Léon Krier Was Right All Along: Why the Architect Who Challenged Modernism Is More Relevant Than Ever

Léon Krier, the Luxembourg-born architect and urban theorist, passed away on June 17, 2025, at the age of 79. For those familiar with the debates around contemporary urban design, his name carries significant weight—not just for his built projects, but more so for his unwavering critique of modernist planning and his lifelong advocacy for cities designed on a human scale. As a leading voice in the New Urbanism movement, Krier challenged what many took for granted in post-war architecture and planning.

He never aligned himself with the mainstream. At a time when modernist ideals dominated architecture—wide highways, rigid zoning, towering apartment blocks—Krier raised an essential question: were these cities truly built for people?

His answer was a clear and resounding no. “We are not machines,” he often said in lectures, “so why should we live in spaces designed as if we were?” Krier believed that good cities are ones you can walk through, where buildings are proportioned to the human body, and where streets aren’t just channels for cars, but places of life and encounter. He envisioned cities with corner bakeries, neighbors who know each other, children playing safely in the street—not isolated residential pods cut off by eight-lane highways.

One of the most notable realizations of his vision can be found in Poundbury, a town in Dorset, England, developed under the patronage of then-Prince Charles. Designed with Krier’s principles, Poundbury avoids flashy materials or abstract geometries. Instead, it feels familiar and warm: modest buildings in brick and stone, winding streets, shops and homes mixed together, and the kind of intimate scale that makes strangers nod hello. It was mocked in its early days as a "Disneyfied" throwback, but over time, Poundbury has become a sought-after community—an unlikely success in a country long wedded to modernist planning.

What makes Krier’s ideas powerful is that they aren’t abstract theories. They speak to lived experience. He often drew on his own childhood memories from Luxembourg: hearing church bells echo across the town, picking up fresh bread from the local bakery, neighbors greeting each other on the street. He never rejected technology—but he strongly opposed the idea of technology defining our cities’ souls.

Jane Henderson, an architect from Georgia, recalled discovering Krier’s book The Architecture of Community while still a student. “Back then, we were being taught about Le Corbusier, Mies, Frank Lloyd Wright,” she said. “Krier was a bit of an outsider, but he articulated what many of us were already feeling.” Years later, Jane helped design a neighborhood on the outskirts of Atlanta using Krier’s small-block, mixed-use, pedestrian-friendly model. Today, it’s one of the area’s most desirable residential zones.

Krier was also openly critical of architectural education. He believed schools focused too much on visual shock value and too little on architecture’s deeper social and human roles. “We’re producing sculptors, not architects,” he once said. During his time teaching at the University of Notre Dame, he pushed students to hand-draw cross-sections of traditional town centers, to study the enduring patterns of real cities, and to understand the emotional logic of places—not just their photogenic angles.

To some, Krier seemed stubborn or even regressive. But in today’s cities, where loneliness, traffic, and urban alienation are common complaints, his principles feel timely—perhaps even urgent. In Lyon, French urban planner Pierre Dumont had long been a firm believer in modernist approaches, until he participated in designing a high-rise housing development. “No one talked to each other. Kids had nowhere to play. It looked impressive, but it didn’t feel alive,” he said. He began revisiting Krier’s writings and gradually integrated more traditional layouts into his urban renewal projects.

Krier wasn’t opposed to change—he simply questioned whether all change truly counted as progress. That belief formed the heart of his work: we should move forward, yes, but not without remembering how humans have built communities for centuries.

His death marks the end of a remarkable life, but not of his influence. In fact, as cities around the world search for more livable, connected, and human-centered solutions, Krier’s ideas may be more relevant now than ever. He reminded us that cities are not just backdrops for economic activity or artistic expression—they are, above all, places for people to live, connect, and thrive.

And that simple truth may be his greatest legacy.