There is nothing more important in the human condition than joy.
Joy is the word that best describes what David Boyle offered. This is beyond his profound contributions toward architecture, and even beyond the great sense of privilege felt by those working around him.
This includes a significant number of people who themselves were affected by the warmth and tenor of David’s love for the human condition, and his regard for the intrinsic relationship between architecture and the wonders and beauty of things in our everyday lives – a bush turkey, a lovely cup, a beautiful pot, a marvellous door, a fireplace, a window, a chair, a lovely garden, a family meal around a perfectly simple table. All these things informed something incredible in David’s work: an acutely selfless observation about our humanity. Every great artist, as David was, develops their work around observing the human condition and offering it back to us. Every great artist must communicate that which is known to the observer but never felt until that artist shows the way, and David showed the way like no one else I know.
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David knew he was terminally ill for 13 years, and his optimism and resilience saw that a major part of his architectural contribution happened over this period. During this time, his work found itself on the covers of multiple magazines, inspiring a generation of young architects to develop concepts of colour, form, figural quality, and a playfulness with “joy,” which belied, for David, a deeper sadness about his own condition. I often wonder if his contribution related reciprocally to his ailment; I often wondered, as I saw, with much astonishment, masterpiece after masterpiece unfold, if the work was being developed more intensely due to his deeper knowledge about the finitude of life. I remain envious of his dexterity, envious of my deep friend for his unending talents and enthusiasm. He encouraged enthusiasm in me always.
A significant number of talented employees chose to work at David’s practice, David Boyle Architect, in his house at Pretty Beach, New South Wales, where he had developed an extraordinarily beautiful workspace among his beloved nature. These include James Fraser, with whom I had previously worked at Edwards Madigan Torzillo and Briggs in the ’80s and who had known the family of David’s wife, Leah Bennetts, all of his life. There was Kevin Liu, who went off to Harvard, and Kalyna Sparks, who started working with David as a young graduate. There was also Anthony St Johns Parsons, who recently won the 2025 Wilkinson Award for Residential Architecture.
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On my part, I worked with David at a time that was deeply vulnerable for me. He was my first employee, commencing in late 1994 after he had won the University of Newcastle’s University Medal under the guidance of that master educator, Lindsay Johnston. I had just been shortlisted for the Pyrmont Point Housing Competition, and David’s contribution to my practice was extraordinary. He was two years younger than me, and we were both still only in our twenties when we would design our extraordinary entry for the National Museum of Australia, which was runner-up in a most intense competition. (I suppose being under 30 was considered too young.) David enjoyed working closely with several extraordinary people in my practice, including a friend for life in John Wilkin, and Polly Harbison, who, like David, would go on to complete award-winning, extraordinary work at MacMasters Beach, NSW.
David’s legacy lives through this work but also through his influence upon architects, such as those named here. He was quietly able to persuade through his extraordinary drawings, his remarkable models and magical gifts, and his love for nature and the world. His influence was felt both in our awe at his incredible talent to draw as an architect should, and his quietness in making that drawing hauntingly beautiful, a beauty that would be reflected in the buildings for which he became renowned.
I do not think he won enough awards – which so often overlook those who champion authenticity and originality in their art. His many state and national awards, while not enough in my mind, were nonetheless representative of his truest talents, and they are, to my way of seeing things, deep encouragement toward all those interested in the art of our profession.
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Recently, when he was in hospital, I visited him. I quietly read out an essay I had written in his honour as he weakly held my hand. They were private thoughts I carefully prepared and which I needed to articulate with a depth of intent. He could not talk at that time; his warm hand squeezed mine from moment to moment as he heard something about my affection and respect for him. At the end of this reading, he pulled all his energy together to breathe out, “thank you.”
I thought, how ironic: even at the time when I was trying to thank him, even at the time when he had not a whisper of energy, he presented dignity.
We are the ones who should be thanking David. We, who were so influenced by his incredible work and talent; we, who will always be reminded by David’s legacy of the need to bring joy and humanity into our work. David’s legacy might resonate in the beautiful houses he designed, or the work he did in practice, or even his lectures. Most importantly to me, however, it is in the weaving of a spirit in all those who are indebted to his lessons about the architecture of humanity: the importance of being personal and invested; the importance of work being identifiable as coming from a human poet; the importance of imbuing an enduring quality of love in every line we draw, in every act we make, and in every word and thing we offer.