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In 2015, an estimated one million people entered Europe in search of a better life [1]. Driven by conflict and hardship in regions across Africa and the Middle East, refugees and migrants began establishing migratory routes, with many first arriving in southern European cities like Athens. I visited Athens in October 2015, when borders were still open, and the impact of the influx was palpable. Migrants gathered in public spaces across the city, waiting for the opportunity to continue northward. Nearly a decade later, Dublin has emerged as one of their chosen destinations.
Smog regularly shrouds the identity of the city of Athens and, like the negated identity of the city, the migrant’s individualism is hidden within the general term of ‘refugee’ or ‘migrant’. Like migrants in Dublin, they are an overlooked presence in society. The vast numbers that appropriate the streets reach a saturation point, and their excessive visibility normalises their vulnerability; their neglected state goes unnoticed.
The urban fabric of Athens is shaped by the polykatoikia, a residential typology that forms a homogenous concrete landscape symbolising structure and order. The ground floors of these buildings, often housing commercial shops, typically extend out toward the street, with storefronts showcasing goods to entice both locals and tourists. However, amid Greece's economic recession many of these commercial units were left vacant, creating spaces that had relinquished their original purpose, with residential space occupied above.
In Dublin, the inverse is present – streets become inhabited, and homes fall to ruin. Buildings lie dormant, shops remain shuttered, and migrants occupy the space outside in public parks, neglected street corners, and undercrofts between city blocks. Deprived of formal spaces, they adapt – carving out niches within these leftover spaces. Here, new uses arise, as migrants imprint a new meaning onto these areas, illustrating de Certeau’s notion of space defined “by its users, not by its makers” [2]. These urban inversions reveal social functions, and the inequalities, embedded within the city’s structure.
One can observe the migrant to be trapped, both literally and metaphorically, somewhere between their homeland and their future home, belonging to neither. For many, Athens is but a transitory stop en route to final destinations like Dublin. In both cities, the streets become waiting rooms, as migrants tend to slip into the interstitial spaces clustering together where the city is void of life. Since Covid, city centre occupation has been cast aside by Athenian and Dubliner, in favour of the suburbs and a working-from-home culture. This exodus has created ambiguous spaces that “belong to everybody and nobody” [3], allowing for alternative forms of occupation by those without other options. These spaces of leisure, such as city squares or pedestrian zones designed for strolling, dining, and sightseeing, juxtapose with migrants’ makeshift domestic activities – sleeping in public parks, bathing at public fountains, or scavenging for food. Migrants, like discarded objects, can become “matter out of place” [4], and in their new context they are overlooked because their new identity has yet to be defined. These “waiting rooms” underscore the migrants' vulnerability and the visible yet unnoticed aspect of their existence.
In both Dublin and Athens, everyday life subtly reveals the social contrasts shaping these cities. Simple acts like airing laundry highlight the divisions within society. In more affluent areas of Athens and Dublin, laundry retracts internally, as some regard the obtrusive display of laundry as a marker of poverty and disorder. In the more affluent areas of Athens, the balcony is no longer associated with domestic chores but with leisure. The allocation of additional space internally and economic provision of dryers allows the task to be internalised. In contrast, the polykatoikia facades serve as supports for drying racks, with undergarments displayed unashamedly beside household linens, giving glimpses of the inhabitants’ lives. The facades of the polykatoikia recede, drawing focus to the laundry and blurring the boundary between public and private realms.
For migrants, the technique of laundry is radically transformed, driven by their context and estranged from their origin. The lack of resources and mechanisms to launder obliges the migrant to forsake the clothes they choose so carefully for their journey. Their acceptance of donated clothing is an initial signifier of their acceptance, whether willing or not, of a new social identity in their host country. Once they find a stabilising presence, their clothes become suspended on incongruous objects that once restricted movement – such as chain-link fences. Like the migrant’s identity which has been altered, the chain-link fence is read anew, and hints at their creativity in repurposing their context.
Whether the clothes are draped over a fence, or hung on balconies of the polykatoikia balconies, the smoggy air of Athens knows no boundaries and it subjects the migrant, the local, and the tourist to the same atmospheric conditions – creating an invisible platform of equivalence, curbing any difference previously uncovered through the indexical system of laundry. In Dublin, the same conditions must also emerge.
Present Tense is supported by the Arts Council through the Arts Grant Funding Award 2024.
1. Exodus: Our journey to Europe [film], BBC, 2016.
2. M. de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, University of Minnesota Press, 1984, p. xii.
3. M. de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, University of Minnesota Press, 1984, p. 63.
4. M. Douglas, Purity & Danger, Routledge, 1966, p. 36.
There are two ways to look at the collision of one's beliefs having pursued an architectural degree, and starting one's first job in architecture. A collision between one's assumptions and reality may not be the nicest experience, yet it can be truly valuable. Such collision, as long as either of the two doesn't change, is inevitable. Such a collision between an architecture graduate's thoughts, and the reality of working in a practice can have positives and negatives – but such an occasionally uncomfortable thing can be beneficial, and in fact broaden a graduate's skillset.
When the two worlds collide
Architecture is mainly taught through a five-year course. Students optionally, and quite often, take ‘a year out’ between third and fourth year to (most often) work in architectural practice, which is likely to be their first long-term and intense experience with architecture as a career. As long as architecture is taught in the manner it is, the collision between a student's assumptions and beliefs, and their real-world priorities is almost inevitable.
Such a collision creates an opportunity to question their real-world priorities, and might possibly lead to their improvement, or at least understanding of their role in practice. This can make following their principles easy, intentional, and sensible. However, such collision can, in reality, prove an obstacle – when the theory and the practice don't align, the theory can often feel like a waste of time. This should, in turn, be an incentive to challenge the theory or even practice, so that students and graduates would feel more familiar with life after graduation – if familiarity is considered the only ‘right’ way to be prepared.
Collision as a benefit and an opportunity
Collision between one's assumptions, beliefs, and priorities, and with every-day architectural practice is inevitable due to the nature of how architecture is sometimes taught. In college, one goes through years of working on various projects in theory to learn how to think when it comes to creating space. For instance, one is expected to pay attention to how the space feels, how it gets constructed and used, about its environmental impact, and last but not least, what it looks like.
Nonetheless, designing in an architectural studio seems to be rarely led by these criteria, although they are hopefully the ultimate goal. For example, affordability, practicality, and buildability most often seem to be more important than aesthetics, comfort, and innovation.
Aesthetics is invariably resolved by manufacturers producing a tested list of windows and doors, bricks, kitchen cabinets, and roof tiles to choose from, which are generally considered aesthetically pleasing, but most importantly buildable. They are mostly prefabricated and rely on certification, and a builder’s familiarity with them. This in turn ensures that they are the most affordable option, a priority – particularly in housing. An attempt to use bespoke windows, with a particular aesthetic in mind, will prove pointless due to the cost of production, testing, and certification. This naturally leads to a question as to whether one can design and construct a thoughtful building whilst almost entirely using prefabricated products. More pertinently, a graduate may wonder whether one can aspire to design aesthetically pleasing buildings at all – these may begin to feel like the naïve remain of the college experience that fades away with time?
Comfort has been (allegedly) defined by minimum sizes of houses and apartments, along with sizing bedrooms, storage spaces, living spaces, balconies, and terraces through housing guidelines – along with often-used typical details of construction elements such as precast concrete floor slabs, or particularly timber frame panels. In this instance, it feels as if there is no need for another Le Corbusier´s ‘Modulor’ studied in the college environment. Here, one was encouraged to re-think what has been established to understand it, and to aspire to improve upon it. Indeed, the fact that something has long been constructed in a certain manner does not mean it is being built in the right way – so how can one be sure that the prescribed and recommended design is ideal, if one is not encouraged to question it?
Innovative solutions are imprisoned between building regulations and cost requirements that are often non-negotiable. One can either view them as a challenge or as a barrier, and given architecture's role in tackling various societal issues and in making our environment a better place, it feels best to see them as a challenge.
In truth, the collision between a freshly college-influenced mind and the architectural world poses several questions which could lead to an improvement of the real-world rules by which we construct spaces, an improvement rooted in not accepting reality as it is. In other words, I believe perceiving all the limitations as a challenge rather than as a barrier is the best way in which to improve our built environment.
Collision as an incentive
Nonetheless, the collision between architectural theory and architectural practice can also be viewed as a wrinkle that needs to be ironed out of a graduate. Resolving this discrepancy can be performed by changing the means by which architecture is taught, by establishing fewer rules, and by making both theory and practice more intertwined.
Architectural courses should enhance one's creative and problem-solving skills, as well as one´s interest in new solutions and techniques. However, in practice affordability and practicality often prove more important than aesthetics and innovation precisely because they ensure people have a roof over their head, and the safety provided by that essentially offers comfort. It can often feel as if there is no use in pursuing one´s creative skills and innovative thinking, as building regulations and design manuals have already tackled various scenarios. In this reality, architectural courses should perhaps be more reflective of the real work environment, and the philosophy of practice.
This collision could be avoided by changing the way architecture is taught. If theory were more like everyday practice, graduates would be provided with a more realistic view of what a career in architecture will be like. In principle, this would allow a student make a more informed decision as to whether a career in architecture is what they aspire to.
Collision as a way to improve
This collision is a good thing because it creates potential for improvement, and disillusion can encourage one to discover a different way to make use of one's skills. It creates space for questioning, understanding, and possibly improving architectural practice and, in turn, our environment – rather than choosing to resign oneself to an inevitability.
In this article Kristyna Korcakova discusses the preparation education provides architectural graduates, and explores whether this is the most accurate preparation for architecture in practice.
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The idea that politicians will manipulate or misrepresent data to paint a favourable picture, as seen at last November’s election when multiple government ministers claimed 40,000 houses would be built in 2024, knowing full well that was nigh-on impossible, is nothing new. Back in the 1960s, new houses were counted when any grants due were paid, and on becoming the new minister with responsibility for housing, Neil Blaney made sure housing grants were paid under his tenure and not the previous incumbents, so he could claim credit for houses started and finished before he was in office. That’s politics, and often housing, one of the most political of policy areas.
Sixty-odd years later, data is still being misused and abused. In some ways, it is more worrying now as data increasingly informs policy (a good thing), but the data is often not independent, nor rigorous in its production (not so good).
When tackling the issue of housing completions, it is important to note that since the 1970s we now count a new house when it is connected to the electricity grid. The issue here is that housing is most often connected to the electricity grid long before it is finished, and so it could be up to a year before the ‘connected’ house is ready to occupy. Neither does being connected to the electricity grid mean it is legal to occupy – that status is only conferred on receipt of a Certificate of Compliance on Completion (a ‘Completion Cert’).
So, housing completion numbers are nine to twelve months ahead of themselves. 2024’s 30,300 ‘completions’ will come on stream for occupation all through 2025, and maybe even into 2026. Our completions aren’t really complete.
Indeed, we are lucky we are counting houses properly at all. Until 2017, the Department of Housing had been overcounting the number of new houses being completed in the country by up to 58%. New electricity connections had been including every “warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse” – to misquote Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive – as well as actual houses. Defending his overzealous officials, the Minster at the time said: “All I can do is use the same methodology that we’ve always used” [1], which was untrue.
Under his successor, Eoghan Murphy, it was discovered that the officials knew all along the numbers were overestimated when he asked them to calculate more accurate statistics – “Yes, but the right figure will show fewer new houses, Minister.”
There are question marks hanging over a lot of other data too. Are we really short 484,000 new houses in Ireland, or some 22% of the current housing stock, as per a recent report from Hooke and MacDonald, the estate agents whose main business is selling apartments? Why do we count density per hectare in terms of the number of housing units (e.g. eighty per hectare) instead of number of bedspaces, which is a much better metric as it focuses on the number of people being accommodated. The answer, of course, is that more units generate more rental income, and increasing bedspace density would mean having to build larger apartments, thus reducing the income-generation potential of developments.
Will more supply bring down house prices? No, it never has, as supply is only a small part of house price inflation – interest rates and wages are much bigger drivers. Should it really cost €590,000 to build a two-bedroom apartment? Councils do it for an average of €345,000.
Do we really need €20 billion a year of international investment in the Irish housing system, most of which will be used to build apartments solely for rent? This is a typology few want for a plethora of reasons (poor construction and challenging owners management issues, for example), and a tenure about which the Department of Housing’s own research contradictorily found 86% of non-home owners aged 25-49 want to be home-owners? Homeless numbers bizarrely only count those with some form of a roof over their heads, and also exclude 3,500 homeless international protection applicants.
According to the Central Statistics Office, Ireland had 163,433 vacant houses at the last census in 2022. According to GeoDirectory, a commercial database company set up by An Post and Tailte Éireann, there are less than half that number – at just over 82,000 empty houses. That is quite the difference, and yet attempts to understand this difference by looking at GeoDirectory’s methodology (the CSO’s is publicly available) are difficult as they don’t release it. Yet it is the GeoDirectory number that ministers cite when they want to underplay their lack of progress in tackling vacant housing for many years now.
This is all fun and games for housing data nerds, but it is also highly risky. A lot of panic-inducing common narratives are provably untrue (e.g. RPZs don’t work), yet still recited ad nauseum by wilfully or otherwise naive politicians and other commentators, and are sometimes found influencing housing policy. Claims that tens of thousands of housing units were held up by judicial review led to legally dubious sections in the new Planning and Development Act. Claims that it is simply not viable (whatever that means) to build apartments has led to subsidies of up to nearly €250,000 per apartment [2]. Claims that we are short an untold number of apartments will lead to further wooing of international money; and so on. All of this comes at a cost, not always financial.
Policy then becomes policy for those with political access, investors, and other overseas landlords, not policy for decent housing. Ireland’s official housing document, ‘Housing for All’, becomes ‘Housing for the Top One Per Cent’, as like in all good housing crises, the political and lobbyists answer to a housing crisis is yet more luxury housing.
In the absence of a meaningful response from the state, the private sector has the state over a barrel. Housing policy will never succeed when its foundations are wobbly.
In the the context of the recent controversy around housing completion figures, Dr Lorcan Sirr explores the subjectivity of housing statistics, and the impact these figures have on housing policy.
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Ireland is one of the most expensive places in Europe to build a home. Materials and labor have been outpacing inflation since the 1990s. Irish apartments are now subject to rules so strict that they’re the second most expensive in Europe [1] to construct. On top of these high construction costs, there's another factor weighing on prices: the cost of basic infrastructure – water pipes, roads, community parks – that new residents end up footing. I want to talk about how spreading the costs more fairly could benefit everyone, not just newcomers.
Historically, local authorities used to pay for infrastructure through a combination of national grants, commercial rates, and domestic rates, which had been in place for decades. In 1978, though, the Local Government (Financial Provisions) Act removed domestic rates. That decision effectively ended the system where water and other utilities were funded by the public as a whole. Today, first-time buyers and renters shoulder a heavier share of the bill.
Take water connections as an example. Uisce Éireann manages and maintains Ireland’s water infrastructure and is overseen by the Commission for the Regulation of Utilities. In principle, it receives the bulk of its budget from central government. However, under the Planning and Development Act 2000, new developments also pay a Section 48 levy to local authorities and a separate water connection charge to Uisce Éireann itself. Of the agency's total funding in 2024, about €72 million [2] came directly from new domestic connections. And much of these charges are passed onto first-time buyers and renters.
The most recent iteration of Uisce Éireann charges come from the 'Shared Quotable Rebate' (SQR) system. It was introduced to address the ‘first mover disadvantage’, where a developer faced with the cost of building water infrastructure is deterred by the high upfront cost. The SQR tries to fix that by offering partial rebates to the initial investor if later developers connect to the same infrastructure. Unfortunately, it does so by shouldering the first mover with significant upfront costs.
Increasing the upfront cost of delivering homes decreases housing supply by discouraging investment in housing, a point firmly made by the Report of the Housing Commission. It makes investment in housing riskier than it already is and that is something Ireland cannot afford. The Department of Finance [3] says that to deliver 50,000 homes a year, approximately €16.9 billion would be required from private capital sources. Making that investment riskier by increasing the upfront cost will inevitably result in fewer homes.
Underpinning all of this is a question of fairness: why should people who don’t yet own a home pay more for water or roads than those who have lived in the area for decades? A more promising path is to spread these essential costs across all residents through local property taxes, much as local authorities did before 1978 through domestic rates. Reintroducing that broader tax base doesn’t just solve a moral dilemma; it also supports a more robust approach to financing critical infrastructure.
When the burden of infrastructure is shared, builders can invest more confidently in new homes. That means more projects can move forward, and the houses or apartments that get built are more affordable than they would be under the current system. Lower home prices, in turn, make it easier for first-time buyers to enter the market.
Such a shift also creates a better incentive structure for local authorities and residents. With a broader property tax base, local governments can collect predictable and reliable revenues from both existing and newly built homes. They would have a stronger reason to champion growth in their communities – because every new project would predictably contribute to the overall fiscal health of the community. Rather than relying on upfront fees which slow down development, property tax revenues grow as developments fill up. Revenues can then be reinvested in better roads, public spaces, and social services, further enhancing the area’s appeal and attracting more residents and businesses, creating a win-win for local residents and newcomers.
Sharing the costs of infrastructure across all taxpayers isn’t just about fairness (although it is about that). It is about making the incentives of development align toward shared prosperity. The payoff is a virtuous cycle in which everyone – newcomers and existing residents alike – benefits from a healthier housing market and a better-resourced public realm.
In the midst of the housing crisis, Seán O'Neill McPartlin discusses the increasing inequality in how we fund infrastructure, and the need to share this burden to incentivise new development.
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