In 1806, Paris still bore the psychic and physical scars of revolution. Notre-Dame had been turned into a “Temple of Reason,” the hotels that had once defined Parisian life sat either empty or converted into bureaucratic strongholds, and the remaining churches had been stripped of ornament, treasure, and even altars. The streets were poorly maintained, and deteriorated sanitation systems left the city teeming with sewage. It was this Paris that Napoleon Bonaparte was surely reflecting on when he stood before his troops at Austerlitz, fresh off their recent victory, and promised them something unusual. “You will return home,” he is said to have declared, “through triumphal arches.” As with most of Napoleon’s grand promises, this was not an idle flourish. The arch he commissioned—the Arc de Triomphe—was conceived as both a physical monument to victory and as a carefully calibrated expression of national identity at a time when France needed it most.
Construction would take decades, long outlasting Napoleon himself. Workers quarried stone; sculptors carved reliefs of soldiers, victories, and allegorical figures; regimes rose and fell. By the time the arch was completed in 1836, it had been absorbed into the civic and emotional life of France. Beneath it, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier would later be installed, and the eternal flame lit, ensuring that the victory itself and the human sacrifice behind it would forever mingle. The Arc de Triomphe in its current form is both triumphant and somber, intertwining victory with loss.
This evolution is instructive. The greatness of the Arc de Triomphe lies not in its scale alone, nor even in its classical vocabulary, but in its restraint. Its proportions derive from Roman predecessors, particularly the Arch of Titus, which was built to commemorate the Roman victory in the Jewish War, and against which it is scaled up by a factor of about three. The piers are thick, but the attic story is kept intentionally less substantial so as not to compete. The Parisian limestone weathers in a way that produces patina, deepening its shadows over time. The Arch of Titus, with its clear hierarchy, is a fitting predecessor from a structural standpoint.
Arches first became prominent in ancient Mesopotamia, after the discovery of the use of voussoirs—wedge-shaped stones arranged around a central keystone, particularly useful for irrigation. But it was the Romans who mastered arches for the sake of ceremony. Vitruvius argued that architecture’s beauty derives from “order, arrangement, eurythmy, symmetry, propriety, and economy”, helping to lay the theoretical foundation for commemorative arches. It was from this philosophy that Rome’s other arches, from the Arch of Septimius Severus to the Arch of Constantine, emerged.
Bucking the Classical Canon
It is precisely this historical evolution that critics of Donald Trump’s proposed monument for the United States’s 250th anniversary find lacking. The Trump Administration has itself cited the Arc de Triomphe as an inspiration for their project. At first glance, the Trump proposal appears to align itself with the classical tradition: a triumphal arch, white stone, sculptural program, gilded ornament. Yet to many classically minded architects and theorists, it exemplifies a deeper problem that Luxembourgian architect Leon Krier famously warned against: the modern tendency to appropriate classical forms while discarding the discipline that gives them meaning.
Krier’s critique is a philosophical one. Classical architecture, in his view, is not a toolbox of interchangeable motifs but a coherent system governed by proportion, hierarchy, and typological appropriateness—just as Vitruvius argued over two millennia ago. When these principles are ignored, the result is a caricature of tradition in which the forms remain but the logic dissolves.
Trump’s proposal, seen through this lens, reads like a simulacrum of the classical. Jean Baudrillard once quipped that “America is the original version of modernity… we (Europe) are the dubbed or subtitled version.” His vision of America is one of modernity stripped of its historical layers. This is perhaps instructive. Because America lacks the historicity of the Old World, it cannot come as a surprise that its attempts to look backward feel disjointed or misplaced.
Turning to the proposal itself, the arch is oversized and visually top-heavy, its proportions strained. Ornament—particularly the conspicuous gilding—appears applied rather than organic, lending the structure a theatrical quality that sits uneasily with the sobriety of its supposed lineage. Most strikingly, the inscription “ONE NATION UNDER GOD” transforms what might have been a layered civic monument into something closer to a declarative billboard.
A Traditional Impulse
Yet it would be too easy—and ultimately too shallow—to dismiss the impulse behind the proposal outright. Despite Baudrillard’s cynicism, there is much to admire in America’s history and there is a reason Trump, like many Americans before him, reaches for classical imagery when attempting to express national grandeur for such a relatively new nation. Classical architecture, for all its intellectual rigor, is also intuitively legible. It communicates stability, continuity, and dignity in a way that many modern forms struggle to match. This is borne out in public sentiment—a poll from the conservative-leaning National Civic Art Society found that 72 percent of Americans prefer traditional and classical architecture for federal buildings and courthouses.
This impulse exists in Europe as well. When King Charles III—then Prince of Wales—famously denounced a proposed modernist addition to London’s National Gallery as a “monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend,” he was widely mocked within architectural circles. They thought his grievance was uncharacteristically middlebrow. Yet his remark resonated with the British public. The National Gallery relented, and ultimately built a new wing (the Sainsbury Wing) more aligned with the classical style of the rest of the complex. In what was surely a bitter irony for the British traditionalists, the Sainsbury Wing was completed by two Americans—Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown.
Many people, whatever their familiarity with architectural theory, share an instinctive preference for forms that feel ordered, humane, and historically grounded. Trump’s instinct, in this sense, taps into something real. It reflects a dissatisfaction with much of contemporary architecture, which can feel cold and inhumane. The turn toward classical forms can be understood, at least in part, as a populist corrective: an attempt to reclaim a language that ordinary people recognize and often admire.
This is the strongest version of the argument in favor of the proposal. And yet, even this argument for popular sentiment fails to hold up to scrutiny. Despite the popularity of classical architecture in general, this specific project has already proven wildly unpopular with the American public. The project has received “overwhelmingly negative” feedback in public comments, more of which were heard this week in a National Capital Planning Commission meeting. That has not, however, stopped President Trump’s Commission on Fine Arts from proceeding.
And yet, it is precisely because this impulse is understandable that its execution matters so much. To reach for classical architecture is to invoke a tradition that demands discipline.
Here the proposal falters. Its symbolism is overt, its scale emphatic, its message unambiguous. In this sense, it aligns less with the tradition it invokes than with a modern preference for spectacle. This is where the charge of gaudiness—often dismissed as subjective—acquires a more precise meaning. It is not merely that the monument is visually loud, but that it appears to be loud for its own sake, lacking the context and historical grounding that would justify its ostentation.
A Departure from Form
There is also a question of typology. The triumphal arch, as developed in ancient Rome and revived in early modern Europe, commemorates specific victories, specific generals, specific moments of military triumph, be it Titus defeating the Israelites or Napoleon defeating the Russian and Austrian empires.
To deploy this form for a 250th anniversary is, from a classical perspective, a category error. Certainly, a 250th anniversary is a triumphant feat, but it also one that necessitates somber reflection on the dignity of sacrifice and the fragility of democracy. To portray the anniversary as comparable to only victory in battle is in some ways to cheapen the richness of emotions that such a milestone necessitates. The United States has historically favored other typologies for its most meaningful monuments: the obelisk of the Washington Monument, the temple form of the Lincoln Memorial, or the domed authority of the United States Capitol. Each of these draws from classical precedent, but each is carefully matched to its symbolic purpose.
The proposed arch, by contrast, appears to prioritize immediacy over depth. Its inscription (“ONE NATION UNDER GOD”) reads as a slogan rather than a meditation. The arch’s gilded sculpture dominates rather than complements, and its proportions strain toward impact rather than harmony. The ornaments are almost cartoonishly large, dwarfing the arch’s piers, and painfully literal. In classical tradition, allegory is often present but controlled, and such ornaments would instead be integrated into reliefs or secondary sculptural programs. Taken as a whole, it is, in effect, classical architecture translated into the idiom of contemporary political messaging.
There is also a question of material honesty. Classical architecture relies on the legibility of weight and substance—stone that reads as stone, mass that conveys gravity. The pristine, almost digitally rendered quality of the proposal, combined with its bright metallic accents, risks undermining this sense of permanence. Introducing patina and gravity would both imbue the monument with more authority and ensure that it ages with visible dignity.
A Civic Duty
Yet perhaps the most pointed critique is not architectural but civic. Monuments, especially those tied to national anniversaries, are meant to transcend the moment of their creation. They should speak across administrations, across political divisions, across generations. The classical tradition, when properly understood, is particularly well suited to this task precisely because of its restraint. By resisting specificity, it invites people to put aside their differences and appreciate something intended to be timeless and unifying.
By contrast, the proposed arch is difficult to separate from its political context. Its scale, inscription, its aesthetic choices all contribute to a sense that it is inextricably associated with a particular Trumpian vision of the nation that promotes grandeur and strength. This risks narrowing the monument’s appeal and undermining its ability to function as a shared civic symbol. Perhaps it is an inevitable consequence of our current political polarization that any proposal by a president of one party will face opposition from the other, but trying to transcend those partisan divides is nonetheless a worthy task for such a national anniversary.
Compounding these concerns is the broader context of public spending and sentiment. While there may be a temptation to divorce the architectural analysis from the political analysis, the reality is that the two are deeply intertwined. Understanding the arch requires understanding both the administration’s rationale for it and the political public mood.
The United States, at present, faces significant strains—economic pressures from stubborn inflation and soaring gas prices, a deeply unpopular war with Iran, national debt approaching the $40 trillion mark, and a sharply divided and skeptical electorate. In such a climate, large-scale monumental projects inevitably attract scrutiny. Indeed, it is difficult not to view the construction of this arch in the context of Trump’s other building projects. His $300 million White House ballroom renovation is also deeply unpopular, with Democratic lawmakers arguing that it is a misuse of public funds. Perhaps it is unfair to analogize construction on behalf of the country’s 250th anniversary to construction that would benefit the president’s personal residency. Nonetheless, the current political and economic climate invites deep skepticism for anything that reeks of being out of touch.
The Arc de Triomphe achieved immortality not because it was free of political origins—it was anything but—but because it was disciplined enough to outgrow them. Its proportions, its ornament, and its symbolism were sufficiently grounded in a coherent tradition that it could absorb new meanings over time. Centuries after the Battle of Austerlitz, it has retained its marvel and mystery.
Trump’s proposed monument may not possess this capacity. By leaning too heavily on overt messaging, prioritizing visual impact over proportional harmony, and misapplying a historically specific form to a more diffuse purpose, it risks remaining fixed in the moment of its conception. Will future generations view this arch as an eternal symbol of the endurance of the democratic American project? Or will they view it as something frozen in 2026, with all the associated political and cultural baggage?
On August 26, 1944, the German occupation of Paris during World War II had just come to a sudden end and it was unclear who would inherit France. The Allies deeply distrusted Charles De Gaulle, then-chairman of the provisional government. Various French resistance groups were vying for power.
It was on that day that de Gaulle began to walk down the Champs-Élysées, with impromptu crowds of cheering Parisians following behind him. Occasionally, shots rang out from lingering German snipers, but the crowds proceeded undeterred. Near the end of his walk, he passed under the Arc de Triomphe, pausing to honor the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. In doing so, de Gaulle sent a resounding and unambiguous message to the world, that he was the inheritor of the nation of France, and that he had a place in its proud lineage of military history. The arch, which had been built to honor specific Napoleonic conquests, had evolved into a repository of national memory, its weathered patina reflecting the nation’s scars.
It remains unclear whom history will view as America’s de Gaulle, but what is clear that this country will continue to produce great men capable of great feats, as it has for the past two and a half centuries. We can only hope that whatever monument is built for our 250th anniversary, it will have the staying power to outlast them all.
Naomi Leigh is a writer and editor based in New York City. She is the editor-in-chief of The Astorian, a literary journal grounded in classical forms. A graduate of Duke University, she studied political science with a certificate in art history with a concentration in architeture. Her bylines have appeared in The Threepenny Review, the Social Register Locator & Observer, Apollo, Expat Press, Hobart Pulp, and Assouline, among other publications.
Nguồn: archpaper.com
