The wall, as constructed, is 519.5mm thick, plus or minus the irregularities of reused flagstone. It consists of 12.5mm plasterboard, a vapour barrier, 145mm timber studs, 150mm ‘Rockwool’ insulation, 12mm Far Eastern marine grade plywood, ‘Tyvek’ building membrane, a 50mm cavity, stainless-steel wall ties, an unforeseen leaf of 100mm concrete block, and a heavily debated skin of 200–300mm reused flagstone. It follows the original footprint of an 1840s longhouse, now reduced, perhaps, to a representational role. Built by a team of three – two architects and a marine biologist – this wall is the result of five years of planning, sketching, drawing, specifying, sourcing, shipping, and self-building. It contains adaptations, compromises, guilt and uncertainties. The project draws both from phenomenological beliefs concerning a site embedded with accumulated memories, and rationalised predictions developed from a Modernist architectural education. The constructed result stands as a negotiation between theoretical aims and the pragmatics of a self-build on an exposed island.

There seems to be little question that we live in an age of complexity, perhaps undue complexity. The interrelation of almost all the people all the time – at least those with internet access – the pressures of urbanisation, natural resource depletion, increasing traffic and pollution, and our ability to be anywhere at any time electronically have led to a rather complex living mode. Architects, heeding the call, have produced an architecture of corresponding complexity. Falling to architectural fashion trends, market pressures, and the surge of corporate capitalism, architects now give their clients just what they want, or what they themselves want to give them. There was a time when architectural form expressed some relation to reason, but that dated notion seems to be in little evidence today.

An explanation (maybe even an apology) is called for when entering the crowded and noisy arena where quality is debated. Good sport is often had there, but decisions are few: instead most outcomes follow tiresomely circular rather than linear trajectories. My justification for adding to the overcrowded and unruly scene is simple. It is to give a view of quality in architecture which is not widely represented and which seems to be often overlooked. The view comes from the modern history of the UK construction industry, a wide perspective which extends beyond buildings as artifacts. The paper will borrow a definition of quality and, crucially, try to show how it is connected with the operation of the construction industry, and is growing.

‘It is always stimulating to talk to you about architecture, but I have noticed over the past two years that you tend to identify me entirely with Tecton. Bear in mind the following. I have now built with Lindsey [Drake] more buildings than [I built with] Tecton and that my philosophy on architecture is, I hope, on the side of life – that is to say, it is not static but changing. I rather hoped that when you saw the model of [the flats at] 26 St James's Place, you would have realised the extent to which my ideas are changing.’

‘Quality’ has become ubiquitous in the management vocabulary of Western societies. In consequence, the word's familiar usage has grown slippery. Formerly grounded in ethical values or skilled craftsmanship, ‘quality’ is now commonly associated with the management of administrative or technical processes. Whereas the appreciation of quality was founded in the exercise of individual judgement and taste – of connoisseurship – organisations now seek to ground its assessment in supposedly objective systems of evaluation. Practitioners are under pressure to quantify quality, but it remains questionable whether it is possible or even desirable to do so. Several papers in this issue of arq derive from a conference exploring such themes around the idea of Quality, an event held at the Welsh School of Architecture in July 2007 and reviewed here.

‘Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road. Healthy, free, the world before me, the long brown path before leading wherever I choose.’

(Walt Whitman)

‘I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand.’

(Chinese proverb)

In 1976, Gavin Stamp published the legendary review, ‘“Stirling's Worth”: the History Faculty Building’. Written from the perspective of a user of the building, it offers a critical assessment of the quality of what is recognised by architectural connoisseurs as one of James Stirling's masterpieces of avant-garde architecture; designed in the architect's early phase, 1950–74. Apart from the History Faculty building at the University of Cambridge, 1964–67, early period works also include Stirling and Gowan's iconic Engineering building at the University of Leicester, 1959–63, and the lesser known Florey building at The Queen's College in Oxford, 1966–71 [1].

‘The fire is burning. Is it burning for me or against me? Will it give tangible shape to my dreams, or will it eat them up? I know pottery traditions going back thousands of years; all the potters’ tricks I know, I have used them all. But we have not yet reached the end. The spirit of the material has not yet been overcome.’

(Adolf Loos, ‘Pottery’)

The work of Stephen Taylor Architects extends from urban strategies to the individual dwelling. Underlying this continuum is a deep understanding of the city and its component parts and a concern to develop typologies that contribute to civic life. Taylor studied in London at South Bank University and the Royal College of Art (RCA) and worked first for Richard Reid, his former tutor at South Bank and the author of a number of studies of housing types. After brief periods in the offices of Richard Rogers, Stanton Williams and others, Taylor established a partnership with Andrew Houlton in 1993. For several years in that partnership and for the five years subsequently, Taylor has occupied the same site in Shoreditch, east London. To begin with, the practice occupied the basement and he lived over the shop. As the office expanded, it colonised a set of spaces on three floors organised around a small court. We met there in a space at the back, beyond the court, and began by discussing the arrangement of the spaces.

‘[W]hat do we mean when we speak of architectural quality? It is a question that I have little difficulty answering. […] Quality architecture to me is when a building manages to move me. What on earth moves me? How can I get this into my own work?’

(Peter Zumthor, Atmospheres)

Enhancing the urban ‘quality of life’ has become a major task for actors in the public realm. The now ‘undisputed objective’ of ‘sustainable city development’ is meaningless unless we can turn our cities, towns and urban neighbourhoods into places where people actively want to live, work and play. The spatial quality of neighbourhoods is crucial in this respect. Besides housing typology and access, ‘quality of life’ is primarily defined by the nature of available open space. Public space is one of the most important and strategic instruments of local government. Thus a basic issue for those in planning practice is how to help realise public spaces which contribute to the appropriate level of quality. Although much progress has been made to assess quality of life at the larger level of scale, for example that of a city or a region, much less progress has been made at a smaller and more concrete area level. More than 25 years after Kevin Lynch's opus magnum Good City Form, an operational approach on the level of urban design is still much in need.

The act of making links hand and eye, and connects the intellect to physical change. A sculptor carving stone requires precision of thought before deploying manual dexterity. The challenge for an architect until the recent past has been to communicate such thoughtfulness, embodied in a design, to the people who will make the building and its component parts. Making architecture and the pursuit of excellence in the physical delivery of quality in built projects is a challenging and collaborative process [2]. It is not possible to legislate for excellence, however it is possible to create contexts in which high-quality architecture is probable. By comparison, John Ruskin in The Seven Lamps of Architecture (1849) set his aspirations low: ‘We may not be able to command good, or beautiful, or inventive architecture, but we can command an honest architecture’.

‘The power of architecture (the potential of architecture) is integral to the spirit that orders the grouping of the elements that make up the house; – because architecture emanates, and does not clad; it is more an odour than a drapery, a state of aggregations, more than an enveloping surface.’ (Le Corbusier)

Upon entering the basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence one is immediately impressed by the nave arcades, those rhythmic, monumental assemblages of columns, entablature blocks and arches that in the first half of the fifteenth century established a benchmark of elegance and refinement for all subsequent architecture of the Renaissance [1]. Cool, orderly and restful yet, like springs coiled in compression, full of energy, the nave arcades are works of tremendous artistic power. By functioning so strongly as complete compositions, the nave arcades suppress the individuality of their component parts: viewed from ground level, the repeated bays all appear to be identical, even though when viewed up close the capitals and other carved details betray notably uneven levels of quality in both design and execution. This variation in quality constitutes a rich and largely untapped source of evidence pertaining to the construction history and original meaning of this pivotal work in the history of architecture.