On a trip to SFMOMA many years ago, I wandered through the museum with a friend, who is blind, and her wife. The two of us who were sighted took turns describing the art. Other patrons (and guards) glared at us as we tried to conjure up the works with our words. And then we rounded the corner into a Carl Andre exhibition, featuring Copper Zinc Plain, an expanse of copper and zinc squares laid out in a checkerboard on the floor. Unlike the rest of the gallery, visitors were explicitly invited to step onto Andre’s artwork. As we described the work, my friend could walk on it, feeling the texture beneath her feet. Andre’s artistic choices, perhaps by accident, had made his work beautifully accessible.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, approximately 25 percent of the US population is disabled, and with long Covid and an aging population, this share is increasing. We need functional design that allows people to interact with their digital or physical environments with as few barriers as possible. The Rehabilitation Act of 1973 set out some accessibility mandates, but the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA) introduced a new era of accessibility. Yet the continued roadblocks to access highlight cultural attitudes about who belongs in society.

Conversations about accessibility tend to focus on practicality, with a hint of grudging provision of tools people need to meet their needs via accommodations. “Accommodation” implies a sort of permission, something granted to another person. It suggests that there’s something abnormal about a disabled person that requires extra effort. In the case of the ADA, people fighting accessibility requests in some contexts can cite the “undue burden” standard, which states that if something is too costly or technical to implement, it can be denied, with an alternate accommodation proposed instead. Disabled people under this framework become a nuisance to be checked off: install HVAC, finish flooring, equip elevator.

In recent years, there has been a shift toward universal design, which posits that all spaces should be designed to be as useful as possible to the greatest number of people. Curb cuts are often cited as an example: They allow wheelchair users to enter the crosswalk, but they also benefit parents with strollers, travelers with luggage, delivery people with hand trucks, people carrying heavy loads who might trip on a curb, and many others. Universal design on its face has obvious merits, and designing with everyone in mind is a significant improvement over reluctantly shoehorning in access features, but it does not entirely meet the needs of disabled people.

The focus on universality sometimes inadvertently erases the disabled people who drove earlier movements of accessible design. “Design for everyone,” as universal design is sometimes pitched, cannot actually be a design for all. In reality, there are sometimes access conflicts. A space kept bright and airy for claustrophobia or those with low vision can be hell for a migraineur. A service dog can create problems for someone with a severe allergy. A hybrid meeting accommodating employees with long Covid can be hard for Deaf employees to follow. And building for disability is not so simple as instinctual good ideas and assumptions about what disabled people might like in a built environment. It requires a design practice that integrates training and experience into its decision making.  

There is, however, a third way for thinking about accessible design, one in which accessibility becomes art in its own right—a creation that is elegant, beautiful, and engaging. A design that foregrounds disability identity and culture rather than treats them as an afterthought.

This is not a new idea. The Kenneth and Phyllis Laurent House, completed in 1952, is one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s most stunning designs, incorporating the features that became hallmarks of his work. It blends in with the natural environment, features elegant lines, offers artful views through large windows, and is littered with design details. It’s also fully accessible by the standards of the time, built on commission to accommodate Ken’s wheelchair.

With limited guidance on what accessible homebuilding might look like, Wright thought about how a wheelchair user might navigate the space. He didn’t just integrate it into the art: He made accessibility itself the art. One of the most stunning examples is the array of windows that curves along the back of the house, providing a view of outdoor gardens and a walkway. They are also floor to ceiling, allowing people to enjoy from any height. The indoor spaces and door openings have ample clearance for a wheelchair; it’s woven into the proportions of the home rather than awkwardly wedged in. The built-in seating includes spaces for wheelchair users to participate in conversation—no more hasty rearrangement of chairs or resignation to sitting in the corner. There are no glaring utilitarian access features that jar the viewer. Access, Wright proves, does not need to be ugly or intrusive; it can be seamless.

Accessible architecture, with an aging and increasingly disabled population, offers opportunities to create functional art and spaces, but it can also showcase failure. In September 2019, Curbed New York waxed rhapsodic about a new library at Hunters Point, calling it “a wonderful addition to the neighborhood.” Ten days later, they regretted to inform readers that it had an “accessibility problem” that became a target of a lawsuit (which spawned more lawsuits from the city, demanding to know why a significant access issue wasn’t caught during development and construction). Some aesthetically pleasing stepped seating was not accessible to wheelchair users or others with mobility impairments, sending a signal that these communities were not welcome at the library. The debacle highlighted the fact that access is frequently a second thought even 33 years after the ADA.