I think it's necessary to evaluate a skyscraper at multiple scales, since that's how we experience it: from right next to it on the street to from across the river, as well as at all kinds of points in between. It's important to think of it as an element in a larger skyline, but also as an element in an immediate streetscape.— Paul Goldberger
The most floundering Paul Goldberger quotes to get the best of your day
Right after 9/11 it looked as if the idea of a huge skyscraper might be considered obsolete. It came back, but I think that's more closely connected to the rise of Asian and Middle Eastern cities in the world economy (Dubai, Shanghai, Taipei, etc.) than anything else.
The bias among architecture critics isn't against skyscrapers per se, but against the way in which their design is so heavily dictated by economic considerations - the way in which skyscrapers are real estate before they are architecture.
Architecture begins to matter when it brings delight and sadness and perplexity and awe along with a roof over our heads.
The taste of people with large bank accounts tends not to be on the cutting edge.
Infrastructure creates the form of a city and enables life to go on in a city, in a certain way.
I think of what the experience is of going into the building, of spending time in it, and try to get a sense of what the building would be like to work in as well.
Wright's building made it socially and culturally acceptable for an architect to design a highly expressive, intensely personal museum. In this sense almost every museum of our time is a child of the Guggenheim.
By any reasonable standard, Riverside Drive would be considered the best street in New York. Where else, after all, are there such views-not of a narrow river, as there is across town, but of one of the noblest rivers in the United States.
A noble space, unlike any other of our time, for it is both strong and delicate.
It seems to call at once for a Boeing 747 and for a string quartet.
Integrity has been enhanced.
It fills one with a sense of architectural possibility.
Buildings don't exist to be pinned, like brooches, on the front of bigger structures to which they bear only the most distant of relationships.
We identify New York with the great bridges and tunnels and roadways and subway system and so forth.
I don't usually go in for reviews of buildings that aren't yet built, since you can tell only so much from drawings and plans, and, besides, has there ever been a building that didn't look great as a model?
A suburban mall turned vertical.
For most of the nineteen-seventies, the official route map of the New York City subway system was a beautiful thing.
New York grew up before the automobile.
And even though it's full of cars, its shape and form didn't get created around the automobile.
New York remains what it has always been : a city of ebb and flow, a city of constant shifts of population and economics, a city of virtually no rest. It is harsh, dirty, and dangerous, it is whimsical and fanciful, it is beautiful and soaring - it is not one or another of these things but all of them, all at once, and to fail to accept this paradox is to deny the reality of city existence.
Los Angeles, Houston, Denver, Atlanta: those are all cities that really didn't get big, didn't hit their stride until the 20th century.
I try to do everything from thinking about big issues like how a building fits into the larger stream of architectural history to practical issues such as how it feels to navigate your way through its interior.
On New York subways in the 1980s: Riding on the IRT is usually a matter of serving time in one of the city's most squalid environments-noisy, smelly, crowded and overrun with a ceaseless supply of graffiti.