The pages of art history are crowded with surprising, monumental and arrogant buildings. These are the ones that become famous landmarks, tourist destinations and, more recently, splash on the covers of upscale architectural magazines. They are usually the strangest, most expensive, most impressive and largest buildings in the neighborhood. Think the pyramids of Giza, the palace of Versailles, or the Parthenon in Athens.

These are not the same buildings that contribute to well-loved historic cities. Well-loved historic cities are boring and plain by comparison. They grow slowly, quietly, namelessly, over time, like moss. One structure nestles up to another, sharing a kind of vocabulary of purpose and texture and material and form — almost as if one building whispered its secret desires to the next in a chain of semiconscious communication, tree roots touching and talking and sharing nutrients. This whispering chain is why historic cities like Portland are often described in relation to their historic “fabric”: One understands their character and value in relation to certain woven, repeating, tapestry-like qualities, and never in relation to any single structure. The historic city is a chorus, not a diva.

The unveiling of the Eiffel Tower in the spring of 1889 was followed by a tidal wave of local disapproval and profound psychic pain. A protest manifesto printed in the local paper called the Tower a “monster,” a “horror,” a “barbaric mass,” “hateful column,” “vertiginous,” “ridiculous,” “tragic” and “irreparably ugly,” “vandalism” and a “dishonor” to Paris. The Tower’s critics were “deeply distressed” and “legitimately alarmed” by the sudden appearance of a gigantic metal building tearing into the fabric of their beloved, low-rise Paris. For them, it was a brutal mistake. But thanks to its scale, it inevitably became, like it or not, the symbol of the city.

Now, Portland is experiencing its Eiffel Tower moment.

Instead of Monsieur Eiffel, engineer, we have Monsieur Safdie, architect. Moshe Safdie is a decorated member of the architectural aristocracy, a highly prolific and successful designer whose firm produces landmark buildings for powerful and wealthy clients all over the globe, from the founders of Walmart to the Prime Minister of Punjab. His portfolio of A-list international projects betrays a kind of obsession with height: it includes “the tallest residential building in Sri Lanka,” “the tallest residential building in China” and “one of the tallest towers in Quito” (Equador). On the whole, these are massive and opulent structures with luxurious looks, the kind of buildings that stand out and float above. The kind of buildings from which one likes to look down.

About seven years ago, Safdie Architects was hired by Portland developers East Brown Cow to design a project named “Old Port Square,” which is, as it turns out, neither old, nor in the port, nor a square. Rather, it proposes primarily a high-rise luxury condominium and hotel in an empty, mid-block lot at 45 Union St., in the form of a tower soaring high above the surrounding historic district — up to 30 floors and 374 feet above it, according to documents provided by Portland’s planning and urban development department. If built, the Safdie tower would become — by far — the tallest building in Maine. That rings a bell.

The result would be a dramatic and irreversible transformation of Portland’s skyline and visual identity. With stakes this high, the Safdie tower proposal deserves special scrutiny and should be held to the highest standards of utility, compatibility and sculptural quality.

In relation to most of these standards, the Safdie tower fails to measure up. It could be so much better in so many different ways. It takes a lot from Portland, but provides little in return. To the city, it adds new residential units for affluent citizens, a luxurious sky lobby and restaurant, landscaped pedestrian walkways, an unmistakably bold urban emblem, and, presumably millions in annual tax revenues. From the city, it subtracts space, attention, sunlight, and continuity of scale within the historic core. If one had asked a Portland librarian or a barista or an electrician what new functions Portland needs most right now, I doubt extra luxury hotel rooms would have been high on their list. We might have heard instead about a need for affordable housing, daycare facilities, hardware stores, or better shelter for the unhoused.

But, it seems, the developers did not ask. This is, after all, a private and for-profit venture.

Yet the promotional language employed by the developer and architect verges on philanthropic. From them we have heard terms like community, transformation, stewardship, vibrancy, authenticity, sensitivity, heritage, belonging, and socially responsive design. Lovely. If measurable realities of the proposal demonstrated a meaningful relationship to these words, we would join in a standing ovation for its promoters, no matter how tall the structure. Between the proposal and the concepts used to describe it, however, lies a chasm both deep and hollow.

The developers suggest that their tower will function as a kind of beacon, or “new heart” for the city. I was not aware that Portland was lost, nor that it was currently experiencing cardiac arrest. In any case, if the proposed Safdie tower is to be a heart, it must be a heart of gold, because its spaces are reserved exclusively for the city’s most affluent residents and visitors, expressed in an architectural language that has little in common with any local dialect. Much of the architect’s justification for planting such a giant structure in the midst of a historic city rests on a precarious metaphor: The lighthouse.

Safdie explained to me that he “struggled” with the introduction of a tower in Portland, which hardly fits in a low-rise environment under normal conditions. He noted that in Paris (!) or Venice “you would never dream of putting up a tower,” out of respect to scale and historic urban character. This seems reasonable. To resolve this problem, his team seized upon the lighthouse as a traditional, characteristic form that honors Maine’s heritage. The proposed Safdie tower leans on this strained, somewhat condescending, analogy to justify its aggressive proportions and dominant presence squeezing in just next to the Old Port historic district, which is legally protected from such abrupt intrusions.

Large and iconic buildings can harmonize with historic cities. When a structure stands out in this environment, it usually anchors a surrounding neighborhood and emphasizes a shared institution, memory, or public function: a city hall, a customs building, a church, or a civic monument. Good examples of such buildings abound, near and far, some old and some new. Absent from the Old Port Square proposal is any mention of tangible amenities that address core social concerns in Portland, or convincing reference to how it might contribute visually to its surrounding neighborhood, or how it addresses energy efficiency and ecology, or how its presence might directly support Portland’s non-affluent residents. Still, it nominates itself automatically as a lasting symbol of Portland.

The Saftie tower proposal is currently under review by the Portland planning and urban development commission — a technically transparent process which compares proposals to established design standards. It is a kind of negotiation that responds to public input. The developer presents an option for approval; the city and its residents, if they like, may ask for different and better ones.

A lighthouse is a signal that tells us to stay alert and sail carefully, or else run aground. Let’s take this as a warning to steer clear of aggressive, tone-deaf urban design.

Jon Calame teaches art history at the Maine College of Art and Design and the University of Southern Maine.

This column is supported by The Dorothea and Leo Rabkin Foundation.