Hollow Argument

Picture a downtown street where only the front wall of a century-old building remains, propped up by steel girders, while a gleaming new tower rises behind. This practice — known as facadism — has become a familiar sight in many Canadian cities. It’s a controversial compromise between old and new, preserving just the decorative face of history while the heart and soul of the building are gutted. 

As development pressures mount and climate concerns grow, Canadians are debating how best to save our built heritage. Can we find a more holistic, ethical way to keep historic spaces alive? What’s the environmental impact of demolition versus reuse? What’s our vision for heritage conservation that goes beyond surface preservation? 

The Rise of Facadism

Rapidly expanding cities such as Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal have seen a marked increase in facadism in recent decades. In Toronto especially, many heritage buildings have been reduced to ornamental storefronts with condos or office towers rising above and behind them. Vancouver and Montreal face similar pressures, often requiring the preservation of an exterior wall to satisfy heritage-planning policies, even while fundamentally transforming what lies beyond. 

The practice sits at the centre of a heated debate in the heritage community. To its critics, facadism is an architectural sham, a superficial form of preservation that reduces historic buildings to stage sets. Vancouver heritage consultant Donald Luxton likens it to taxidermy. “This is not heritage conservation. It’s just putting a face on something,” he says, dismissing it as “putting the parsley on the developer’s plate.” Such partial preservation, critics argue, strips away the very aspects that give a building its character, integrity and cultural value — its three-dimensional form, interior spaces, craftsmanship and the lived history that unfolded within its walls. 

On the other hand, proponents (or reluctant practitioners) of facadism see the practice as a pragmatic compromise. They note that, in cases where the rest of a building is structurally unsound, heavily altered or cannot feasibly meet modern building codes, saving the front face at least preserves a piece of the streetscape’s character. 

Most heritage professionals agree that facadism shouldn’t be the first choice for conservation. The national Standards and Guidelines for the Conservation of Historic Places in Canada emphasizes retaining as much of the authentic material and spatial configuration as possible; city policies often echo this. Vancouver, for example, embeds the principle that facade-only preservation is a strategy of last resort — something to consider after sincere efforts to find solutions for a more substantial retention of the building. 

Yet, it still occurs, even under these guidelines, due to engineering challenges, seismic upgrading issues, unexpected structural deterioration or the ever-present factor of cost and profitability. High land values and zoning that favour greater density can create strong incentives to build bigger and taller on a site than a small heritage structure would allow. In those cases, developers may argue that keeping just the facade is the only viable way to honour the past while meeting present needs. 

The Environmental Stakes

Beyond the visual and cultural arguments, there’s an urgent practical reason to move away from the “demolish and build new” mindset: climate change. Both the construction and operation of buildings can have a massive environmental footprint. For decades, green building efforts focused on operational efficiency — things like better insulation, more efficient heating and cooling, and solar panels to reduce energy consumption. But today, experts recognize that embodied carbon — the carbon emissions associated with producing building materials and constructing buildings — is a critical part of the equation. 

When a historic building is demolished, all the energy and carbon that were expended to create it are essentially thrown away, and the process of constructing a new building in its place releases a huge new pulse of carbon into the atmosphere. 

According to a landmark study by Preservation Green Lab, “it takes between 10 to 80 years for a new building that is 30 per cent more efficient than an average-performing existing building to overcome … the negative climate change impacts related to the construction process.” In other words, even if you tear down an old building and replace it with a state-of-the-art green building, the carbon debt you incur from demolition and new construction can take generations to repay. 

We simply don’t have that kind of time, given urgent climate targets. It’s broadly recognized among climate scientists and architects that reusing and upgrading our existing buildings is one of the quickest ways to cut carbon emissions. This insight is often summarized by the adage “the greenest building is the one that already exists.” 

How big a deal is embodied carbon? A recent World Economic Forum report points out that repurposing an existing building typically emits 50 to 75 per cent less CO₂ than constructing a new one of similar size. That aligns with other studies showing huge carbon savings from retrofit versus rebuild. Additionally, the United Nations Environment Programme has noted that the extraction and manufacturing of building materials (like cement, steel and glass) has been the fastest-growing source of global carbon emissions in the past 15 years. These extractive industries — mining ores, producing concrete, logging timber and so on — not only account for roughly half of the world’s carbon emissions but also 90 per cent of biodiversity loss worldwide. Every time we choose to redevelop with all-new materials, we contribute to that environmental degradation. Reusing an existing structure means fewer new materials are needed, which helps curb resource extraction and the associated emissions. 

Demolition isn’t just a climate problem — it’s a waste problem. Globally, construction and demolition waste is estimated to make up about 30 per cent of all solid waste generation. In Canada, construction, renovation and demolition waste accounts for approximately 35 per cent of landfill content countrywide. In short, more than a third of what we bury in landfills comes from tearing down and rebuilding our structures. 

And much of it isn’t innocuous rubble — it can include materials that are energy-intensive to produce and could be reused or recycled. Heritage BC reports that demolitions produce 20 to 30 times more waste material per square metre than either renovating or building new on a cleared site. Plus, a significant portion of demolition waste is potentially salvageable; studies indicate that, by using careful deconstruction and reuse strategies, up to 90 per cent of materials from some buildings can be salvaged or diverted from landfills. Currently, more than 75 per cent of global construction waste ends up in dumpsites — a number expected to reach 2.2 billion tonnes annually in the coming years. 

Choosing adaptive reuse over demolition dramatically cuts down on this waste. Take, for example, the ongoing rehabilitation of the John Street Roundhouse in Toronto, built in 1929 to service passenger trains using nearby Union Station. Rather than demolish and rebuild, careful restoration and repurposing have diverted substantial construction waste from landfills and preserved embodied carbon locked into the heavy timber, brick and limestone structure. Refurbishing rather than demolishing would reduce the national waste stream by at least six per cent, according to Heritage BC — a not-insignificant environmental relief. It would also preserve precious materials; the National Trust for Canada notes that, each year, we throw away enormous quantities of old-growth timber and other high-quality materials because of unnecessary demolitions. Reuse truly is a form of resource conservation.

Energy Efficiency Versus “Upfront” Emissions

Some might wonder: If an old building is drafty and energy-inefficient, isn’t it greener to replace it with a super-efficient new one? 

It’s true that older structures often need retrofits such as insulation to improve their operational energy use, and doing so is an important part of climate action. But that doesn’t mean razing the building. The smartest climate strategy is usually to retrofit and reuse. The 2018 report Better Buildings for a Low-Carbon Future (House of Commons environment committee) emphasizes tracking and reducing embodied carbon as a key to reaching our climate goals. Essentially, to meet targets like Canada’s commitment under the Paris Agreement, we must reduce both operational and embodied emissions. If we only focus on making new buildings operationally efficient while continuing a cycle of disposable buildings, we miss half of the problem. The upfront carbon spike of new construction can negate decades of incremental efficiency gains. 

By contrast, upgrading existing buildings can yield a double win: significantly lower upfront carbon and improved operational performance. Many traditional buildings have sustainable features built in — thick masonry walls that regulate temperature, operable windows for ventilation, durable materials that have lasted a century. With thoughtful retrofits such as sealing leaks and installing efficient lighting and HVAC, older structures can often approach the performance of new builds, especially when you consider the wholelife carbon footprint. And as a bonus, keeping an old building in use avoids the environmental damage from manufacturing new materials. 

In short, from a sustainability standpoint, the math is heavily in favour of conservation and adaptive reuse. As the National Trust for Canada argues, accelerating building reuse is an essential climate action for our country — not just a quaint nod to history. 

Breathing New Life Into Heritage 

Adaptive reuse means taking an old building and repurposing it for a new use — often quite different from what it was originally designed for — while retaining its heritage character. Instead of treating historic structures as obstacles to progress, adaptive reuse sees them as assets to be creatively integrated into our evolving cities. This approach can preserve not just the facade but also much or all of the original building fabric, celebrating its history even as it gains a new life and purpose. 

It’s also essentially a form of urban recycling: It taps into the value of existing assets instead of discarding them. The World Economic Forum notes that, in an era of rising climate risks and resource constraints, cities are turning to adaptive reuse as a powerful strategy to cut emissions and waste, and to embrace a circular economy model in the built environment. When paired with sustainability upgrades (retrofitting an old building with solar panels, for example), adaptive reuse can dramatically shrink a building’s carbon footprint while also avoiding the hefty emissions of new construction. 

It can also save money. With construction costs rising, a growing number of developers find that retrofitting can be 12 to 15 per cent cheaper than building new by avoiding expenses associated with demolition, site preparation and all-new materials. 

Perhaps the greatest payoff of adaptive reuse is that it keeps the spirit of a place alive. A reused heritage building isn’t a dead relic; it becomes a living part of the community again. This has intangible but profound benefits. Studies and experience have shown that heritage conservation contributes to community identity, stability and pride. When people can encounter historic buildings as parts of daily life — as their library, their market, their apartment building or office — it creates a link to the past that enriches the present. The stories embedded in the brick and beam remain part of the community’s ongoing story. As one planner put it, it gives people a “sense of permanence and place” amid urban flux. 

Far from being obstacles to progress, old buildings often become the centrepiece of revitalization. Aged industrial districts, warehouses, churches and schools have been successfully transformed into hubs of activity — incubators for arts, culture, small businesses and community events. Globally celebrated examples illustrate this: a disused elevated rail line in Manhattan turned into the High Line Park; a derelict power station in London became the Tate Modern art museum; and in Toronto, the historic Gooderham and Worts distillery was transformed into the Distillery Historic District, a lively pedestrian village of cafes, studios, theatres and shops. 

These projects preserve the fabric of their cities while catalyzing local economies — spurring job creation, tourism and cultural spaces — and promoting well-being. Adaptive reuse often brings unique character-rich spaces that attract people and investment. From the perspective of urban development, it’s a way to differentiate a city with authentic places rather than cookiecutter new builds. 

Crucially, adaptive reuse can also address practical needs like housing and community services. Many cities are now looking at the stock of underutilized older buildings (including office towers left half-empty by remote work) as opportunities to create affordable housing or community hubs through conversion. Repurposing vacant structures can help us tackle such problems as lack of housing, the need for child-care and health-care facilities or the desire for more cultural venues — all without starting from scratch. 

Community Needs

Why preserve historic buildings? If the aim is just to prevent a city from looking like anywhere in North America — to keep a quaint facade here and a pretty frontage there as a visual reminder of the past — then facadism might seem acceptable. But the goal is perhaps deeper: to maintain a physical connection between the community and its past; to retain the human scale and craftsmanship of earlier eras; and to ensure that historic places continue to contribute to our communal life. A dead facade, like a taxidermied trophy, does little to meet those goals. What communities need are historic spaces brought back to life — places where the past and present coexist and enrich each other. 

Too often, historic preservation is misconstrued as turning old buildings into museums — freezing them in time with velvet ropes, to be admired but not touched or used. While museums and designated monuments certainly have their place for precious landmarks, most heritage buildings don’t need to be ossified this way. In fact, communities thrive more when heritage is integrated into everyday life rather than cordoned off. A former factory that becomes a startup incubator (or a century-old firehall turned into a neighbourhood pub) will likely engage far more people than if that structure was only presented as an exhibit of itself. Reuse doesn’t erase history, it layers new stories onto the old and invites people to experience heritage in a living, participatory manner. It’s the difference between reading about a building on a plaque versus walking through its doors and making memories there. 

When historic buildings are reused for community-benefitting purposes — like affordable housing, community centres, libraries, schools — it democratizes heritage. The sites remain in the public realm of experience, not just as elite condominiums with a historic veneer or as exclusive museums. This aligns with what the World Economic Forum observes: adaptive reuse can help address urban social needs by creating “affordable housing and essential community services,” and by “cultivating vibrant places … rooted in local identity” that empower communities. In other words, a city’s heritage should be a shared asset, not a token facade hiding a private luxury tower, nor a locked-up artifact only opened on occasion. 

Ethical heritage preservation is about use with integrity. It’s not preservation versus development, but preservation as a foundation for sustainable and human-centred development. A building can honour its past and still have a bold new function. The key is thoughtful design and respect. Communities across Canada are voicing that they want their heritage buildings not standing as hollow backdrops but active and useful. This public sentiment can be seen in everything from local protests when a beloved old building is threatened to the enthusiasm for projects that give an old landmark a new lease on life. People feel a sense of ownership and pride in these places. They can point to a revitalized old theatre or train station and say, “That used to be abandoned, and now look — it’s full of energy again.” Such outcomes build civic pride and continuity. 

In contrast, a facade that’s grafted onto an unrelated new structure can sometimes feel like a cynical gesture — as if the soul of the place was sacrificed and only a mask remains. That tends not to evoke pride so much as a kind of bittersweet reminder of what was lost. The word “facadism” itself often comes with a negative connotation in popular discourse now precisely because people sense the hollowness it implies. A community might accept a facade-only preservation as better than nothing, but it’s rarely celebrated. 

As Donald Luxton warned about Vancouver’s trend: “Do we want to become a city full of heritage tokens with little meaning?” The implied answer is no — we want real heritage, richly integrated with real meaning.