As many will recall, in January Los Angeles was hit by a devastating fire — a catastrophe that reshaped the city and destroyed more than 10,000 buildings.
But those places were more than just structures.
The language of architecture tells us how we emotionally inhabit space — and how space, in turn, shapes us. What we take in from the local café, the restaurants that feed us, the offices and co-working spaces that host us, are sensory impressions. Which means that when those places disappear, a part of us disappears too.
Designing to reassure, not just resist
Sirens. Smoke. Evacuations. For those who remain — and survive — everything halts. The idea of continuity, the very scaffolding of the everyday, begins to fracture. And with that, our sense of stability starts to slip.
In recent years, we’ve learned to talk about resilient, flexible, adaptable spaces. But in moments like these, resilience alone isn’t enough. We need reassurance.
Physical space — even when shared, temporary or decentralised — can offer more than stable Wi-Fi. It can become an emotional container. A fixed point in the chaos. This isn’t about aesthetics or furnishings. It’s about design intention: lighting that doesn’t dazzle, volumes that don’t oppress, sounds that don’t invade. Design that listens — without raising its voice.
The Cognitive Office: when space holds you
This isn’t an idealistic dream. It’s a possible new standard. A space that doesn’t just support productivity, but also welcomes vulnerability — even in a city that happens to be the largest metropolitan area in the United States.
Because space isn’t just a container. It’s a mental ally. And in moments of collective fragility, it can become one of the few things that hold.
Don’t imagine zen rooms and matcha tea. This is a design approach that begins with one question: “What does the mind need in order to restart?”
Unlike roads or power lines, memories — like projects, hopes, and dreams — aren’t easy to reboot. Form follows function, they say. It’s a rule we’ve lived by for decades. But in times like these, function isn’t just operational. It’s emotional, perceptual, deep. Here, function must follow feeling. And to answer that question, we need spaces of listening. Of decompression. Of reorientation.
Designing trust
When everything around us shakes — whether from a fire or the background noise of daily uncertainty — it’s not performance that saves us. It’s the ability to still feel connected. Seen. Part of something. That’s why, today, designing space shouldn’t just mean optimising. It should mean caring. And ultimately, designing trust. This is the lens we use at Altis: a psychosocial approach that starts from people — from their tensions, their unspoken needs.
We don’t design just to help people work well. We design to help them feel well — even when working becomes difficult.
You can explore this topic (and much more) in our dedicated section on the Altis website: Proprietary Research.
