Should Public Space Be Iconic? Insights from a lecture and interview with Miles Nelligan, Principal at Diller Scofidio + Renfro

Should Public Space Be Iconic? Insights from a lecture and interview with Miles Nelligan, Principal at Diller Scofidio + Renfro. By Leah Hoepelman. 

“We didn’t anticipate how much it would change the neighborhood…” reflected Miles Nelligan as he spoke about the High Line, the recognizable project by Diller Scofidio + Renfro (DS+R). Opened in 2009, the former elevated train track—once in a state of abandonment and ruin—was expected to attract around 800,000 visitors a year. Almost fifteen years later, it opens up to nearly 8 million annually and stands as one of New York City’s most iconic places to see. 

Yet, Nelligan’s insights made it very clear that; popularity is only the surface. The High Line is a deeply layered urban artifact, rooted in the city’s industrial past, its relationship with rail infrastructure, and the ever-so-present culture of constant reinvention the context has. Even if most visitors do not know its history, the project remains inseparable from the evolution of New York itself. 

Born From Storytelling and Context 

For DS+R, the High Line was special from the very beginning because it was fundamentally a project with a story waiting to be told. Nelligan emphasized that the firm did not begin with a preconceived architectural concept, with a specific morphological image nor a spatial idea in mind; but instead with research—historical, social, and material. Their investigation reached back to the “10th Avenue Cowboys” who once guided trains through Manhattan’s streets, the early-20th-century factories that physically connected to rail spurs, and the later decline of the system with the rise of container shipping. 

By the time trains stopped running in the 1980s, the High Line had become “untouched… creating its own ecosystem,” as Nelligan described with a sense of nostalgia. What some saw as blight, DS+R saw as potential—a rare and unique moment where overgrown nature, memory, and infrastructure intertwined to produce something new. And more so, something new for the people. 

“Not Being Architects” 

When the competition for the High Line was announced, DS+R’s proposal stood out for its restraint. Their guiding question, Nelligan explained, was: 

“How can we not be architects? How do we leave it as much as it already is?” 

Instead of imposing form, they let the site teach them. Neglect became a form of knowledge and they allowed decay to become the main collaborator and instructor. 

This philosophy shaped the design strategies that define the High Line today: A planked, paving system that allows nature to peek through the cracks. A sequence of experiences that guides visitors through different zones and city views. Generous and gradual stairways that functions as access points that “disconnect” visitors from the streets below. Seasonal, resilient planting inspired by the self-sufficient landscape found during abandonment and the maintainment of strict public access throughout the project all respond to the logic of “designing by not designing.” 

Together, these strategies created a public space that was not only visually and spatially compelling but deeply contextual—socially, historically, and ecologically. This, combined with the cultural momentum and a maybe even a fair measure of luck—turned it into a global symbol of adaptive reuse. Cities around the world began rethinking abandoned infrastructures and The High Line demonstrated that public space could be a driver of urban identity, economic revitalization, and community engagement. 

But it also raised questions about who benefits from such success.

Iconicity Collides With Equity

A reality that cannot be ignored is that, a public space that becomes a major tourist attraction cannot be neutral. Rising land values, luxury development, and cultural branding often follow—sometimes at the expense of the long-standing residents and the locals that have helped shaped the core identity of the place. Nelligan addressed this openly when asked what the firm learned from the experience: 

“If we were to do it again, equity and inclusion would be central. Chelsea is economically diverse, and it could—and should—have been addressed more intentionally. These issues affect everything: supermarkets, stores, public space.” 

This raises a crucial question: 

A project can be celebrated, but who is it celebrated for? 

Defining Success in Public Space 

So how do we evaluate a public space? Is becoming an icon enough? Or should success be measured by who feels welcome, who returns regularly, and who feels a sense of identity and belonging in the space? 

Throughout the lecture, one idea resonated strongly: public space–and design in general– is always alive. It evolves with its users. As Nelligan noted, and as the class discussed: 

“Public space should not stand still. It should evolve, and people should have the freedom to turn it into something new.” 

Yes, public space can be iconic—but it should never be the only goal. It is the people, their stories, their rhythms, their conflicts, and their creativity that ultimately define whether a public space thrives. 

The High Line reminds us that even the most carefully designed space will take on a life of its own. And perhaps that is the real beauty of projects like this: the unknown, the unexpected, and the possibility for public life to continuously rewrite the architecture.