Form Follows Function... Or not...

Why Purpose—Not Just Function—Should Shape Our Buildings

You’ve probably heard the phrase: “Form follows function.”

It gets tossed around in architecture circles like it’s the highest law of design. It sounds intelligent, pragmatic, and rooted in logic. And for a while, it probably was. But also... it might be the reason so many of our buildings today look like emotionally unavailable toasters.

Louis Sullivan, often hailed as the "father of skyscrapers," was a pivotal figure in American architecture during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Born in 1856, he became a partner in the renowned architectural firm Adler & Sullivan in 1883, a collaboration that lasted until 1895. Their partnership produced iconic structures like the Auditorium Building in Chicago (1889) and the Wainwright Building in St. Louis (1891) .​

The phrase "form follows function" is attributed to Sullivan and first appeared in his 1896 essay, The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered, published in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. In this essay, Sullivan wrote:​

"It is the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic, of all things physical and metaphysical, of all things human and all things super-human, of all true manifestations of the head, of the heart, of the soul, that the life is recognizable in its expression, that form ever follows function. This is the law."

This statement encapsulated Sullivan's belief that a building's design should be intrinsically linked to its intended function, a principle that became a cornerstone of modernist architecture.​

While the idea that design should be informed by function predates Sullivan, it was his eloquent articulation in 1896 that cemented "form follows function" as a guiding principle in architectural discourse.

But like many design maxims, once it caught on, it got flattened and oversimplified.

Enter Le Corbusier, the Swiss-French architect and father of the International Style. In his 1923 book Vers une architecture (Toward a New Architecture), he famously declared:

“A house is a machine for living in.”

To him, the home wasn’t a vessel for memory or meaning—it was a piece of industrial equipment. Architecture should be efficient. Streamlined. Engineered. Ornament was out. Symbolism? Irrelevant. Human emotion? Meh.

And thus began a century of buildings that were clean, so called "rational", and utterly silent.

But even the ancients knew better. Vitruvius, the Roman architect writing in the 1st century BC, never separated use from meaning. His famous triad—Firmitas, Utilitas, Venustas (strength, function, beauty)—laid out a more holistic vision. Yes, a building should be useful. But it must also carry beauty. It must feel composed, legible, rooted in cultural memory.

He compared architecture to the human body. Buildings, he said, should be structured like well-shaped men. Not just efficient, but expressive.

Which is why I think it’s time we retire the phrase "form follows function"—and replace it with something better.

Form should follow purpose.

"Function" is not the same as purpose. Function is about what a building does. Purpose is about what a building means. Function is measurable. Purpose is cultural. Emotional. Even spiritual.

Take the example I like to use: the door to a church versus the door to an outhouse. Both doors serve a function. They open. They close. They let you in. They separate space and generate privacy. But would we ever design them the same way? Should they carry the same scale? The same materials? The same symbolism through detail? If we get to the point where the answer is yes, then we’ve either stripped all significance from sacred places—or we’ve started taking our toilets way too seriously.

Buildings used to wear their identities proudly. A town hall looked like a town hall. A courthouse carried civic weight. A library had presence. A home had warmth. Even the barn had dignity. Today? Drive through most modern cities and try to tell the difference between a church, a bank, a school, or a startup office. It's hard.

It’s not just about style. It’s about legibility. Architecture used to communicate. Through its massing, its materials, its detailing, it told you what kind of building you were approaching. That’s what good cities had. A visual hierarchy. Clarity. You could read a neighborhood like a book.

But the moment we declared form should follow function alone, we stopped writing. We turned buildings into blank pages. Yes, the roof doesn’t leak. Yes, the mechanical systems are efficient. But what is it saying?

I’m not suggesting we go back to Gothic cathedrals and Corinthian columns just for nostalgia’s sake I'm suggesting we readopt meaning in our collective consciousness to reintroduce those things because they had meaning. I’m saying we need to design buildings that understand their place in the world because we understand ours. Their role in the urban hierarchy.

A home should feel like a home—not a commercial box with clapboard siding. A church should feel elevated, sacred, intentionally different. A civic building should be formal, rooted, structured. These aren’t style choices. They’re decisions about meaning.

Because when everything looks the same, everything means less.

That’s why I believe form should follow purpose.

Purpose includes function, but it doesn’t end there. Purpose considers the symbolic role of a building. It asks how the building fits into the landscape, into the street, into the daily rhythm of life. It asks what this building is trying to express—to its users, to its neighbors, and to time.

When we design with purpose, we don’t just make buildings that work. We make buildings that speak.

We design spaces that orient people. That mark special moments. That hold cultural memory. That elevate the experience of the everyday.

When we don’t, we get what we have now: neighborhoods where you can’t tell if something is sacred or profane. Cities where every new building could be anything—or nothing. Doors that no longer tell you where they lead.

Architecture used to be generous. It gave people clues. It gave places identity. It created environments that felt earned, composed, expressive. We can do that again.

But only if we stop confusing function with the full picture.

So let’s build with purpose. Not just purpose of use, but purpose of presence. Purpose that knows where it stands in the hierarchy of a home, a neighborhood, a city.

Because a building that understands its purpose is not just functional. It’s memorable. It’s meaningful.

And most importantly: it looks like it knows what it is.