I am an architect who designs for animals.

Actually, I design for animals and humans. Sometimes I say I design for “the collective,” but then many people just hear the part that pertains to them. I didn’t set out to have clients who were nonhuman, although even before coming to Buffalo, I was interested in the intersection of architecture and biology and influenced by theory that had to do with comparing architecture to animal evolution. I even entered a competition, at some point, for a bat house—but I didn’t win. It wasn’t until I came to Buffalo that I would get to build my Bat Tower.

In 2005, I was living in a house, neighborhood, and city that were new to me. Soon after, I received an email that a “vacant” building nearby had become a “Hyatt Regency for raccoons.” There were reports of raccoons moving in, out, and around this house, and then boldy traversing the neighborhood. During the next few years, my neighbors and I became somewhat accustomed to the raccoons who lived among us. One evening, while I was grilling in my backyard, I sensed a presence; a raccoon casually walked across the path toward the tree where she was living. She seemed neither in a rush nor surprised to see me. And I had a familiar feeling, as though I were seeing a family member coming home from work. At this moment, I began to know the experience of urban wildlife.

In the Buffalo-Niagara region, urban wildlife is everywhere. Both vacant homes inside the city and post-industrial infrastructure on the outskirts are often teeming with life. Under-maintained sites, or sites that lack maintenance altogether, become host to animals and plants. The fact that Buffalo is located near multiple bodies of water—Lake Erie, the Niagara River, Niagara Falls, the Buffalo River—and along a major bird migration route partially explains why there are so many animals running around this city. 

When I moved to Buffalo, I started running. I began with short two-miles runs and worked my way up until I could go from one end of the city to the other. These long runs gave me an opportunity to scan the landscape slowly, at six miles per hour. 

One time during a run, I was startled by a shape-shifting blob—it was a tree canopy filled with crows. Another time, I saw deer wandering on empty railroad tracks, and later learned that the Buffalo railroad corridor—now used only twice a day by trains and out of the way of humans and cars—is a habitat connector in the city. I studied the houses of Buffalo, as I moved past them on foot. Some were showered in love, meticulously maintained, others,  neglected and abandoned.

Herein lies the paradox of my Buffalo discoveries: the abandoned houses, the relics of outdated infrastructure, and overgrown landscapes could be instances of great biodiversity. An unmowed yard of “weeds” may be host to a variety of species that would be excluded from a well-kept lawn. Common beliefs about the built environment are based on a binary set of values where cleanliness and neatness are understood to be good, and messy and wild are understood to be bad. Unfortunately, so-called bad environments are exactly where urban wildlife flourishes and may be the more ecologically beneficial of the two. 

In my frequent wanderings around the city, I started to daydream. I could design what I thought of as a house within a house; it could have an exterior wrapper suitable for urban flora and fauna and an interior that met the needs of humans. I could design backyard and frontyard structures that would foster habitats. And I could adapt the city’s industrial buildings or houses of the Buffalo vernacular—the telescope house or the Buffalo Double—to serve non-human constituents. I used collage to envision sharing constructed space with plants and animals. I imagined a thickened city wall of wildlife.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I was left raw when I heard acquaintances casually discuss the most effective way to kill bats. Bats are, of course, an important part of the food web. But they are also pollinators. And they consume pesky insects like mosquitoes. Hadn’t these acquaintances heard about how bats benefit human life? Didn’t they know that White Nose Syndrome was decimating the population? 

I became determined to build a project for bats. It would attract bats and provide an environment for them to thrive. While off the shelf bat houses are intentionally discreet, Bat Tower still stands and is a prominent sculpture in Griffis Sculpture Park, south of Buffalo. I hope its presence enlightens humans about the value of bats.

Bat Tower is heavy, dark, and intense. Stained wood panels cover its upper portion and absorb sunlight, keeping the interior warm enough for its inhabitants. Its 400 milled wooden pieces, or ribs, are laid so that their ends form five triangles that sit on top of one another and twist to 12 feet high. Bats enter between the ribs and then move up and down the tower’s hollow core. Patterns of grooves on horizontal and vertical surfaces—we called these bat ladders—enable bats to climb the tower and cling to overhead surfaces.

We situated the tower near a pond in the park that attracts mosquitoes and other insects bats love. Rather than be “sided” with front and back, it coil to create similar conditions all around. Bats move in and out of the tower. Humans stand back and experience the spectacle from a distance.

I have gone on to build more projects for bats and other animals. There would be Bat Cloud, Habitat Wall, and Life Support. What defines a post-industrial city? What does it mean to decline and decay? I am like a real estate developer looking for sites with untapped potential. But the potential I seek has to do with increasing habitat rather than increasing capital. I imagine a species-inclusive city.

Cite This Essay
Hwang, Joyce, “My Neighbor, the Bat.” Biodesigned: Issue 8, 22 July, 2021. Accessed [month, day, year].