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blandly declare, in one of his frequent moments of self-denigration, ''my colleagues and I have built some rather shallow things." To a reporter, he once blurted: "We have built some real dogs!" Yet he confidently sticks to his philosophy; and his buildings have given the public — not to mention a growing band of blissfully contented clients — something it has been hungering for. More important, he seems to have crossed a threshold, or, as he characteristically puts it, "I hope I'm coming to my senses." In his new work, the excesses of decoration are gone; there is a classic discipline about his models, and his emphasis is on structure. But he will continue to occupy his unique place in the public's affection, because his structures still aim to please the eye. He has declared war not only on the glass box that dominates so much new building, but also on the handcraft brutalism of some of the buildings of France's Le Corbusier (TIME cover, May 5, 1961), which have all the force in the world but can also lack compassion. Indeed, nothing tells more about