Imagine you’re driving through Florida and spot a giant orange on the side of the road. It’s Orange World, an orange shop shaped like a massive orange. Orange World doesn’t try to be understated or sophisticated; it’s loud, unapologetic, and a little absurd. But it’s also refreshingly straightforward. It’s a roadside attraction and fruit stand, and it wants you to know that you’re here for something fruity, vibrant, and quintessentially Floridian. In an age where buildings are designed to either fade into the background or communicate their ethos with understated elegance, the giant orange stands out as an odd but endearing monument to a time when commercialism wore its intentions right on its sleeve.

Novelty architecture—structures shaped like the things they sell or the experiences they provide—emerged as a distinct architectural trend in the early 20th century, flourishing particularly during the mid-century period when American car culture took off (yes, the same Mid Century you're obsessed with today). The idea was simple: build something impossible to miss. As automobiles became more common and highways expanded, businesses needed a way to grab the attention of passing drivers. The solution? Buildings that doubled as advertisements, designed to be as visually striking and unmistakable as possible. This approach bridged the gap between marketing and architecture, creating functional spaces that also served as larger-than-life billboards.

A recent cultural nod to this type of novelty architecture can be seen extensively in the 2017 film The Florida Project, which is a proper movie, but the filming locations are the kitschiest of the kitsch. A castle-shaped motel painted in gaudy purple, Orange World itself, a gift shop in the shape of a giant wizard, and the Twistee Treat—a literal ice cream cone—are relics of a time when roadside attractions sought to entice families on road trips. The film uses these settings to explore themes of innocence, economic struggle, and the contrast between fantasy and reality. These structures weren’t just practical—they were a celebration of consumer culture and an embrace of the whimsical, a declaration that everyday experiences like eating a hamburger or staying in a motel could be, quite literally, monumental.

American Excess

In the U.S., novelty architecture reached its peak after World War II, when economic prosperity and the boom in car culture fundamentally reshaped the landscape. The rise of the American highway system meant that businesses needed ways to stand out to passing motorists. Novelty architecture offered an effective solution—functional and incredibly eye-catching. Buildings like The Wigwam Motels—a series of teepee-shaped motels in Arizona, Kentucky, and California—sprang up across the country. These structures are kitschy to the point of almost being uncomfortable. There's a certain cultural cringe here, as their Native American-inspired structures awkwardly attempt to reflect a slice of "Americana." Yet, despite their problematic representation, they’ve become an undeniable part of U.S. architectural history—a reflection of the post-war American drive to offer travelers something novel and distinct.

The Big Duck in Flanders, New York, is another quintessential example of this era. This giant duck-shaped building is as literal as it gets: it was built by a duck farmer who wanted to sell ducks, and in the process, it became an icon. The Big Duck has transcended its purpose to become a piece of folk art, a reminder that some buildings don’t need to be sleek or subtle to be significant. It’s even a point of pride for New Yorkers who see it as an important cultural relic rather than an eyesore. Sometimes, the simplest idea can become the most beloved.

The post-war period also saw a shift in cultural values. There was optimism and a belief in the promise of progress, reflected in the embrace of bold, colorful, and imaginative designs. Novelty architecture was a celebration of individuality and consumer culture—a playful statement that businesses could offer more than just goods and services; they could provide an experience. These buildings were often family-owned, quirky establishments, reflecting the personalities of their owners and becoming beloved landmarks in their communities.

The Hamburger, the Boat, and the Sombrero

In Monterrey, Mexico, novelty architecture has made its mark with several iconic buildings that embody the playful and literal spirit of kitsch. One such example is the Burger Army building, shaped like a massive hamburger. It was impossible to drive past without cracking a smile or feeling a twinge of curiosity. This hamburger-shaped building was more than just a gimmick; it was a declaration that what you see is what you get—a casual, fun place to grab a bite. There’s no attempt to veil its identity behind minimalist lines or sleek facades. It’s loud, it’s proud, and it’s deliciously honest. In this case, Burger Army gave way to a modern building with a fake plant wall the size of a building—ridiculous and kitsch in the worst way possible.

Not far from the Burger Army was Barco Regiomontano, another piece of Monterrey’s quirky architectural heritage. Designed to look like an enormous boat, this structure housed a seafood restaurant, making it a perfect match between form and function. The boat building is reminiscent of seaside novelty architecture, transporting visitors into an imaginative seafaring experience right in the heart of the city. The oversized portholes and the ship-like exterior invited diners to step aboard and indulge in a maritime-themed dining adventure, bringing a sense of playfulness to what could otherwise be an ordinary meal.

Another emblem of Monterrey’s dedication to kitsch is the restaurant El Charro, a building shaped like a giant traditional Mexican sombrero. This building boldly leans into Mexican cultural iconography, blending traditional elements with a flair for the absurd. The sombrero-shaped roof stands as a vivid reminder of the joy that comes from embracing one’s culture with humor and flair. Sure, it offers a shit dining experience and service, but it is unapologetically rooted in Mexican tradition, and it also knows not to take itself too seriously.

The Lost Art of Literalism

Novelty architecture doesn’t just tell you what it is—it insists on it. The Mushroom House in Perinton, New York, designed to look like a cluster of mushrooms, invites people to live within a fantasy landscape—a hobbit-like experience for anyone daring enough to make it their home. #goblincore galore. The building’s purpose isn’t as obvious as, say, a hamburger-shaped restaurant, but its form communicates a sense of wonder and playfulness that’s increasingly rare in residential architecture. Instead of aiming to blend in with the environment or boast cutting-edge technology, the Mushroom House simply offers a unique experience—a kind of storybook escape.

Compare this to today’s minimalist architecture, which often aims to communicate value through understatement and blends in so effectively that one building becomes indistinguishable from the next. If you’ve ever walked through a modern shopping district where each store competes to look aesthetic on TikTok, you know the feeling: buildings that look like they’re trying not to stand out. This creates an irony—the quest for “authentic” design often ends up producing a lack of personality.

In contrast, novelty architecture doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It's not trying to be better than you, but to be honest, maybe it is—at least these places are original. Charmingly blunt in a way that no brand designer or minimalist architect could ever pull off. The very definition of authenticity because it isn’t trying to be authentic; it just is.

Preserving the Playfulness

So, should we preserve these bizarre relics of roadside kitsch and literalism? Absolutely. These buildings aren’t just fun—they’re statements. They reject the polished aesthetics and multi-functional facades that dominate modern design in favor of a raw, playful form of commercialism. They’re not trying to be timeless or tasteful; they’re trying to be clear, memorable, and maybe a little silly. And in a time where almost everything is styled to be self-serious or understated, low-key, minimal, they remind us that architecture can have a sense of humor too.

Imagine a world without these gems. It’s a world that loses a part of its cultural color—a world where architecture serves only to blend, not to delight. The magic of novelty architecture is that it doesn’t let us walk by without noticing. It interrupts our daily lives with a bit of surreal fun, and in doing so, it becomes more than a gimmick. It becomes a landmark, a story, an experience. Kids love these places and remember them forever.

Novelty architecture challenges us to see buildings as more than functional objects or backdrops. They’re not just places to eat, sleep, or work; they’re places that provoke, entertain, and occasionally make us laugh. Maybe, in the end, that’s what good architecture should do. Because if a giant duck, a big shoe, or a mushroom house can still make us pause—even in our fast-paced, hyper-curated world—then they’ve earned their place on the skyline.