As a naïve high school student, ignorant to the realities of college life, I had always envisioned the collegiate environment to be a hub of solemn activity. I pictured an intense intellectual community framed by a backdrop of serious grey stone and antique gothic architecture, contrasted only by the peripheral social scene of the wild, newly independent students committed to questionable behavior beyond their studies. This model seemed to be based on the austere images of the Ivies and other various institutions of learning, primarily located in the Northeast. I found them aesthetically appealing because of their austerity, despite the fact that they seemed much colder and conservative than what I would typically describe as my ideal environment. I thought these buildings were beautiful in their own way, but I did not take into consideration how their architecture related to me or my own learning style. After choosing the University of Texas not because of its architecture, but more for the opportunities it provided me to pursue my goals, I have learned that luckily, this glaring omission in analyzing various colleges did not stop me from attending a place that I can instantly feel comfortable and at home, both aesthetically and emotionally. I have found that, as Deyan Sudjic stated, “Architecture matters because it lasts, of course. It matters because it is big, and it shapes the landscape of our everyday lives” (Bump 430). This inescapable component of campus life surrounds us daily, and must be taken into consideration when creating an effective learning environment.

Critics of our campus architecture may call it jumbled or mismatched, a series of Spanish-Mediterranean style buildings juxtaposed with cold Modernism, and a splash of the Neo-Classic and standard Collegiate Gothic. I disagree with this claim, for isn’t the purpose of the college experience to create a well-rounded individual, someone who is easily adaptable? It’s true that I was initially repulsed by the Modernist style of the engineering buildings, unfortunately where I spend much of my time, but after many visits I began to adapt my cynical view and pick out aspects I could enjoy. They began to understand that these strong, masculine buildings suit the departments they housed, a world of math and science dictated by concrete facts and principles. Their practicality and lack of frivolity in design addressed the character of the professional engineers they produced, people who devote their lives to utilizing efficiency, safety, and serving industry’s basic needs. I may feel more comfortable amidst the Spanish architecture of Parlin than the strong vertical lines of Jester or the striking modernity of the McCombs Business School, but I do realize that one can benefit from diversity, it can broaden a perspective and allow one to draw connections between the varying “places” in one’s life, and learn to respect their differences. As Law discussed, a certain versatility is required to break the monotony of a singular style. As a University that prides itself on the diversity of its enormous student body, it is equally important that aesthetic differences can be incorporated into the campus to create a sense of balance and contradiction that a student will continuously confront when eventually thrown into the real world after receiving a diploma.

I certainly feel most comfortable and at home among the Spanish styled limestone and red roofed buildings that makes up the cornerstone of UT architecture, but I feel I can also enjoy the differences of the various styles that are present in the different “academic villages” (Berdahl, Bump 413) of their respective colleges. The limestone façade and gently sloping tile roofs evoke a sense of history and a feeling that our education is lasting, based on a synthesis of European and American tradition and amassed knowledge. The various shells, located in the archways of buildings as well as the bases of streetlights, guide us on our paths as they seem represent our personal pilgrimages to our future enlightened selves, a goal that serves as a foundation for the University’s primary function.

As I rise to the sound of heavy machinery each weekday morning at 6:45, I can’t help but notice the growing collection of various architectural styles found throughout the forty acres, and how each new addition will add to the “commitment to a community that we [can] establish our own links to the past and to the future” (Berdahl, Bump 411). I trust that the Master Plan is “neither a blueprint nor a template” but rather a “set of academic considerations, a comprehensive, intelligent, reasoned, studied, open-ended plan in which the renewal of a commitment to a community is the overarching theme” (Berdahl, Bump 412).