You would not choose your surgeon, mechanic or psychologist based on their fashion sense. Their focus is aimed, we hope, in more meaningful directions. It simply does not matter what they wear, does it? On the other hand, it matters very much whether a surgeon is steady, a mechanic is logical, or a psychologist is intuitive. These are essential elements which dramatically elevate their performances, and strong performance is surely what a person is after.

Likewise the functional irrelevance of appearance in relation to building performance is what makes most conversations about style in architecture so often empty and pointless. Victorian gingerbread, FBI Brutalism, ballroom Neoclassical — these outfits, however attractive they might be to a certain observer, cannot make up for a cramped kitchen, a depressing lobby, or an impersonal party. It simply does not matter what they wear, unless performance is not the goal.

When a building becomes an emblem of something else, like wealth or power or ideology, function is typically sacrificed to appearance. When you think of the Empire State Building, or Alcatraz, or the Alamo, you probably are not thinking about how well they work as a business headquarters, high-security prison or frontier fortress. Instead, their mythic presence as symbols takes over. They dissolve into a kind of pure, fictional language of national character: We are ambitious, we are just, we are brave, etc. They are no longer architecture.

On the other hand, a building can evolve along a different path. It can emerge, much like a seed or embryo, from the inside out. It can take on an outward appearance that echos and amplifies what wants to happen within. An excellent example is the South Portland Public Library (1965, by John H. Leasure & Associates), an architectural jewel that performs at a very high level in relation to its intended function.

What is it that we need a good library to do? How should it behave? To say that it should connect people with useful information is not enough, since a laptop or a warehouse full of books can do that. A public library, as noted previously in these pages, is best when it gives the visitor both free access to information and a setting in which to receive it successfully. In this context, the force and glamour of the South Portland Public Library stem not from what the building asserts, but from what it makes room for, from its capacity to make room for serious private work.

A library is serious because people go there to find a new job, illuminate a frightening diagnosis, or understand why Ukraine is at war with Russia. These are errands that involve a high probability of shock, disruption and personal transformation. It is the radical, essential purpose of any library to invite, enable and cultivate disruptive moments like these. It is a place where raw material — warehoused information on ice, we might say – may be siphoned, warmed and converted into explanations, solutions, meanings and insights for immediate use.

Unlike a restaurant, pharmacy or hardware store, you never know what you will find in a library, or what will happen inside. It is assumed that the project will be unpredictable, and the discoveries that emerge will be surprising. As a result, the building’s job is to maximize the possible encounters, anticipate the possible shocks, and get out of the way. This job demonstrates how similar a library can be to a hospital, laboratory or funeral parlor, where different raw and combustible elements converge with equally unpredictable results.

Low-slung and solemn on the southern corner of Cottage and Broadway, you may have passed by the dazzling South Portland Public Library a dozen times without noticing much. It is a concrete Zen monk of a creature that sits serene on a small hill. It presents – as you drive by and do not notice it – an unassuming monument to your unrealized possibilities, dedicated in advance to what, in you, is yet to be seen and yet to be known. How is this lofty purpose translated into such an effective architectural language?

It does not wave or shout. It does not need you; sooner or later, you need it. The entire operation is contained under a single, highly legible, spanning bracket. A single object, voluptuously sheathed in glass. In this way it repeats the broad, deep entry arch that is typical of the Richardsonian Romanesque, named after American architect Henry Hobson Richardson, who designed public libraries throughout the country during his illustrious career.

You can see that while these two libraries wear very different outfits, they share several important underlying qualities. Both invite and welcome the public; both convey solidity and strength; both speak of their structure and materials directly, without sleight of hand or ornament, giving the impression of a trustworthy and democratic institution.

As with any good hospital, laboratory or funeral parlor, it would be in poor taste for this library to speak loudly or long of itself. Using the vocabulary of the mid-century Modern style, it appears neutral, nonpartisan and transparent (By contrast, we might observe how a very different institutional structure, for example Portland City Hall designed by Carrère & Hastings in the French Renaissance style, is undeniably assertive, self-congratulatory and opaque). The quiet is the quiet of a chapel or sanctuary. The emptiness is expectant and uterine.

Step inside underneath the protecting shell and the advantages of this approach become somewhat obvious. Natural light pours in without obstruction and pools in the main reading areas because they are largely unbroken. Furniture and shelving are kept low while the ceiling vault is high. Free and generous circulation of light and air correspond favorably to the circulation of information and ideas. Here a visitor can feel the library’s keen, courageous commitment to neutrality; the neutrality which anticipates the profound questions, problems and potentials which will be laid upon its altar for consideration. The spare, bright emptiness of the building is proportional to the complex fullness of the persons it was designed to serve.

It is true, the South Portland Library is not dressed for seduction. She looks more like a nun, or a flight attendant, a person who assists travelers in their journey. Famed Finnish-American architect Eero Saarinen conceived his TWA Flight Center at JFK airport in 1962 along South Portland Library lines (or did Leasure design the library along TWA lines?).

Note the same single, featherweight shell and sheer enclosing glass curtainwall. Here also some travelers are headed abroad, some toward home; some are destined for weddings, some for funerals, some for errands of uncertain outcome. All enter and pass through the bright, empty, monastic terminal, which silently affirms the mystery and grandeur of the journey in itself.