I named this post after an essay Reyner Banham published in Architectural Critic in 1955. Banham’s essay, The New Brutalism, describes a new movement in architecture he calls ‘Brutalism’. If you’re not familiar with brutalism, it’s a “style of architecture characterized by emphasis on such structural materials as undressed concrete.” (Collins Dictionary)

Banham distinguishes brutalism in one of my favorite quotes of architectural critique by his characterization of the Hunstanton School in Norfolk. He contrasts the structure’s philosophy with that of the current state of modernist standards:

Admittedly, this emphasis on basic structure is important, even if it is not the whole story, and what has caused Hunstanton to lodge in the public’s gullet is the fact that it is almost unique among modern buildings in being made of what it appears to be made of. Whatever has been said about honest use of materials, most modern buildings appear to be made of whitewash or patent glazing, even when they are made of concrete or steel. Hunstanton appears to be made of glass, brick, steel and concrete, and is in fact made of glass, brick, steel and concrete. Water and electricity do not come out of unexplained holes in the wall, but are delivered to the point of use by visible pipes and manifest conduits. One can see what Hunstanton is made of, and how it works, and there is not another thing to see except the play of spaces.

The Hunstanton School, main entrance (The Architects’ Journal)

I read this quote by Banham a little over a year ago, and it’s stuck with me since. At the time of reading, my mind turned towards LISP and homoiconicity. I’ve had the strong urge since to reword a section of the quote as it relates to my sentiment towards Clojure, a LISP dialect I’ve become accustomed to:

Clojure appears to be made of maps, vectors, lists and symbols, and is in fact made of maps, vectors, lists and symbols.

Brutalist design is regarded and loathed for its fondness towards apprehensive visuals and a seemingly purposeful ugliness, and dialogue around brutalism tends to start and end in aesthetics. What intrigues me about the brutalist movement, however, is not its aesthetic but its impact on the greater history of modern design. A movement like brutalism provided new perspective in which a designer’s role was to display their work as a path to understanding. The subject’s goal is not to marvel but to comprehend.

I find these attributes to be a consistent theme as I continue to use and learn Clojure. Its foundation elucidates structure through a handful of honest materials known as immutable collections. As I maneuvered down my path learning Clojure, a moment struck in which I saw a program’s structure exhibited as data. I was astonished. I couldn’t help but ask myself why my understanding of programming until then steered me away from grasping software challenges as navigating information structure. Rich Hickey, Clojure’s creator, expresses similar perplexity in his talk ‘Clojure Made Simple’.

A few years after Banham’s essay, John McCarthy published the first specification of LISP. In the ensuing decades different varieties of LISP have emerged, each with a series of unique and mind-opening qualities. While my above modification of Banham’s quote applies to many dialects of LISP, it is misleading in terms of Clojure. Clojure may appear to be made up of maps, vectors, lists and symbols, but these reified materials are not “as found.” This distinction marks a stark contrast to brutalist ideals. To further quote The New Brutalism:

Of course, it is not just the building itself which has precipitated this situation, it is the things the Brutalists have said and done as well, but, as with the infected Spa in An Enemy of the People, the play of personalities focuses around a physical object. The qualities of that object may be summarized as follows: 1, Formal legibility of plan; 2, clear exhibition of structure, and 3, valuation of materials for their inherent qualities ‘as found.’

Clojure’s properties fit the first two qualities of objects according to brutalism, but it breaks the third quality to bring LISP into a new domain of well established ecosystems. Clojure aims to formalize plans, exhibit clear structure, and synthesize found materials on existing platforms: hence The New LISP. As builders of software these goals force a new perspective on our existing ideas of programming. Exploring this new context through the lens of a language designed to capture these ideals is a journey whose value is just being realized.

In the same way brutalism opened new perspectives in architecture, LISP formed an important set of standards we have yet to realize. Clojure’s considerate approach towards these standards reveals compelling points of leverage in crafting software. I’m excited to witness what history will bring out of The New LISP, and I continue to wonder if art and computer science are so different after all.