Architects of Experiences

By Gelare Danaie

Exploring the Possibilities of the Architectural Profession

When I studied architecture, the world of architecture was decidedly masculine. While the profession still hasn’t reached true balance at the top, it is far better than it once was. I remember having four figures—as my father liked to say, four old men—pinned to my wall, architects whose work I was obsessed with: Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Louis Kahn.

I began my internship early, in a well-known firm in Tehran led by an iconic architect. My understanding of architecture and built space was shaped almost entirely by what I was being taught. Architecture, I learned, was an art form like any other—a bridge between creative imagination and the physical, material world. There was a sense that if you experienced it once, truly experienced it, you would understand its essence. It felt magical.

And in many ways, that was true. Architecture is creation. Nothing, in my view, can fully replace it as a form of expression. From traditional Persian courtyard houses in Iran to a spa in the Alps by my favorite Swiss architect, when you experience a space fully, the magic touches you. This thousand-year-old practice of shaping the spaces we inhabit is deeply embedded in who we are as a species.

Years later, after putting in the hours—the sweat required to become a professional—I began to question this approach. Beyond the limited number of buildings ever realized by the masters, I could no longer feel the magic. Creation had started to resemble a production line: spaces with empty souls, where the sublime connection between imagination and reality—the one I had fallen in love with two decades earlier—was rarely present.

At the same time, I found myself drawn to large-scale buildings—places where people gather, where collective experiences are formed. I became interested in airports, transportation hubs, concert and sports halls, public plazas—anywhere I could imagine people moving, waiting, meeting, living. The true fuel for imagination, I realized, was there, in the public.

I pivoted toward working exclusively on large-scale public buildings, starting with airport terminals—and I fell in love again. This was where I could finally engage with the full complexity of the profession I had chosen when I was only twelve.

It was while working on these buildings that the clarity of my career path began to take shape. That’s when I saw the missing piece of the puzzle. We, as architects, are trained to use our imagination, our knowledge, and our experiences—and project them onto buildings that will be used by many people, often without ever reaching out to ask them what they truly want or need. We are not trained to listen, to observe, or to approach design with an open mindset for co-creation.

I began reading extensively about co-creation, design thinking, human-centered design, journey mapping, and empathy-driven design. That was the door to a new world. My lens shifted—from the solo creator to an observer-conductor, someone who stitches together layers of human experience in public places by listening to the needs of different users of a space.

The magic was back.

I wanted to bridge architecture with customer experience and wayfinding design—to create subtle, thoughtful moments in public places that are often underwhelming, yet full of potential. Small details, when done right, can fundamentally change how people feel, move, and belong in a space.

As a woman and a business leader, I think of this approach as a more feminine way of practicing architecture—not in opposition to the discipline, but as an expansion of it. One rooted in listening, empathy, and care for lived experience, rather than authorship alone.

Recently, during an exploratory call with a well-known designer working in wayfinding for public spaces, he asked me a simple but unsettling question:

“Who are you—an architect, or a wayfinding and customer experience designer?”

I carried that question with me through the holiday break. It brought me back to why I chose architecture at such a young age in the first place. The answer became clear.

I am—and will remain—an architect.

But in a different way.

An architect of experiences.