Sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone alive who’s actually seen the Stanford campus. Several people have, of course, seen part of the campus. But the whole thing? I’m not even sure it’s possible.

The reason for this viewing difficulty is not the immense size of the Farm, but rather the ongoing Borgification (that’s homogenization for the culturally illiterate) that renders vast swathes of our surroundings hidden behind a hanging curtain of perpetual construction.

Naively, one might think all this building of buildings is a good thing. The onward march to Bigger, Better and more Buxom (okay, I’m taking liberties with the latter — but I live in hope) is surely a sign of progress.

I’m told the Toyota company motto expresses a sentiment of continual revision, change and advancement. Evidently, many at the University think the same way; I guess these folks are incapable of walking past a pretty building without wondering what it would be like if one knocked it down and replaced it with something ugly.

Now, all the best authoritarians had their artists and architects — from the Medicis and Michelangelo to Adolf Hitler and Albert Speer to Ayn Rand and Howard Roark. Why shouldn’t Leland Stanford Jr. be the same?

I was tempted to assign the role of Michelangelo/Speer/Roarke to one of our illustrious donors (maybe an Arrillaga, a Hewlett, a Packard or a faceless tech-funded foundation), but somehow that doesn’t really fit.

No, instead the part of the architect is played by a shadowy figure whose name remains unknown, but whose aesthetic (or lack thereof) is being carved (well, actually assembled from pre-fabricated wall panels) into our university for a presumable eternity.

Large tracts of London were devastated in its eponymous “Great Fire Of” and many sites were rebuilt under the direction of a single man: Sir Christopher Wren. As result, wandering through parts of the City is an experience dotted with deja vu. It’s also quite pleasant; the unifying elements blend with their surroundings: accenting, highlighting and generally showcasing the brilliance of both the city and the man.

Presumably the unnamed fellow responsible for the Stanford rejuvenation after the Great Influx of Alumni Money has a similar idea. Each of the (many) new buildings being put up is part of a unifying scheme. Sadly, neither the talent nor the design is quite up to scratch.

The repeated motifs are certainly distinctive, though. There’s the uncanny resemblance each building has to an enlarged port-a-potty — you know, a box with ever-so slightly rounded features tacked on in a desperate attempt to escape the dreary lack of functional features.

Speaking of toilets, the bathrooms all have the same fixtures — including the amazing paper towel trashcan, carefully designed to be completely incapable of holding paper towels.

Then, of course, there are the unreasonably high ceilings, long corridors and uniform gray color scheme. Incidentally, by long corridors, I mean “Green Mile” long — complete with genuine prison feel (institutional gray says “death is imminent” like nothing else) and morbid fear.

While on the subject of prison, we mustn’t forget the doors. Until the day I die, I will never forget the sound of a new Stanford door closing. Thwuck, click, pop, topped off with a gentle thud. It gives me shivers just thinking about the brushed aluminum, rounded handles (sharp edges = bad) arranged in rows and receding into eternity.

Now that I think about it, I guess there is an overarching design principle here. It’s sort of like elementary school architecture. First, take some boxes and assemble into a shape (that’s the kindergarten step). Then round all the edges. After, paint it gray. Finally, collect a gold star and a contract to repeat the process again and again and again.

Uglification is certainly bucking the urban planning zeitgeist, but maybe there’s some advantage in standing out from the crowd. I mean, if you were in charge of Stanford’s development and commissioned something as ugly as the GCC, presumably the only way to cover up the error is to hail it as a success and keep building in the same vein.

There is, as always, a slim chance that I’m mistaken. In 200 years from now, perhaps Stanford will be hailed as an architectural gem, a masterpiece designed by a master before his time. Or not.

No gender bias should be read into my assignment of masculinity to the anonymous architect — I would hold a female equivalent in just as much contempt. I am most definitely not available at navins@stanford.edu. P.S. I stole this idea from David Starr.