Manifesto of Futurist Architecture
No architecture has existed since 1700. A moronic mixture of the most various stylistic elements used to
mask the skeletons of modern houses is called modern architecture. The new beauty of cement and iron are
profaned by the superimposition of motley decorative incrustations that cannot be justified either by
constructive necessity or by our (modern) taste, and whose origins are in Egyptian, Indian or Byzantine
antiquity and in that idiotic flowering of stupidity and impotence that took the name of
These architectonic prostitutions are welcomed in Italy, and rapacious alien ineptitude is passed off as
talented invention and as extremely up-to-date architecture. Young Italian architects (those who borrow
originality from clandestine and compulsive devouring of art journals) flaunt their talents in the new quarters
of our towns, where a hilarious salad of little ogival columns, seventeenth-century foliation, Gothic pointed
arches, Egyptian pilasters, rococo scrolls, fifteenth-century cherubs, swollen caryatids, take the place of style
in all seriousness, and presumptuously put on monumental airs. The kaleidoscopic appearance and
reappearance of forms, the multiplying of machinery, the daily increasing needs imposed by the speed of
communications, by the concentration of population, by hygiene, and by a hundred other phenomena of
modern life, never cause these self-styled renovators of architecture a moment's perplexity or hesitation.
They persevere obstinately with the rules of Vitruvius, Vignola and Sansovino plus gleanings from any
published scrap of information on German architecture that happens to be at hand. Using these, they continue
to stamp the image of imbecility on our cities, our cities which should be the immediate and faithful
projection of ourselves.
And so this expressive and synthetic art has become in their hands a vacuous stylistic exercise, a jumble of
ill-mixed formulae to disguise a run-of-the-mill traditionalist box of bricks and stone as a modern building.
As if we who are accumulators and generators of movement, with all our added mechanical limbs, with all
the noise and speed of our life, could live in streets built for the needs of men four, five or six centuries ago.
This is the supreme imbecility of modern architecture, perpetuated by the venal complicity of the academies,
the internment camps of the intelligentsia, where the young are forced into the onanistic recopying of
classical models instead of throwing their minds open in the search for new frontiers and in the solution of
the new and pressing problem:
the Futurist house and city.
The house and the city that are ours both