What if the most talked-about building in London this year wasn’t a skyscraper or a museum, but a 18-storey glass cube that somehow managed to feel both monumental and modest? That’s the paradox of Paddington Square, the brainchild of Renzo Piano and Irvine Sellar—a project that defies the Stirling Prize’s otherwise predictable shortlist. To call it a ‘trophy tower’ feels reductive. This isn’t just a building; it’s a statement about how we design spaces for people, not just for prestige. Personally, I think the Cube’s greatest achievement is its ability to turn a once-bleak arrival point into a civic plaza. Imagine standing at Paddington Station now: instead of being funneled into a mousehole, you’re greeted by a paved piazza that feels like it belongs to the city, not just a developer’s vision. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it contrasts with the Stirling Prize’s usual suspects, which seem to exist in a parallel universe of brick, mortar, and monotony.
Let’s talk about that brick monoculture. The shortlist reads like a love letter to the 19th century, with six projects—all but one made of brick. It’s as if the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) held a contest to see who could design the most ‘English’ building, and the winner was the bricklayer’s union. I’m not saying brick is bad—there’s a certain warmth and durability to it. But when every finalist feels like it could be part of a Hogwarts dormitory, you start to wonder: where’s the innovation? Take Fairmead House in Epping Forest, a villa that tries to blend modernity with Georgian charm. It’s elegant, yes, but it’s also a bit like watching a painter stick to the same color palette for every canvas. The same could be said for Lion Green Road housing in Croydon, which attempts to break away from London’s gridlock by clustering homes around a park. Yet even that project feels like it’s playing it safe, opting for loggias and greenery instead of truly reimagining what a neighborhood could be.
And then there’s the Cambridge obsession. Two college projects dominate the shortlist, which feels like a backdoor nod to Oxbridge’s endless budget and patronage. Pembroke College’s new residential court and Clare College’s River Wing are both impressive, but they’re also the product of a system that’s insulated from the real world. Think about it: these buildings are designed for alumni who can afford to live in ivy-covered halls, not for the average Londoner struggling with housing costs. It’s a reminder that architecture often serves the privileged first. What this really suggests is that the Stirling Prize has a blind spot—both geographically and socially. Where are the projects from Scotland, Wales, or the north of England? Why isn’t there a single building that challenges the status quo, like the Tarlair Pool in Aberdeenshire or New College Oxford’s candy-colored housing? These are the kinds of projects that spark public conversations about what architecture can be, not just what it should look like.
There’s a deeper issue here, one that goes beyond aesthetics. The Stirling Prize’s shortlist feels like a closed loop, where architects are curating for themselves rather than engaging with the public. The Cube at Paddington Square is an exception—it’s a building that invites interaction, that makes you stop and look up at the sky through its glacial glass. But the rest? They’re like a breakfast buffet with five types of muesli. You can admire the craftsmanship, but where’s the surprise? Where’s the risk? In my opinion, the prize needs to shake things up. It’s time to reward boldness over conformity, to celebrate projects that push boundaries rather than reinforce them. After all, architecture isn’t just about bricks and mortar—it’s about shaping the way we live, move, and connect. And right now, the Stirling Prize is missing the bigger picture.
