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In a thoughtful and far-ranging conversation, architect Mitch Rocheleau sits down with me to discuss the deeper layers of architecture, the critical importance of reflection in design, and the challenges—and opportunities—presented by rebuilding in the face of disaster. Throughout our exchange, Rocheleau consistently returns to one core belief: architecture is not merely about aesthetics or function, but about the human experience.

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“I think architecture, if you study and reflect on it, write about it, think about it deeply, can be in some ways a storybook,” Rocheleau said early in the conversation. “You can read it and gain profound insights into the people that were building it.” Which is such a dynamic idea and one we just don’t often consider.

Thank you Mitch, Amazing. Thank you to my incredible partner sponsors, TimberTech, Pacific Sales, and Design Hardware. Amazing companies and great friends to the trade so please give them an opportunity for your next project. Thank you for listening, subscribing to the show and sharing with your colleagues. If not already subscribing, please consider that so you receive every new episode automatically to your podcast feed. 

Please keep those emails coming convo by design at outlook dot com and follow the conversation on Instagram, @ConvoXDesign with an “X”.

Until next week, thank you for sharing this time together, until the next episode, be well, stay focused and now that it has arrived in earnest, try to rise above the chaos.

The Power of Writing in Design

Rocheleau has become known not just for his architectural practice, but for his written reflections on the field. These writings—available via Rust Architects—provide critical insight often missing from mainstream discussions of architecture.

What drives this urge to document and reflect? Rocheleau sees it as an essential part of the creative process.

“As I’ve gone through that process [of creating], I’ve begun to feel the intuition or this need to reflect,” he explained. “To say, okay, what am I actually doing? Where is this coming from? What is the work I’m putting into the world?” Such purposeful cogitation creates the framework for managing creative ideas for a greater purpose.

This emphasis on writing as a reflective tool, rather than simply a vehicle for promotion or analysis, places Rocheleau in a tradition of architectural thinkers who seek deeper meaning in their work. He draws inspiration from historical figures such as John Ruskin, seeing the built environment as both a product and reflection of civilization.

Bridging School and Reality

A particularly compelling moment in the interview, for me, came when Mitch and I discuss a comment from architect Brian Pinkett: that architecture school doesn’t teach students how to design, but rather how to think critically. Rocheleau agreed, but pointed out a troubling disconnect between that training and the professional world.

“It seems to me that there may be in the path of architecture… a primary path, and then along the way, a series of possibly distractions,” he said. These distractions include software, rendering techniques, and other technical tools that—while valuable—can steer young architects away from their original, human-centered purpose.

Rocheleau’s concern is that without conscious reflection, the architectural process becomes reactive, not intentional. He views writing, philosophy, and psychology as tools to reconnect with that original path.

“At its essence, it all can come back to the idea of the human and what’s going on in the human’s mind as we’re walking through space.”

A Lens on the Farnsworth House

Mitch and I discuss one of his recent writings on the Farnsworth House by Mies van der Rohe. While often seen as a minimalist icon of modernism, Rocheleau sees it through a more emotional and humanistic lens.

“There was this really maybe sensitive approach from Mies van der Rohe about the human experience,” Rocheleau explained. “Which is a strange thing, because I think he often doesn’t really get credit for that type of thinking.”

He views the Farnsworth House not just as an object of design, but as a symbol of a new, more transparent way of living—one that connects people more directly with their surroundings. The building, in his view, represents not only architectural purity but emotional vulnerability.

“It’s massively freeing to think that it’s possible to live that way,” he said of the open, glass-walled structure.

Lessons from the Past: Venice as a Living Artifact

Turning to another of Rocheleau’s essays, I highlighted a piece on the architectural history of Venice—an improbable city that, as the architect pointed out, “shouldn’t exist.” The challenges Venice faced gave rise to unique solutions, like the Venetian chimney, which doubled as both an artistic feature and a fire safety measure.

“It’s this confluence of beautiful art and necessity,” Rocheleau explained. “Somebody’s in a challenging place, and they’re problem solving.”

For Rocheleau, Venice exemplifies how constraints and adversity often lead to innovation. He contrasted this with the top-down, utopian visions often proposed by urban planners—visions that may be beautiful but are often divorced from lived reality.

“Without those challenges, that city would not be what it is today,” he noted. “There’s a bit of hollowness in a plan that hasn’t faced resistance.”

Rebuilding After Disaster: Southern California’s Moment

Los Angeles and Southern California in the wake of wildfires that have devastated communities. With the surge in rebuilding efforts provide both risk and an opportunity.

Rocheleau sees parallels with Venice’s resilience—suggesting that, just as hardship led to innovation in the past, today’s crises could inspire smarter, more human-centered urban planning.

Rocheleau agrees that now is a time to reflect deeply on what kind of environments truly serve humanity—not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually.

“I think we should reflect as a collective society… to help us get a better compass for how to proceed with architectural work in the future.”

The Takeaway: Thought Before Form

Throughout the discussion, Mitch Rocheleau makes a compelling case that architecture is as much about thought as it is about form. His writings, rich with philosophy, psychology, and historical insight, aim to bring intentionality back into a profession often overwhelmed by trends and tools.

In a world dealing with climate disasters, urban sprawl, and shifting cultural values, his voice is a reminder that architecture has always been—and should remain—a human art.

Rebuilding Los Angeles: Balancing Urgency, Legacy, and Vision for the Future

In the wake of disaster, the urgency to rebuild is often overwhelming. Families are displaced, communities fractured, and infrastructure shattered. It’s entirely human to want to move quickly—to restore normalcy, provide shelter, and begin again. But what if moving fast risks missing the chance to do something truly transformational?

This tension is especially evident in places like Los Angeles—a sprawling, layered urban environment that defies easy categorization. To understand LA is to understand that it’s not one unified city but a complex mosaic of neighborhoods, each with its own identity, architecture, and community fabric. In a region so rich in diversity and history, rebuilding isn’t just about putting walls back up—it’s about deciding how we live, why we build, and what legacy we leave behind.

The Dangers of Rebuilding in Haste

The instinct to rebuild quickly is understandable, especially after catastrophe. But speed can come at the cost of quality, thoughtfulness, and long-term resilience. As one architect reflected, there’s a real risk in responding with haste: the impulse to recreate the same structures, to replicate familiar patterns without taking the time to reflect on what worked, what didn’t, and what could be improved.

Rather than defaulting to “build back the same,” there’s a compelling argument for pausing—just long enough—to ask deeper questions. What are the values of the community? How should infrastructure serve people today, and tomorrow? And how can the rebuilt environment contribute not just to housing needs, but to culture, identity, and connection?

Preservation vs. Progress: A Los Angeles Dilemma

Los Angeles faces a unique architectural paradox. On one hand, it houses some of the most iconic mid-century and modernist structures in the country. On the other, it is a living, breathing organism that constantly evolves—one that doesn’t (and arguably shouldn’t) preserve everything for the sake of nostalgia.

Take the example of Eichler homes. Built as part of the post-World War II housing boom, these homes reflect a critical shift in how Americans thought about suburban living. With open courtyards, indoor-outdoor flow, and modern materials, Eichlers weren’t just houses—they were a statement about a new way of life. They marked a philosophical and aesthetic evolution, one that mirrored broader changes in society.

But here’s the irony: while Eichlers are celebrated today as architectural gems, they were once just part of a larger tract housing movement—one often dismissed for its uniformity and lack of design rigor. This contradiction highlights the challenge of preservation: how do we decide what is “worth” saving? What makes one tract home a heritage site, while another is fair game for demolition?

A Moment of Opportunity

Today, Southern California has a rare opportunity—perhaps the greatest since the postwar boom—to reshape the urban landscape for generations to come. Disaster, as tragic as it is, presents a unique chance to not just restore, but to reinvent.

It’s a chance to take what we’ve learned—about materials, sustainability, equity, and design—and apply it at scale. To create housing that isn’t just affordable, but beautiful and dignified. To craft public spaces that foster connection. To reimagine density not as a threat, but as a solution to sprawl, climate strain, and social isolation.

This isn’t about tearing down the past. It’s about learning from it—and building a better future because of it.

The Role of Architectural Language

Architecture is a language, and like any language, it evolves. Styles shift, materials change, needs adapt. Yet at its core, good architecture speaks to the human experience. It tells a story—about how we see ourselves, our values, our aspirations.

In the absence of nuanced architectural criticism, however, these stories are often lost. Today’s social media environment favors snapshots over substance, impressions over inquiry. A photo of a sleek facade might go viral, but who explains the deeper design choices? Who critiques whether a building works—not just visually, but emotionally, functionally, and socially?

This is why thoughtful architectural voices are needed now more than ever. Not just to defend preservation or promote innovation, but to interpret, contextualize, and push the conversation forward.

Learning from the Masters—And Moving Beyond Them

Even the most revered architects had blind spots. Visiting Frank Lloyd Wright’s Price Tower in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, one is struck by its grandeur and ambition—but also by its shortcomings. The dramatic design includes soaring glass expanses and rich materials, but also narrow hallways and impractical living spaces. One secretary’s desk was placed beneath a half-wall that blocked her view, despite floor-to-ceiling windows nearby. It’s a reminder that architectural vision can sometimes ignore human needs.

These imperfections don’t diminish Wright’s legacy—but they do highlight the importance of designing not just for expression, but for experience. Today’s architects must balance vision with empathy, aesthetics with usability.

Toward a New Los Angeles

What does the next Los Angeles look like? That depends on the questions we’re willing to ask—and how brave we are in answering them.

Can we build faster and better? Can we honor the past while embracing the future? Can we move beyond labels—“modernist,” “traditionalist,” “preservationist”—and simply strive to create environments that work for people?

The answer lies not in one master plan, but in many conversations—among architects, planners, community members, and leaders. It lies in resisting the pressure to rush, and instead seizing this moment to do something deeper.

Los Angeles is not static. It never has been. But it can be intentional. And in that intention lies the hope of a more resilient, equitable, and inspiring city for the next generation.

– CXD