Your letter (p. 197) asks ‘where is the research engaging with the big issues that ought to be concerning the profession?’. Concluding, you ask ‘Couldn't the level of thinking and analysis applied to exquisite garden sheds in the pages of arq be applied to such bigger things that are affecting the lives of millions of people…? And if such work is already being done let everyone hear about it…’

In case there was any doubt, the discussions in recent issues of arq, and from other coverage of the 2001 Research Assessment Exercise (RAE), demonstrate that the role, status and purpose of research in the field of architecture at the beginning of the twenty-first century are problematic to say the least. The nature of architectural practice is at an equally problematic stage, with the profession appearing to many weak, disorganized and ill-equipped to stand up to external threats of various kinds. And although it is common to hear the view – which we subscribe to – that connections between academic research (and the schools more generally) and professional practice are poor and ought to be improved, it is not easy to work out whether this state of affairs is more a cause or a consequence of the difficulties on both sides.

The interview with Jack Pringle (7/2, pp104–106) provides both an interesting account of how we got here and some useful pointers towards a more integrated future which, hopefully, the RIBA can be at the heart of. The background to this situation is, of course, more fully documented in previous issues of arq including my own paper (6/4, pp297–299).

arq's interview with Jack Pringle (6/3, pp104–106) puts a strong case for why the profession needs to engage with education and research, if it is to sustain a robust body of knowledge relevant to its clients' continuously changing demands.

Paolo Tombesi's intriguing article (7/2, pp140–154) on the genesis of Australia's Parliament House inevitably raises the question of possible comparisons with Scotland's Parliamentary saga. The differences, of course, are as striking as the similarities. Tombesi's position is that the Canberra building's design, which he dislikes, is explicable by the commissioning process, and the desire of the Australians to have reliability and delivery on time. Apart from the obvious formality of plan and pomposity of approach (although we are not altogether exempt from recent exemplars of either in twenty-first-century Britain), he takes it for granted that the architecture is entirely mediocre. Yet I would have been intrigued to know whether the spaces between the curved walls of the gathering spaces building and the Chambers and offices on either side, had any qualities.

Paolo Tombesi's investigation of Australia's Parliament House, Canberra (arq 7/2, pp140–154) shows how the ambitions of Public Sector clients are influenced by the political context. The review by John Sergeant of Weston's excellent biography of Utzon in the same issue (pp183–186), provides some insight into his tragedy and triumph at Sydney: the Opera House.

Eight years after the first issue, a new team based at the Welsh School of Architecture, Cardiff University is assuming editorial responsibility for arq.

One of the most neglected and urgent issues facing architecture – the substantial fracture between thinking about architecture and engaging in professional practice – was addressed at a two day conference in Cambridge this March (2004). Organized by RIBA East/University of Cambridge CPD for Architects, in association with the University's Department of Architecture and Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities, it attracted a sizeable audience of practising architects, senior academics and students. This mix reflected the organizers' ambition to bring together professional and academic perspectives in this interdisciplinary area. The proceedings will be published by Spon during 2005.

This is a house about decisions that were not made, not because I am indecisive, which I am, but because many of those choices that architects consider to be critical in design are to me either unnecessary or impossible: the choice between the detail of traditional architecture and the non-detail of minimalism, between a frame building and a wall building, between a free plan and a cellular plan, between a tight fit and a loose fit with function. These were all decisions in which I chose not one alternative but both. I did not believe the conventional wisdom that to be modern was to be minimal, scaleless, generalized and reductive or that to be representational, to make references to history, or to be responsive to scale was to be traditional.

Lined against one wall in the reception area of Feilden Clegg Bradley Architects' (FCBA) London office is a row of folding bicycles [2]. All are provided by the firm for the use of staff and partners. A sign of clear commitment to green and humanist causes, credentials which are surely needed by modern architects of large housing schemes. Luckily for the Brooklands Avenue project for 378 dwellings in Cambridge, the architects are supported in this commitment by their client, Countryside Properties. Also luckily, the site contains many magnificent trees. These are mostly around the perimeter, but there is one line forming a strong central spine running north-south. Better still, the west boundary is flanked by Hobson's Brook and a strip of common land.

In 2000, the UK Government Department for Education and Skills (DfES) piloted 27 new primary school projects around the country in an initiative called ‘Classrooms of the Future’. Starting with a polemical question: what is ‘a Classroom of the Future’?, it encouraged both a design-led approach and an exploration of where the theory of the classroom design meets teaching practice. David Miliband, the government minister involved, described the challenge as ‘designing inspiring buildings that can adapt to educational and technological change’ (DfES, 2002a). Chris Bissell from the DfES, the initiator of ‘Classrooms of the Future’ summed up his expectations: ‘to deliver the best and most effective education exploiting all the possibilities of the information age, school buildings need to reflect advances in technology. They need to provide a pleasant and comfortable environment for learning and to use architectural and design features to stimulate children's imaginations. And they need to be open to wider use, binding schools to their local communities.’ (DfES, 2002a)

The kind of investigation that the Department of Education and Skills (DfES) has brought about through its exemplar design initiative should be commonplace in architectural culture. For an exemplar design is, or should be, an embodiment of theory in a particularly clear and intense way. The DfES has given 11 architects the opportunity to theorize school environments and contribute realizable ideal designs in the context of the biggest investment in primary and secondary education for over a generation.

Several strategies are used at the Rotterdam Kunsthal to create a direct relation between the city and the interior of the building. Our hypothesis is that the frictions and difficulties that arise from this openness to the outside world are integrated into the design of the building. In fact, despite being exposed to the forces of the city, the project maintains its functionality and identity. Many existing texts have touched upon the relationship that exists between the Kunsthal and the city (for example, van Dijk [1993], Kipnis [1996], MacNair [1994]), but none clearly articulates the different paradoxes that result from this complex intertwining. The importance of systematically and critically exploring these paradoxes lies in the fact that the Rotterdam Kunsthal is one of the very first of a series of contemporary buildings that have tried to connect themselves in direct ways to their urban surroundings.

In 1934 Le Corbusier wrote to Tage William-Olsson: ‘You have created, in Stockholm, the first great work of the modern time, the traffic junction of Slussen [1]. It seems as if everything should go on in the same scale. Don't despair. Go on, make proposals, fight…’ These encouraging words from the vigorous master certainly suited an architect whose father had told him that, ‘There are two things in front of which you shouldn't despair, those which you can't change and those which you can’. He hung Le Corbusier's letter on the wall of his office.

‘I hope I may be forgiven, if I make some faint Application of what I say of Blenheim, to the Small Remains of ancient Woodstock Manour… it was rais'd by One of the Bravest and most Warlike of the English Kings; And tho' it has not been Fam'd, as a Monument of his Arms, it has been tenderly regarded as the Scene of his Affections. Nor amongst the Multitude of People who come daily to View what is raising to the Memory of the Great Battle of Blenheim; Are there any that do not run eagerly to See what Ancient Remains are to be found of Rosamonds Bower… But if the Historicall Argument Stands in need of Assistance; there is Still much to be said on Other Considerations. That Part of the Park which is Seen from the North Front of the New Building, has Little Variety of Objects Nor dos the Country beyond it Afford any of Vallue, It therefore Stands in Need of all the helps that can be given… So that all the Building left, (which is only the Habitable Part and the Chappel) might Appear in Two Risings amongst ‘em, it wou'd make One of the Most Agreable Objects that the best of Landskip Painters can invent’ (Dobrée & Webb, 1928d; Ridgway & Williams, 2000).

Since the World Trade Center Towers collapsed in full view of the watching world (FEMA, 2002), the improved safety of tall buildings has become of prime importance globally (Pearson, 2001). International groups such as the UK-based ‘Safety in Tall Buildings Working Group’ (Roberts, 2002), and Arups High Rise (Wainwright, 2002) which are considering these safety implications have made recommendations for improvement in three general areas:

1. structural systems, especially with respect to progressive collapse

2. fire proofing, to structure and fabric

3. evacuation systems, concentrating specifically on vertical evacuation systems such as elevators and stairs.

‘A city seventy miles square but rarely seventy years deep apart from a small downtown not yet two centuries old and a few other pockets of ancientry, Los Angeles is instant architecture on an instant townscape.’ (Banham, 1971)

Two opposing attitudes shape the built environment of North America: the myth of transience and the myth of permanence.

Architecture students tell stories about their work. These stories are meant to convey information regarding their convictions about design, the motivating concept for a specific design, and the intended meaning of the design. Such stories are calculated to have something to do with the work presented. Often, though, what is said is put forward and accepted as valid simply because it is said. Scrutiny of the relationship between such accounts and the visual or physical evidence frequently reveals a wide gap between intention and result. Credulity of such incongruity encourages a loose way of thinking that fosters a separation of thought (theory) from doing (practice). Concurrently, architecture students at the earliest stages of their education seem to require skill development above all else. But overemphasis on technique undervalues developing conceptual depth. If students are not introduced to design as an ill-defined problem, akin to formulating effective and persuasive arguments, their propensity is to produce work that tends to be ineffectively developed or represented while lacking theoretical sophistication.

There are many striking examples of Modernist buildings that house sculptures that are much more traditional than the architecture that surrounds them. To some extent these disparities can be explained by the uncontrolled installation of sculpture, the result either of a lack of concern on the part of the architect or of ignorance of what was to come. Of more interest here, however, is the deliberate positioning of ‘non-Modernist’ sculpture in Modernist buildings. To some extent such juxtapositions require that we reconsider our definition of Modern sculpture. Beyond this, we can ask what figurative sculpture gave abstract architects, and why they used it.