Let’s take back ‘shock and awe’

“Shock and awe.” We were told to expect a blitz of policy shifts and executive orders designed to tilt the world on its axis. And we’ve got it. How the geopolitical landscape will evolve over the next four years is anyone’s guess. But architects and designers think beyond the news cycle, shaping buildings that take years to break ground and stand for generations.

Biophilic design is well-trodden groundwith benefits to human health, wellbeing and hip pockets. Many biophilic principles are intuitive: visual connections to nature, the soothing sound of water, natural materials, air flow, dynamic and diffuse light. But one principle is often overlooked: awe.

Awe – true awe – is more than spectacle or soundbite. It’s a visceral reaction: raised eyebrows, gaping mouth, a chill down the spine. It’s the sense of smallness we feel beneath a star-strewn sky or on the rim of a mountain. It’s the wonder of a rainbow after a storm.

The ancients saw awe as the beginning of wisdom. Religions associate awe with the divine. Evidence shows that awe encourages curiosity, critical thinking and scientific enquiry – vital qualities for a world in flux. So how do we design for awe?

Sublime by design

Terrapin Bright Green, a environmental consultants specialising in biophilic design theory and practice, defines awe as “stimuli that defy an existing frame of reference and lead to a change in perception”. Awe is what Abraham Maslow called a “peak experience” – a moment that shifts our sense of self and our place in the world.

Terrapin categorises awe into three types:

1. primordial awe – The presence of immense power or prestige.

2. nature-based awe – The grandeur of the natural world.

3. human-made awe – The mastery of art, music and architecture.

For me, awe is standing before the tallest tree in a rainforest. It’s the shiver of hearing soaring voices in song (Bach’s Magnificat, one of my first big choral sings, still gives me goosebumps). It’s the essence of the sublime, captured by Emily Brontë in three short stanzas, in the wild exhilaration of a storm, with nature “bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.”

One common denominator in awe is a sense of vastness – literal or metaphorical. But there’s another component: accommodation. Research suggests people need time and space to adjust to larger-than-life experiences. When we miss the mark, awe can trigger confusion, disorientation and fear. When we succeed, awe elicits wonder and enlightenment.

Awe isn’t just a feeling. Research shows it has profound psychological and physiological effects. It can lower heart rate, reduce inflammation and activate the “rest and digest” mode of our nervous system.

Awe can enhance our sense of generosity, humility and collective thinking. It can make us more cooperative and community minded. Awe doesn’t just make us feel – it shapes our societies.

Awe and order

Awe-inspiring architecture plays with space, scale, light or the passage of time. The Taj Mahal’s symmetry. La Sagrada Família’s century-long ambition. The repetition of the Sydney Opera House’s soaring sails. Each prompts a moment of pause.

Frank Lloyd Wright loved to play with the concept of “compression and release”. It’s a technique used masterfully in New York’s Grand Central Station. As passengers exit the low-ceilinged tunnels of the subway, they are funnelled toward the grand concourse, where they stop, look up, and take in the celestial expanse of roof.

We see this same craving for perspective in sky decks and sweeping city views. An elevated vantage point reminds us of our scale relative to the world.

The Australian Institute of Architects’ list of “awe-inspiring” buildings includes icons such as the Sydney Opera House, the High Court and National Gallery precinct, and Australia Square. But my awe-inducing favourite is the Shine Dome in Canberra, sometimes called the “Martian Embassy”.

At 46 metre in diameter, the Shine Dome is larger than Florence’s Duomo or the Pantheon in Rome. By day, it appears to float on water; at night it glows in changing colours. When it first opened, nearly half the Shine Dome’s visitors suffered from nystagmic motion sickness, an optical illusion caused by unevenly spaced acoustic panels. The solution was to hang string down the panels at intervals to break the illusion without eroding the sense of awe.

A room with a view

My Shine Dome anecdote makes an essential point: awe is personal. Architects and designers can create the conditions, but it’s up to each individual to open the door to awe. The question, then, is how we create spaces that invite awe rather than impose it. I think this includes:

• think beyond greenery: Biophilia is not just about plants. It’s about light, texture, sound, space and soul.

• embrace vastness: Whether through height, depth or intricacy, design should evoke a sense of scale.

• create moments of pause: Spaces should be designed not only for movement, but for contemplation.

Shock and awe may dominate a 24 hour news cycle, but authentic awe, experienced through architecture, endures. We don’t need to listen to the noise and the current narrative. We can listen to nature and the heartbeat of humanity. We can build for wonder. And with wonder, we build a better world.

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