Irony and Pathos in Contemporary Engagements with the Classics

Postmodernism in architecture is a moment when the profession began to laugh at itself while simultaneously speaking with utmost seriousness. After half a century of Modernism’s dominance—an era that forbade ornamentation and declared architectural history a hindrance—architects once again reached for columns, pediments, and arches. However, they did so differently: some with pathos and political meaning, others with irony and quotation. What interests me is precisely this rupture: why does the same classical form become either a manifesto or a joke in the hands of different architects—and where is the boundary between these two stances?

The study focuses on three architects—Ricardo Bofill, Philip Johnson, and Aldo Rossi—and specific architectural projects: the Les Espaces d’Abraxas residential complex near Paris (1978–1983), the AT&T skyscraper in New York (1984), and the San Cataldo Cemetery in Modena (1971–1984). All three works belong to the same period (the 1970s–1980s) and address a shared problem: what to do with classical heritage in an era when Modernism had exhausted itself. Robert Venturi’s theory is additionally examined as the intellectual foundation of the ironic approach.

The study is structured not chronologically, but according to the logic of the argument. First, the context: why Modernism rejected classicism, and why this rejection did not become absolute. Next, three distinct responses to one question: Bofill representing pathos, Johnson and Venturi representing irony, and Rossi proposing a third position that is difficult to place in either category. The conclusion returns to the original question and offers an answer.

Principle for Selecting and Analyzing Textual Sources

The foundation consists of primary sources: Adolf Loos’s essay «Ornament and Crime» (1910), Le Corbusier’s book «Towards an Architecture» (1923), and «Learning from Las Vegas» by Venturi, Scott Brown, and Izenour (MIT Press, 1972). Critical texts include material from ArchDaily, Dezeen, Britannica, and Encyclopedia.com. All sources were chosen based on criteria of reliability and direct relevance to the projects under consideration.

The hypothesis is as follows: irony and pathos in postmodern architecture are not expressions of opposites, but rather two sides of the same coin. Architects use classical form as a language whose meaning is determined not by the form itself, but by the context, scale, and intent. For Boffi, the column is a political statement about dignity; for Johnson, it is provocation and quotation; for Rossi, it is an archetype stripped of both irony and pathos.

In 1910, Viennese architect Adolf Loos gave a lecture titled «Ornament and Crime.» The central idea was simple: decorating a building was a sign of cultural backwardness. For Loos, an evolved person does not need ornamentation, just as they do not need tattoos. This lecture became a manifesto that architects in the following decades read as a license—a permission to finally discard all the superfluous.

Not a temple, not a palace, not a quote from history—a machine. Villa Savoye near Paris (1929–1931) became the literal embodiment of this idea: a white parallelepiped on slender pilotis, ribbon windows, a flat roof. No columns, no pediments, no memory of antiquity.

Mies van der Rohe pushed this logic to its extreme. The Seagram Building in New York (1958), built in collaboration with Philip Johnson, is a glass rectangle raised above the ground, featuring a facade of bronze and glass devoid of any ornamentation.

His formula operated as an absolute prohibition against historical citation.

By the 1960s, the modernist box had become the standard for corporate construction worldwide. That is when the reverse process began: architects who had grown up with Modernism started to grow weary of it. It turned out that the «machine for living» answered the question of function, but not the question of meaning.

The reaction wasn’t a denial, but a question: what if classicism wasn’t ballast, but a language? And if that language can be used again, then exactly how?

In the late 1970s, the French government was constructing new towns on the outskirts of Paris. The task was purely utilitarian: housing people. Most developers approached the problem predictably using standardized panel blocks, but the Spanish architect Ricardo Bofill decided to do it differently.

Les Espaces d’Abraxas in Nuazi-le-Grand (1978–1983) is a residential complex of 591 apartments, the majority of which are social housing. Yet, it presents itself as a palatial ensemble. The three structures—“Palazzo, ” «Théâtre, ” and „Arche”—form a closed space featuring multi-story columns, gigantic pediments, and arches. The columns are constructed from precast concrete and are glazed, possessing a classical form rendered with modern materials and industrial manufacturing techniques.

Poeffer spoke directly about the political significance of this decision. Luxurious architecture historically belonged to power and wealth—palaces, ministries, residences. He wanted to give this language to low-income people. According to him, he aimed to create an emblematic monument in a very poorly situated area—not merely housing, but a symbol that its residents deserved dignity.

This is pathos in the truest sense—not pretension, but the seriousness of intention. Here, classical form is not irony or playfulness. It functions as a political statement: social housing can be monumental. Poeffer took classicism seriously—as a language capable of speaking to human dignity regardless of who stands behind it.

The complex became known far beyond the architectural community—it was used to film Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1985) and the final installment of The Hunger Games (2015). It is telling that both films are dystopias. The dystopian aesthetic clung to a building originally conceived as a utopia. This in itself speaks to the ambiguity of monumental classicism in a contemporary context—even when the author’s intention was unequivocal. Unlike postmodernists, who cited classicism with a wink, Pevsner did not wink. That is why his building is so difficult to interpret today; it demands that the viewer take its seriousness to heart.

In 1978, the design for AT&T’s new headquarters in New York made the front page of the New York Times—not because the building was the tallest or the most expensive, but because Philip Johnson placed a fractured pediment atop the 37-story skyscraper—a detail reminiscent of an 18th-century Chippendale-style cabinet lid. The architectural community was immediately divided.