Basilica of the Sagrada Familia, July 2025
Time is one of the forces shaping the landscapes we move through and the places we design. Depending on the source, the average global life expectancy is around 73 years. A human lifetime - full of decisions, deadlines, pressures, and the constant sense that we must keep moving. Yet globally, scientists define old‑growth forests as being over 200 years old. Many trees live far beyond us. Landscapes operate on timelines we can barely comprehend.
We often try to conduct life leisurely, yet we make decisions quickly, solve problems immediately, and expect creativity to arrive on demand.
The landscape - the ecosystem we live within - does not behave this way. A tree repositioning a branch can take hours, months, or several growing seasons depending on age and structure. Growth is slow. Adaptation is slow. Maturity is slow. And yet we often expect ourselves to think, respond, and create at speed. We set timelines that apply pressure: How fast can we work? Who can get there first? How many plates can we spin? What more can we do?
Over‑exertion and over‑extension trick the mind into believing that strategies, ideas, and creative solutions should also arrive quickly. But they rarely do. Creative genius can take a lifetime - so why spend a lifetime rushing toward it?
Slowness is not inefficiency. Slowness is depth.
It is the slow walk to work in the morning. The extended conversation that goes beyond polite greetings. The slow cooking of a meal. The act of lying down on the earth and watching the world move around you. The time taken to understand people, places, cultures, traditions, and beliefs. These are not delays. They are forms of attention.
Slowness in Making
As the Obama Presidential Center opens in Chicago’s Jackson Park, attention has turned not only to the building but to the architects behind it - Tod Williams and Billie Tsien. Their 1999 essay On Slowness has resurfaced, offering a counterpoint to the speed of contemporary design culture. They write: “Buildings are still constructed with hands, and it seems that the hand still knows best what the hand is capable of doing.” This single line captures their philosophy: slowness is not a hindrance but a method. It is a way of thinking, working, reworking, observing, and learning. It is a practice of patience - allowing ideas to mature rather than forcing them into premature form.
Since their essay, the world has undergone a technological paradigm shift. The Fourth Industrial Revolution, digital ubiquity, and pervasive computing have transformed how buildings are conceived and made. Speed is now embedded in every stage of design. And yet, perhaps now more than ever, slowness has become a luxury - a valuable counterbalance to acceleration. Slowness allows us to think more clearly, explore more deeply, interact more meaningfully, and shape the world with greater care.
The Great Pyramid of Giza took roughly 20 years to construct. The Colosseum took 8-10 years. The Taj Mahal took 20 years. The Sagrada Familia has taken over 144 years, inaugurated this year. These timelines are unhurried. They are deliberate. They are not shaped by haste or pressure.
Buildings are still constructed with hands, and it seems that the hand still knows best what the hand is capable of doing.
Slowness in Landscape
Designing a park is a long undertaking. In Chicago, designers collaborated with the city to remove a six‑lane highway - Cornell Drive - healing a fragmented park and reconnecting the campus to Jackson Park Lagoon. This intervention was bold, but its success will be measured not immediately, but over decades. Landscape design is tested in time.
Herbaceous perennials and grasses fill in over 1-2 seasons.
Structural trees and hedges require 5-10 years or more to reach intended scale.
Only once plants reach balanced size and robust health does the design feel cohesive.
This slowness cannot be hurried. It is part of the work.
The most valuable lessons often come from witnessing all four seasons in a place before imagining any intervention. Winter reveals structure. Spring reveals energy. Summer reveals use. Autumn reveals change. Only by experiencing the full cycle can we understand what a landscape needs. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is complete only when all movements are heard - each one responding to a descriptive poem. Landscape is similar: each season adds a layer of meaning, mood, and tone. Our outdoor experiences require the same patience.
We need soggy shoes and torrential rain to appreciate spring’s brightness.
We need winter’s stillness to understand summer’s abundance.
We need the full cycle to appreciate the whole.
Food and drink follow this rhythm too - pickles, plums, berries, grains - each arriving in its own time, warming us with comfort and spirit across the year.
Time can yawn, and so can our reflective thinking.
Before making a change, ask:
Am I testing an idea or making a fast decision?
Should I dwell with this concept longer?
Will it improve with deeper attention?
Or will I miss an opportunity if I don’t act now?
Slowness is not about inaction. It is about intentional action. The landscape teaches us this constantly. And perhaps the greatest lesson is simple:
Good ideas take time. Good landscapes take time. Good design takes time.