Changing some common terminology in architecture and design could be an important first step towards solving systemic issues, writes Katie Treggiden.
Language shapes how we see the world around us, literally. Some studies suggest that native speakers of languages with different words for similar colours – for example “galazio” as its own word for “light blue”, as distinct from “blue” or “ble” in Greek, or “pink” as a separate term for “light red” in English – are more able to distinguish between them.
The native Australian Pormpuraaw community, who don’t have equivalent terms for left and right but instead use compass points, can orient themselves more quickly and accurately even in unfamiliar environments. And a 2018 study found that participants reading otherwise-identical descriptions of someone either “battling cancer” or “on a journey with cancer” were more likely to expect the patient to feel guilty when given a terminal diagnosis if the term battling was used.
Our descriptions of design influence not only our perceptions, but also how decisions get made
If words matter, we need to watch our language. Our descriptions of design, architecture and the built environment influence not only our perceptions, but also how decisions get made and who feels welcome in the spaces we create.
Take the term “planning permission”. It evokes approval bestowed by distant and uncaring officials – something we rail against when it doesn’t go our way.
But planning authorities should act on behalf of local and future communities, both human and in the natural world. So what if we used the phrase “community consent” instead? This shifts the emphasis of the consultation process from box-ticking to active listening, and the relationships involved from “them and us” to “all of us” – as well as reminding authorities of their duty to the communities they represent.
Some terms are already changing. Primary bedrooms were once called “master bedrooms”. The word “master” comes from the Latin “magister”, meaning chief, teacher or director, but has historically described men in positions of power, from the “master” of the household to the “owners” of enslaved people.
Given these hierarchical, sexist and racist connotations, it’s no surprise that the word has been replaced in the context of bedrooms. And yet we still use “masterplan” in architecture – another loaded term rooted in authority and control. Reframing masterplans as “living frameworks” invites collaboration, iteration and a recognition that no place is ever finished. This isn’t just a semantic change – it’s a shift in power.
Language matters even when we are trying to be inclusive. “Wheelchair access”, for example, is of course a good thing, but the term positions wheelchair users as people who need special treatment (while omitting those with other disabilities altogether) in environments that have been designed for the non-disabled.
Choosing better words to drive a better process is not a new idea
“Universal design” is not only a better name, but a better approach. Pioneered in Norway, Japan and America, it puts those with atypical needs at the heart of the design process so that spaces actively welcome everyone, no adaptations required. Also known as “inclusive design” and “design for all”, it takes more than a name-change, but it shows how much words matter.
Choosing better words to drive a better process is not a new idea. In 2011, a £700 million “economic development” project in Preston, Lancashire, collapsed, leaving the local community high and dry. Instead of working with two of the biggest developers in the world to build a shopping mall that would attract global brands as planned, the council found itself looking to grassroots projects in the Basque region of Spain and Cleveland, Ohio for inspiration.
It coined the expression “community wealth building”, and this new terminology signalled a move away from growth at all costs, towards an inclusive economy that kept contracts and spending local, and even created worker-owned co-operatives. The outcome is residents who are “happier, healthier and wealthier”, according to an academic study 12 years later.
Similarly, it’s telling that Vienna calls its social housing blocks Gemeindebauten, or “communal buildings”. The Austrian capital has all-but eliminated stigmatisation of the tenure, with a focus not only on providing shelter for the city’s poorest, but on creating a more equitable society for everybody. Three-quarters of the city’s population qualifies to live in its public housing estates, which have central locations, generous communal spaces and porous boundaries.
We could go further. Would people have more patience with engineering works if we rebranded them “care and repair”, as Mark Miodownik suggested during a panel discussion at Clerkenwell Design Week in May? With 76 per cent of London’s green belt already in use for agricultural purposes, golf courses and hospitals, could further development in these spaces be more carefully considered if we renamed them “biodiversity protection zones”?
It will take more than words to fix systemic issues, but it is a first step
In contrast, the phrase “brownfield site” implies dirt or contamination, but these often-overlooked spaces can be rich with architectural history and untapped potential. Might calling them “heritage regeneration sites” foster more interest and imagination in their development?
Of course, it will take more than words to fix systemic issues, but it is a first step. Design and architecture needs a new vocabulary. Language embeds assumptions into our processes and priorities. It shapes not only what we see, but how we act.
When we change how we talk about design and architecture, we start to change how we do design and architecture. We reclaim language as a tool not just for description, but for change. If we want to make our industry more inclusive, sustainable and equitable, we can start by watching our words.
Katie Treggiden is a craft, design and sustainability writer. She is the author of Broken: Mending and Repair in a Throwaway World (Ludion, 2023).
The photo, showing the Hazelmead co-housing project in Dorset by Barefoot Architects, is by Rebecca Noakes.
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