A Project is a Member of a Community

The Architectural League’s annual Emerging Voices award spotlights North American individuals and firms with distinct design voices that have the potential to influence the disciplines of architecture, landscape architecture, and urban design. This year, the League posed a series of questions to the eight practices that received a 2024 award, prompting each firm or individual to reflect on their working theories and methods, the opportunities and challenges of contemporary practice, and what’s next. 

Founded by David Fortin in 2018, Cambridge, Ontario-based firm David T Fortin Architect produces a broad range of work grounded in Indigenous knowledge, from installations and advocacy initiatives to affordable and social housing projects. Below, Fortin reflects on learning from the Land and stories shared.

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What does it mean to be an “emerging” practice or practitioner?

It’s a tremendous honor. Architecture is such a scrutinized field where peer recognition can offer some reassurance that you’re doing something right. When I look at the list of previous recipients, it is also very humbling. I suppose it also has encouraged me to think about what it means to “emerge”—emerge from what, and into what? As someone of mixed Métis and European heritage, I also think about how our profession has neglected so many Indigenous voices for generations. Why haven’t they “emerged?” This is deeply tied to the political agendas and contextual narratives that define mainstream practice. There are so many talented Indigenous architects around the world who seek to celebrate and support the resilience of their own or other communities. So, this honor has also encouraged me to think about my own privileges and those who have been omitted within the design community for so long. On a much more positive note, I’m also inspired at how quickly this seems to be changing in recent years.

What does it mean for you to share your “voice” in the design field, in your community, in your practice?

This has encouraged me to reflect on what my voice is—not only as an individual, but as a unique conduit that reflects the contributions of not only the people who I work with, but the incredible teachers and students who I have learned from, the communities I have been a part of and listened to, the Elders who have guided my thinking, as well as the important role that my family has played. I think it is important to pay attention to those progressive aspects of the profession that align with my values and that can support my advocacy, and then try to challenge myself to think about how this can best inform my work. Ultimately, projects are first dreamed of by a community, so the design process is ultimately their vision and their voice. Thus, I just hope that whatever I bring to the process amplifies their voice as the first priority. Then, try to translate this vision using contemporary design excellence standards in the best possible way to serve the community.

Where do you locate your practice environmentally, socially, and within the design field? 

I mostly practice at the intersection of Indigenous communities, cultures, and knowledges, and reflections on the colonial context for contemporary design. This leads to a lot of questioning about the intellectual and physical infrastructures of colonialism, and how to respond to the baggage we have inherited. This begins with humility and opening up to different ways of thinking about pretty much everything and that is a difficult and lifelong task.

I once heard Douglas Cardinal, a valued mentor of mine, give a riveting lecture that has always stuck with me. Citing the Algonquin Elder William Commanda, he reminded a crowd of architects, planners, and housing providers that we ultimately have two responsibilities in our lives: 1) love, respect, and care for Mother Earth, and 2) love, respect, and care for one another. That’s it. So much about the design professions is about our intentionality. Do we actually know why we do what we do? Despite all the challenges and barriers, I hope that when all is said and done, I can look back and acknowledge that I did my best to do these two things, as imperfect as the journey may have been at times.

What do you see as the main challenges for your firm’s practice in today’s economic, environmental, and political climate?

I think the greatest challenges lie within the broader context of architectural production. The supply chain for building products and construction is so deeply tied to global markets, entrenched profit strategies, and industrial production methods, that nearly every design decision is implicated by them, along with the corresponding material impacts—including massive scale resource extraction with unfathomable profits on stolen land at the expense of the ecosystems of the Land and the Indigenous stewards of it. So, where does that leave us as designers? The infrastructure of global capital and liberal economics has caused a situation that is deeply pervasive. Eladia Smoke described this to me as a collective addiction to accumulation—and once you understand this as the infrastructure of our societies, it is very difficult to pretend this doesn’t quietly motivate everything we do. In a mostly secularized social condition, we have been collectively losing our connection to the earth and our spiritual grounding from it for generations, leaving us in a state of feeling unfulfilled, so we work endlessly to fill our lives up with beautiful stuff and thrilling experiences to make us feel better, but does this help us make good decisions?

When you are deciding whether to take on a project or collaboration, what questions do you ask yourself? What questions do you ask the client or collaborator?

I’m not very interested in pursuing projects where there isn’t the potential to have meaningful conversations about relational thinking—both with the Land itself and/or the rich Indigenous cultures of the place. If it is a project for an Indigenous community, that is appealing because the design process will inherently have a clear directive by that community, and I can be motivated that our design thinking will support that community’s vision.

In terms of collaborations, if I am asked to be the “Indigenous voice” on a larger team, I have to assess how authentic the invitation is, or if it is checking a box. But I choose to be optimistic that people are genuinely trying to challenge their approach to design. A key question is if the team is willing to invest in Indigenous perspectives and meaningfully listen to them. While I have lived experience as a Métis person, I’m often a guest on the Land like everyone else, so the community or communities of that region must be meaningfully consulted with for any public or institutional project of any significant scale.

How would you define research in your practice?

Research has always been an essential way for me to better understand the world. I have always been acutely aware of economic disparity and questioned how and why this has somehow become broadly perceived as acceptable. Of course, this is infinitely layered and not easy to comprehend, so it is a lifelong process. My earliest research into science-fiction helped me understand how political and economic power structures, often exercised through technology, covertly orchestrate the way people live. This provided some invaluable intellectual tools to critically reflect on Indigenous history and design topics. But there is nothing more humbling than sitting with Elders or Knowledge Carriers, and/or sharing ceremony with them, and through this realizing how very colonized your own thoughts are, leading you to question how you can best work from a position of resistance and support self-determination for communities. Learning from the Land and from the stories shared, for me, has thus been a deeply impactful form of research. So, I try to pursue architectural practice that is grounded in research, advocacy, and sometimes activism. Practice, for me, shouldn’t be one dimensional.

Do you teach? What is the interplay between your teaching and practice?

I have taught design studios, seminars, and lecture courses for many years. I absolutely love being around brilliant colleagues and students and this inspires me daily. I have intermittently focused more on academia or practice through different periods of my career, including directing the McEwen School of Architecture in Sudbury for a term and a half. Nowadays, I am trying to approach teaching and practice in a more balanced way. I have taught courses that work with Indigenous communities, for instance, where students have the opportunity to engage with and learn from them toward something reciprocal that can add value to the community in meaningful ways. Recently, I have also run studios in collaboration with Global Affairs Canada that question what reconciliation means for “Canada” abroad, and through the design and performance of our embassies. I have also recently been teaching affordable housing studios with my colleagues that directly relate to much of my firm’s work. I teach a course called “The Architectures of Reconciliation” that includes a global conversation about architecture as a tool for both oppression and healing. All of the courses relate in some form to both my research and practice.

Do you prefer to work in a certain scale or typology, or do your projects range in scope? Is there a project type that you would like to design for but have not yet?

Our projects have been primarily focused on Indigenous cultural expression and/or deeply affordable housing—from small single-family homes on First Nations reserves to mixed use, multi-unit urban projects. However, we also work collaboratively on much larger projects with a more limited scope. Our firm also does more research-oriented work and I have been involved in various publications and exhibits, including the Venice Biennale. Thus, I don’t think I personally have a preference related to scale. All are challenging in different ways. I have always been most inspired to think about design through a systems thinking lens—the production of things, who is designing them, making them, benefiting from them, being empowered by them, etc. While I also deeply appreciate the finely detailed design of the material and tectonic language of projects, when you are working primarily on affordable housing, this can be more difficult to express. I suppose someday it would be nice to play more of a leading design role on larger civic-scale projects where culture and Indigenous voices could inspire something truly of the place.

When do you consider a project complete?

I don’t think I’ve been asked that before. An Elder at Laurentian University once helped remind me that buildings are not inert objects. Instead, he described them as new community members. Similarly, a Knowledge Carrier and friend once told me that canoes, for instance, are teachers, and they will continue to teach us as long as we need to learn something from them. It is a very different way to think about the things we make. Thus, I think projects are born from communities and their dreams for something that can help support a better future for them, collectively and individually. Architects are part of that journey, but usually it is only for a short time. We support the translation of the community’s vision into the built world. But the project was, and always will be, theirs. They will adapt it, add to it, fix it, change it. One day, they will likely even demolish or deconstruct it. So, like the canoe, I suppose a project is complete when it has served its role as a member of that community in whatever form that might take.

Can you name a person, book, film, or other source of inspiration?

One person I am truly inspired by is Douglas Cardinal. He is also from Alberta and an exceptionally talented and accomplished architect and thinker whose teachings align with what I value. His long career is one of both resilience and brilliance. I am also often in awe of great film directors and songwriters—and in particular, the ones who are able to translate important political and/or social commentary in a way that touches people emotionally. This is what I feel the best architects are also striving towards.

Are there references, of any sort, that you find yourself drawing on again and again?

I often cite the many inspiring Indigenous architects whose work I admire—Douglas Cardinal, Alfred Waugh, Chris Cornelius, Eladia Smoke, Wanda Dalla Costa, Two Row Architects, Patrick Stewart, etc. But I also find myself referencing a wide range of global architectural practices like Lacol, Francis Kéré and MASS [Design Group], and also many of the icons like Le Corbusier and Kahn. I often assign James Corner’s Agency of Mapping and Spatial Agency: Other Ways of Doing Architecture [by Tatjana Schneider, Nishat Awan, and Jeremy Till] as these help inspire designers to acknowledge their potential to change the world in positive ways. These, among others, are examples of practices that I think are grounded in different, but very principled and focused, ways—they know what their design process is trying to achieve. That’s inspiring to me.

What did you last draw?

This week I have been sharing sketches with my team for a mixed-use project for the urban Métis community in Kamloops. I am always on my iPad sketching out massing and building/site organization ideas.

What do you need to do your best work?

An inspiring cultural context, a visionary client/community, and a talented and collaborative team—including my family—around me!

What’s next?

I will continue to juggle practice, research, and teaching, while supporting communities to realize their visions the best I can. I’m motivated to consider how architectural education and practice can be informed by thinking relationally—in a way where the built environment is no longer ignorant to the rich cultures and ecosystems that have thrived in places for thousands of years. To be able to play the smallest role in designing toward this future is deeply motivating.

I’m also interested in further developing the concept of a “Design Lodge” in place of the traditional “studio.” In the Fall of 2024, I will be working with students to conceptualize how an UNDRIP (United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous People) Centre on the United Nations headquarters site in New York could serve as a reminder to all nation states that Indigenous rights must be respected in perpetuity. We will also be working closely with representatives of the Lenape nations as hosts of that territory and serving their interests as a priority.

But on a more personal note, in the midst of everything else occupying my thoughts, I will always try to prioritize being a reliable dad and husband and supporting my family to thrive, which is ultimately the most important.