“Just Imagine Yourself in This Space“
I still remember this line from a classmate during his final presentation in architecture school. Standing before a wall with barely any drawings pinned up, he said to the guest critics and our professors: “Just imagine yourself in this space.”
The room went eerily quiet.
It wasn’t the respectful, contemplative silence we hoped for during presentations.
It was the kind of silence that makes you notice every sound—like when someone’s pen hit the floor, and it felt deafening.
Imagine yourself in this space
It was obvious he hadn’t done much work for the presentation. Compared to other students’ overcrowded walls of sketches and models, his was practically bare. The professors’ unimpressed expressions made it clear this wasn’t going to go well.
And yet, something unexpected happened. One of the guest critics started talking.
Judging Starts Before the Presentation
Apparently, the guest could imagine himself in that space.
Before the presentation began, this critic had walked around the room, closely examining students’ work. He noticed the title scrawled across my classmate’s board: Memory and Space. Intrigued, he asked during his presentation, “What kind of memories are you trying to create in this space?”
With surprising confidence, my classmate launched into a vivid explanation (without any illustrations) of how specific spatial elements could evoke emotions and memories.
While the rest of us saw an underwhelming presentation, this critic saw potential—and a story.
At the time, I dismissed this as a fluke, chalking it up to the student’s knack for talking his way out of trouble. But over the years, I’ve realized the importance of what happened that day.
Whether in architecture school or the professional world, people make judgments about your work long before you start explaining it.
A messy presentation can overshadow great ideas, while a polished one can elevate even simple concepts.
The guest critic wasn’t fooled; he was guided. My classmate’s minimal(?) setup, combined with a compelling narrative, allowed the critic to fill in the blanks.
And that’s the secret: Your work doesn’t speak for itself—you do.
Storytelling Matters More Than Raw Data
“Work should speak for itself” is a popular mantra in design school.
But in two decades of architecture practice, I’ve rarely seen it hold true. Design work, no matter how brilliant, needs a narrative to connect with its audience.
That’s what my classmate understood so well. His comment, “Just imagine…” wasn’t just a placeholder for a lack of effort—it was an invitation.
It shifted the presentation from his project to our shared experience of it. It created curiosity, anticipation, and even participation.
Even he admitted later, “It’s hard to wing it when you have nothing to wing it with.” But the truth is, he wasn’t just winging it. He was crafting a story—a skill just as important as creating the work itself.
Why does storytelling matter so much?
Because humans are hardwired to respond to stories. We relate to them. They engage us emotionally, far more than raw data or intricate models ever can.
A project with the most stunning details can still fall flat if it doesn’t invite its audience to care.
As designers, our job isn’t just to create; it’s to communicate.
Rehearse, Rehearse, Rehearse
Like learning a new language or mastering a sport, effective presentation takes practice. But in design school, rehearsing is often an afterthought.
I’ll admit, during my own school days, my “rehearsals” happened during other students’ presentations. While I should have been learning from their work, I was mentally scripting my own lines.
Unsurprisingly, these rushed, half-hearted practices didn’t prepare me well.
Today, as I teach and critique students, I see the same thing: presentations that rely on the audience to “figure it out.”
Instead of actively guiding their audience through their project, students hope their work will magically explain itself.
But this passive approach usually leads to missed opportunities—or worse, confusion.
Without clear direction, critics and clients might focus on irrelevant details or their own interpretations rather than the designer’s intentions.
Rehearsing isn’t just about memorizing lines; it’s about learning how to tell your story. It’s about directing your audience to the heart of your work so they see what you see.
Final Thoughts
Verbal presentation is an undervalued skill in design education, but it’s one of the most important tools for a designer.
The idea that “work should speak for itself” sets students up to fail—not because their work isn’t good, but because they’re not trained to communicate its value.
In today’s hyper-content-driven world, storytelling isn’t optional. It’s how you stand out. It’s how you connect with people who are seeing your work for the first time.
That classmate of mine barely passed his project, but his presentation skills left a lasting impression.
He taught me that no matter how brilliant the design, it’s the story you tell that makes people pay attention.
For that, he gets an A+ in my book. 😊
Life Outside of Design Studio 