The time and the right to ask questions

CG: Architects have big responsibilities, not only towards the buildings they design, but also towards other human beings they share a territory with, and for whom they provide shelter. Our discipline raises questions that are highly political – etymologically understood as the organisation of the Cité – and this is how we approach our practice, in its political dimension. That is why the office established a research department from the very beginning, to take the time and make the effort to ask ourselves questions. Initially, it was run by in-house architects - the current team has around a dozen collaborators – then later by academic researchers. There are usually few projects when you first set up an architecture company, which leaves you time to think. For us, the key question was: how do we live together? How do we cohabitate? We’re 8 billion on this planet, right? A world with a lot of people, significant inequalities, and a finite amount of land we can actually live in. We have to share, even more as the nuclear family model is coming to an end, and that more people than ever are living alone. We need to reshape our relationships. That’s political.

These societal questions weren’t even “ours”. We kept receiving briefs, but they never questioned anything. For example: what does it mean to be a nomad, to arrive in a new country with just a suitcase and need a home—not a hotel room, but a home? Or what does it mean to live between two homes after a divorce? Or to be a single parent in a home? We don’t have all the answers—we’re not social workers or psychologists—but maybe architecture has something to do with it, as it contributes to shaping everyday life. We need to understand a wide range of needs and see how this challenges the material organisation of space, so we have to act a bit like journalists or reporters. We are first adopting an observational approach, using the architect’s graphic tools as a means of investigation.

Questions bring more questions

CG: Back to practice, this led us to question the choice of materials. Most of us learned to draw in concrete schools, and almost everything we learned was made in concrete. Ten years ago, concerned about the environmental impact of the construction industry, we wondered how to improve living conditions through the choice of materials: what if we built differently? What are the more sustainable options? It is also an opportunity to explore different aesthetic possibilities, but we don’t have any preconceived ideas or signature styles. We examine each issue on a case-by-case basis, keeping in mind that every line we draw has a physical reality, since it implies a material movement that is yet to come.

For us, architectural design is always about creating a roof for human beings. There’s a purpose, and to answer it properly, we try to understand users' needs from their own perspective —not just say, “I feel like drawing this.” This is how we have developed our role between observation and practice. We had to invent it. We needed to find projects—or rather, create them. For the research, for example, we created the subjects. No one asked us. We said: “If architects need to practise this way, then we need to create this space ourselves.” And it wasn’t common, especially a few years ago. Later, we were sometimes called not just because we had built something, but for our expertise regarding specific topics, following our research activities. For example, we were approached to work on a housing project for older people following the publication of the Going Gray study in 2022, in which we analysed ten collaborative housing projects in France, designed and occupied by retired people.

Together alone

CG: Despite the diversity of needs and expectations emerging within society, our clients still come with the same brief: one master bedroom for the parents, two smaller rooms for the kids—like the traditional family. Sure, that still exists. But it accounts for only about 50% of households. We also have a growing ageing population. And no one wants to die in a hospital; everyone wants to remain at home for the final stage of their life. So we asked ourselves: can we, as architects, do something? Can we create housing where people can live until they are very ill? We didn’t know. So, we asked. We went around France, visiting ten different places, and asked: “So, you built a house for a few elderly people—and you did it yourselves?”

This is what became the Going Gray research project – or Coup de Vieux in French – initially presented as an exhibition at the Pavillon de l'Arsenal. We found out that these people don’t necessarily want to live in the countryside—they want to stay in towns or cities. They love being together, but they still want their own flats. They also need a lot of rooms for activities. Many people in France live in small homes, and now when they move into this kind of shared dwelling, they look for space—for gardening, or social interaction. One person told me: “I used my son’s old room for painting, and now I’m told I’ll be in a small flat—where will I do my hobbies?” I love working on the relationship between private and shared spaces. It’s one of our main focuses. Later on, we were able to rely on the lessons from this study to design an ideal collective dwelling as part of a government pilot project.

Making it work

CG: Right now, we are working on a wide range of buildings, both old and new, using many different materials and construction techniques—stone, wood, straw, hemp, and others. It brings new challenges. That’s also why we take on these kinds of projects—because we can make an impact on the construction industry. For example, in the city of Amiens, we’re building a school with a wooden structure and straw insulation. The budget is tight, but the ambition is high—they’re committed to decarbonisation and sustainable construction. We see our role as finding solutions, pushing boundaries, and experimenting with new techniques and materials. By doing this, we’re contributing to innovation. And hopefully, as these methods become more common, as we help improve their implementation, their costs will come down—in modest part thanks to our contribution.

And I want to figure out how to do things with little money. Because right now, there just isn’t much. So we have to make choices in each architectural project—like, where do we put the money? I think that’s one of the biggest challenges for the next decade. There are a lot of towns in France right now that have no money. They’re bankrupt. So when—like I was saying—our job is to answer, and they ask a question like, “We need a new school, because we have new inhabitants in this area. But we don’t have money.” So, how does an architect do that? It can feel like being a magician.

Heritage without glory

CG: Our practice is, at its core, human—and relational. I hesitate to overuse the word care, since it has become something of a buzzword. But for us, care means paying attention to how people live and work, to the planet, to buildings, and to the details. Take our project Pong—a conversion of a 1969 office building into 8 coliving units, offices, and a public facility. The project took five years, and there was a huge debate about it: should we keep the building or demolish it? For us, caring for a building is as meaningful as caring for a forest. The building is already here. It exists. So let’s find a way to live with it. This is why transformation is becoming more and more of a focus for us. It also presents an exciting opportunity to rethink design processes and spaces.