When Donald Trump suddenly demolished the White House's East Wing last month, he shattered more than just historic walls. He broke a century-old tradition of consulting with architectural experts that has guided Washington's building decisions for 125 years, dating back to the last time an administration attempted such a massive expansion of the presidential residence.
This tradition began during a pivotal moment in American architectural history. Over three cold December days in 1900, members and guests of the American Institute of Architects gathered at Washington's Arlington Hotel to strategize against what they considered an architectural disaster. Under President William McKinley, a government official overseeing public buildings in the District of Columbia had proposed adding two enormous, ornate wings directly to the sides of the White House. The architects believed these additions would overwhelm the existing building and destroy its classical simplicity.
The architects weren't just fighting a single renovation project. Led by architect and historian Glenn Brown, they were attempting to establish the principle that professional expertise should guide the design of major urban landmarks in the nation's capital and across the country. They wanted to demonstrate that specialized architectural knowledge would create more livable cities than the hasty or authoritarian schemes developed by politicians and their associates.
Their efforts found a receptive audience in an unexpected place. Theodore Roosevelt, who became president after McKinley's assassination the following year, listened carefully to Brown and his allies. Roosevelt and his wife Edith ultimately hired the respected architecture firm McKim, Mead & White to renovate the White House in a way that honored James Hoban's original design. The firm's breakthrough solution was to add two low-profile annexes - the West Wing for the president's staff and the East Wing for entertainment - positioned behind trees at a respectful distance from the main mansion. In modern terms, the architects used design thinking to completely reframe the problem.
McKim, Mead & White's creative approach established an informal understanding between political authorities and outside experts that most subsequent presidents respected. When Franklin D. Roosevelt later expanded both wings to accommodate the growing offices of the president and first lady, he instructed his architects to keep the new rooflines low, deliberately sacrificing interior space quality to preserve historical integrity. In 1961, First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy spearheaded federal legislation declaring the building a museum and established the White House Historical Association to help maintain the structure's historic appearance and character.
Trump's new ballroom completely abandons the precedent set in 1900. The square footage of the new construction dwarfs the original mansion, while its parapet appears to match the height of the historic structure, jutting out prominently from the tree cover that previously concealed the old East Wing. This represents a dramatic departure from more than a century of careful architectural consideration.
Many commentators have argued in recent weeks that Trump had no authority to demolish the East Wing because the White House belongs to the American people, not to the president. While this sentiment is understandable, it doesn't reflect legal reality. The principle of respecting Hoban's original mansion was never made legally binding on the president. A system where power is constrained primarily by norms and traditions is vulnerable to sudden change, and Trump and his administration clearly recognize this vulnerability, taking advantage not just in White House renovations but across health, science, and numerous other areas of government policy.
Following the architects' convention in 1900, public officials increasingly turned to specialists for questions of aesthetics and space planning that had previously been matters of politics and patronage. During the following decade, most public building projects in Washington came under formal design review systems. The Senate commissioned a visionary proposal known as the McMillan Plan of 1902 to reimagine the city and its parks. In 1910, Congress created a Commission of Fine Arts to guide federal building design in Washington, though its powers remained strictly advisory, with compliance left to presidential discretion.
Even when Congress passed the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966, it specifically exempted the White House, Capitol Complex, and Supreme Court Building from federal historic preservation processes that are themselves less restrictive than regulations faced by homeowners in historic districts. Political power has long resisted constraints, even before Trump's presidency.
The strongest authority that could potentially influence the demolition and proposed ballroom is the National Capital Planning Commission. The NCPC's establishment in the 1920s followed a populist campaign led by organizer Harlean James, who traveled across the country with her mother, organizing clubs to lobby for stronger planning oversight in Washington. James argued that the capital belonged to all Americans and should serve as a national model, with its development handled only by top experts in planning and design.
However, Trump appointees now dominate the NCPC. His representatives lack relevant expertise and have shown little interest in the deliberative procedures that have been standard practice for a century. This week, the president fired the entire Commission on Fine Arts without immediately announcing replacements. Meanwhile, the federal government's historic preservation workforce has been severely reduced by DOGE initiatives, and meticulous design processes for federal buildings appear threatened by a loosely written executive order that calls for classical architecture in the name of conveying dignity. Renderings of Trump's proposed ballroom show an ostentatious version of that architectural style.
Until now, federal architecture has reflected a careful balance between executive branch discretion and the influence of trusted experts. Trump has demonstrated how fragile that approach was all along and how both professionals and ordinary Americans had taken it for granted. The institutional damage from the East Wing's destruction extends far beyond the loss of historic materials and craftsmanship.
Trump is advancing other grandiose projects, including an arch at Arlington Memorial Bridge and a Garden of American Heroes. If these projects proceed and new federal buildings are designed according to his personal preferences, he will reshape Washington much as illiberal leaders Viktor Orbán and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan have transformed the capitals of Hungary and Turkey. Perhaps a new Harlean James or Glenn Brown will emerge to rally public opinion against leaving Washington to presidential whims. For now, though, Trump has created a significant void, and the culture of expert guidance established in 1900 became rubble along with the East Wing's roof.
