“What’s So Great About Fake Roman Temples?” asks the smarmy New York Times headline. The obvious answer is the Lincoln Memorial (even though it’s actually a fake Greek temple). The Lincoln Memorial was not built by men in peruques and tricorn hats, but by modern Americans—it was completed in 1922. Nothing fake about it—it is built of Yule marble quarried in Colorado. It also incorporates all the optical refinements of ancient Greek architecture—entasis, slightly tilted columns, a curved stylobate—at the same time it is not an attempt to  build a replica. Greek temples didn’t have flat roofs and skylights, and they were never entered on the long side. Henry Bacon’s beautiful design is full of such “inauthentic” features. When the Lincoln Memorial was built many fulminated against it—Sullivan and Wright hated it–and they were wrong. Of course, the Lincoln Memorial gains strength from the important events it has witnessed—Marian Anderson’s landmark performance, Marin Luther King Jr.’s speech. Like all good architecture it exists in the present as well as the past.

The proposed executive order announced by the White House, “Making Federal Buildings Beautiful Again,” has ruffled architectural feathers, according to a New York Times article. I haven’t read the order but it appears that it would make classical architecture the default style for federal buildings. Until about the 1930s, that was the de facto situation: virtually all federal buildings such as courthouses were classical. At that time there was no formal mandate—it was simply what most people, including most architects, felt was the right thing to do. The old federal courthouse, now the Nix Federal Building, on Chestnut Street in Philadelphia, is one of my favorites. It was designed by Harry Sternfeld in 1937-41, in a stripped classical style influenced by his Penn teacher, Paul Cret. You know it’s a courthouse and not an office building because of monumental limestone facade and the bas-relief panels (above) at street level. Of course “classical” covers a multitude of styles—Greek Revival, Beaux-Arts, Federal, Georgian, and what Cret called New Classicism. The challenge of modernism is that it covers . . . almost anything. The result is that you get courthouses that look like corporate office buildings and atrium-equipped government buildings that resemble casinos or upscale resort hotels.

The practice of architecture follows a curious business model. A painter’s work can grow in value over time (depending obviously on demand). A writer collects royalties, and if the reading audience grows, so do his or her advances.  A businessman’s business can increase in value as sales increase. If a start-up is successful, it can hope for a buy-out. But for the architect every new commission is, in effect, a fresh start—a new client, a new program, a new site. Every project is a custom job; there are no real economies of scale. A particularly successful building design cannot be repeated—there are too many variables. In an age of mass production, architecture—even at the low end—remains a custom craft, like bespoke tailoring or luxury boatbuilding. It is true that star architects can charge higher fees, but spending more time on design—which a star office is required to do—can soon eat up the premium. And star architects are obliged to compete for prominent commissions, which costs money, too. It is difficult for architects to benefit financially from their expertise—if a particular building is commercially successful, attracting shoppers, or tenants, or buyers, it does not benefit the building’s architect. He is busy looking for the next job.