I was first exposed to the Glass House in a lecture hall in 2001. A few weeks earlier, the twin towers had collapsed, and along with it, the old frontier sense of impermeability. A black and white slide of the Glass House clicked into view, and I felt an overpowering sense of relief, as if everything we had collectively lost was somehow preserved by that structure: the gracefulness of transparency.

In an age where we have forsaken privacy for unfiltered noise, the Glass House still manages to calm me down. Despite its transparency, it retains the feeling of a private realm. Respect seems to be ingrained in its framework, a quality that makes you feel privileged to be able to glance inside. There’s nothing exhibitionist about the Glass House.

For me, at least, it is a pure emotional experience, beautiful, in part, because it doesn’t appear to give a damn. It’s going to exist on that plot of land whether you’re interested in it or not. It doesn’t need validation from any other structures. It is complete.

In a contemporary society whose mantra is seemingly, “Jittery and Insecure Under a Mask of Professionalism!” places like the Glass House are worth keeping in mind, if only because they evince that old, hard-won attitude that no matter what, everything is going to be just fine.