Importantly, the huge investments made
i n renderings don't simply a i m at visualizing what has already been projected by the architects, but rather at providing new insights, generating new
knowledge and eventually destabilizing architects' vision and understanding of a project. "Renderings," a partner explains "should be used to reveal
problems" (partner#3, 7 September 2009).
Whereas renderings are a standard part of the day-to-day studio work,
3D animations that allow one to make a v i r t u a l tour t h r o u g h a b u i l d i n g are
normally made to convince an audience of the qualities of a project. I n the
observation period, t w o such animations were prepared i n t w o different
architectural practices: one of a Chilean university library destined p r i marily for presenting the project to university staff, another of a German
winery as a special request of the client. Interestingly, even t h o u g h 3D
animations are n o t aimed to reveal problems, they become challenging
tests, as they allow, for the first t i m e , the perception i n m o t i o n of a space
from b o t h the outside and inside and thus also lay bare the continuities
and discontinuities between spaces, proportions and so f o r t h . "You stick a
camera i n t o a project and see the interior and t h e n y o u k n o w what i t actually looks like f r o m the inside" (architect#2, 19 October 2009). W h e n the
3D a n i m a t i o n of the w i n e r y was seen for the first t i m e by architects, key
elements of the design reveal themselves as problematic. The 3D animat i o n thus forced architects to generate design alternatives for aspects and
configurations that had n o t previously been an issue, such as the number,

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form and distribution of a series of narrow, oblong windows o n the winery's
facade.
Project mediators play a key generative role of epistemic dissonance. As
we have seen i n previous sections, they are at the center of review meetings,
what is re-viewed or viewed differently, and they are also what enables casual
collaboration w i t h i n the office, as their visual presence engages all office
members w i t h o u t distinction. Project mediators thus can be seen differently
according to the v a r y i n g epistemic positions of involved architects. But, as
these latter examples suggest, project mediators cannot just be viewed differently, they also enact the reality of a project i n differing ways. I n this sense,
they produce insights and knowledge that can significantly depart f r o m what
had hitherto been visualized and k n o w n . Epistemic dissonancein other
words, the productive exploitation of alternative knowledge perspectives o n
an object that i n the case of architecture does not yet existis thus not only
an intersubjective phenomenon, but also a socio-technical phenomenon
that critically depends o n the capacity of visual mediators to redefine what
the project is and to open up an exploration of alternatives.

The Occurrence of Dissonance

The organization of epistemic dissonance i n architectural practices is sustained by multiple coexisting temporal regimes that allow for moments of
dissonance to occur at different intervals and r h y t h m s . Occurrence should
be here understood i n a double sense: moments of epistemic dissonance
"occur" or take place i n certain situational configurations i n certain temporal intervals. A t the same time, they also depend o n "occurrences," o n
ideas, possibilities, alternatives that suddenly suggest themselves and come
to m i n d .
This double sense is evident i n socio-spatial dynamics of casual engagement, w h i c h occur o n an everyday basis and potentially at any moment.
Casual collaboration is indeed based o n forms of m u t u a l observation, feedback and dissonance that are constants i n architectural practices as they
are enabled by their very spatial arrangements. It is, as we have seen, the
situation of co-presence among architects and mediators, humans and
things that generates casual collaboration, unsought engagement and occurrences i n the f o r m of questions, comments, associations, etc. At the same
time though, and precisely because casual engagement can occur at every
moment, i t is not expected at any particular moment. Thus, despite its recurrent occurrence, casual collaboration takes the form of the surprise, of the
unexpected. Architects do n o t expect at any specific moment insights or
comments f r o m their colleagues, w h o i n t u r n don't feel obliged to provide
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feedback or comment. I n consequence, the moment a dissonant insight is
communicated takes the f o r m of a gratuitous act.
Project re-views occur i n a quite different mode. This is n o t a spontaneous
capacity of the practice's everyday work dynamics, but a carefully prepared
and configured situation explicitly oriented at generating and exploiting
dissonant views o n a project. This requires coordination between architects
and partners to find a time, p r i n t out plans, and sit together. Thus these review meetings occur i n recurrent time intervals, m a r k i n g a r h y t h m i n the
development of a project: every one, two, three weeks. Interestingly t h o u g h ,
what can be carefully prepared are o n l y the i n i t i a l conditions for a joint
exploration, a c o m m o n time to sit together and go over plans and decisions,
but not the k i n d of outcomes of the re-viewing. Apart f r o m particular problematic issues that need to be discussed, what is expected is that t h r o u g h
a joint revision of the state of a project, new options and unseen possibilities w i l l occur. These occurrences do n o t result spontaneously i n casual
engagements w i t h project mediators, but they are methodically sought for
systematically questioning decisions. Occurrences thus don't take the f o r m
of surprises and gratuitous acts, but of findings obligatorily communicated.
Accordingly, the great risk of re-viewing is not that dissonant occurrences
might not be communicated, as i n the case of casual engagements, but
rather that they are forcedly arrived at.
Project mediators become unexpected and often unwanted sources of epistemic dissonance. They certainly play an enabling role for the u n f o l d i n g
of different perspectives b o t h i n casual engagements and review meetings,
but it is i n the very process of m a k i n g them, of adding layers on a render,
of r u n n i n g a v i r t u a l camera through a 3D model, that they b r i n g along not
just unexpected, but also unwanted dissonant enactments. Such dissonant
insights do not occur i n recurrent temporal intervals. Rather t h a n moments
i n a larger temporal and r h y t h m i c dynamic, they involve instances of sudden realization, b o t h i n the sense of making something real and of having
an insight that cannot be subsumed i n some overarching structures or contexts of office collaboration. Indeed, as mediators are carefully crafted over
days and weeks, sociotechnical work is oriented at f a i t h f u l l y representing the
projected reality of a building, especially considering the practices of future
users and its emplacement i n a larger environment. Dissonant occurrences
occur then when the process of completing the reality of the project fails i n
spite of the efforts put into making it work, that is, i n spite of the layers, the
tweaks and filters added. Occurrences take the f o r m here of neither welcome
surprises nor expected findings, but rather of disappointments.
Finally, what these different modes of occurrence have i n c o m m o n is a
positive reframing of dissonance as a source for variations and alternatives.
Such positive reframing does not mean that disappointments and negative
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feelings are spared. Certainly, the casual remarks of colleagues w h o are not
involved i n the project and k n o w only little about it, the corrections of the
chief architect or sobering 3D animations are not always received w i t h great
joy. But the important t h i n g is that this unpleasantness, this dissonance is
necessary and even desirable for the proliferation of design alternatives.
The key question is then what enables organizations, such as these architectural practices, to t u r n dissonance into a source of new ideas. A n initial
answer can be found i n the title of David Stark's book The Sense of Dissonance.
The essential point here is the concept of "sense," w h i c h refers to a shared
recognition and appreciation of dissonance. The shared culture of an organization could, accordingly, be described i n relation to its more or less developed, more refined or more blunted sense of dissonance. But this does not
explain where this shared sense of dissonance m i g h t come f r o m .
Consider, this time to conclude, the following exchange w i t h Rodrigo, a
colleague of Jos6:
I am sitting next to Rodrigo looking at how he works on the computer. Without
separating his eyes from the monitor, Rodrigo asks whether I could ever imagine working as an architect. I replied somewhat tersely that architecture is a
pretty precarious profession. Rodrigo agreed, and then he added that architects
do indeed often have only incomplete information at their disposal and have
to make decisions lacking a watertight basis. I explained that I had really meant
the precarious job security especially among freelance architects. Yes, replied
Rodrigo, who had been i n a permanent job for some years, this was also true. But
by precarious he actually meant the methods and information used by architects.

Rodrigo's reflection about the precariousness of architectural practice can give us

important clues about where a shared sense for dissonance might actually come
from. The key, it seems, lies i n the professionals' reflexive awareness of the need
to wade through what Schon (1983) calls the swamps of professional practice, i n
which neither problems are well defined, nor univocal courses of action available, and the unavoidability of eventually going through what Derrida (1992)
calls the ordeal of the undecidable. Allowing for dissonance to unfold is thus
crucial to transform indeterminate situations into specific, defined problems
and to open up alternatives. Herein lies the creative and constructive potential
of dissonance as an anti-valuation moment calling for a transvaluation of values.

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