By Liv Dennis
For nearly 95 years, beginning around the 1930s, modern architecture and interior design have been on the rise. Its elements are often praised for their sleek lines, minimalist aesthetics, and efficiency. But for me, I couldn’t resent this new trend more.
Modern architecture feels cold, lifeless, and uninviting. Whenever I see a modern home amidst the beautiful and old ones in neighborhoods, I feel a sense of loss with a tinge of disgust — especially when they begin to take over, replacing older homes and historic structures that hold so much character and history.
What happened to the older homes? The ones with wrap-around porches, creaky wooden floors, and the traditional dream of a white picket fence? The ones with crown molding, exposed brick, or hand-carved details that someone put time and care into? Those are the homes that make you feel something. They were built to last and to be loved.
Instead of blending into the natural environment, modern homes stand out in such a jarring fashion with concrete, overdone glass, and monochromatic color schemes. They don’t add to the charm of a neighborhood; they disrupt it.
There’s something truly unsettling about a neighborhood filled with cookie-cutter homes. It reminds me of those dystopian movies where the children all bounce the basketball at the same time and the wives wave to their husbands in the driveway as they go to work. Simply creepy.
Some people would choose this modern design over an older one any day of the week. But how can a flat, gray box with a few floor-to-ceiling windows and a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a showroom ever compete with older homes? I would feel like a visitor in my own space.
For those who live in these homes or are responsible for their design, do you not crave color? Do you not wake up in the morning, see nothing but sharp angles and cold surfaces, and feel a shiver run down your spine? How can anyone be inspired when the first thing they see is a vast, soulless white kitchen or an exterior that looks more like a bunker than a home? There’s no warmth, no story, and no sense of life — just emptiness. I could never come home to that.
There is, of course, a way to do modern architecture tastefully, but too often, new developments continue to lack this sense of balance. They strip away the details, the craftsmanship, and the sense of life that older buildings have. What was once built with care and individuality is now designed to fit a generic mold.
When I walk into buildings like The University of Tampa’s Plant Hall, I feel welcomed by the building, as if the structure itself has stories to tell. The intricate woodwork, the arched windows, the careful attention to detail — all of it reflects a time when architecture was about more than just function. Modern buildings, to me, just feel lazy.
The complete opposite of Plant Hall is our newer buildings, like the Grand Center or the Jenkins Health and Technology Building. These buildings leave me feeling uneasy. The spaces are stark, impersonal, and almost sterile. I can’t get comfortable there whatsoever, and I’m always on edge.
These buildings don’t encourage creativity or comfort — they simply exist. It’s hard to feel at home in a space that feels more like a doctor’s office than a place meant for living or learning.
On any day, I will always prefer studying in the heat of Plant Hall over being surrounded by the deafening walls of modern buildings like these.
Of course, it could definitely be argued that modern architecture is more practical and energy-efficient, and I’m not discrediting this. Many older buildings require much more maintenance to meet today’s standards. But why does sustainability have to come at the cost of warmth and character?
It’s certainly possible to renovate older architecture in a way that improves efficiency while preserving the charm that makes it special. Instead, many developers take the easier route, tearing it down and throwing up something new.
We’ve seen it time and time again in Tampa alone. From the two-century-old downtown buildings being demolished to add another tacky 42-story condominium tower to the Old Union Depot Hotel.
Most people see the clean, white walls and the sharp cuts and think that picking the modern over the old will save them trouble in the future. But what they aren’t seeing is the cheapness.
These designs may look sleek when brand new, but over time, they’ll start to show their flaws. But the historic buildings and homes were built to endure. The brick, the stone, the solid wood — they develop character with time rather than deteriorating.
Architecture should be more than just walls and a roof. It should have depth and warmth and create a sense of belonging for those who live within it. But today, much of our modern design lacks these qualities and continues to prioritize trends over timelessness.
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Photo courtesy of Luke van Zyl, via Unsplash.