Flexible structures, new opportunities

AF: In Switzerland, change happens slowly; it’s a highly stable country where everything is built on the continuity of infrastructure, institutions, and the state. Things move like a locomotive. Perhaps this explains why, after the low point of the late '90s, things started to pick up, and 20 years later, we’re seeing a gradual increase in the number of architects. Previously, larger firms, often well-known, dominated the scene, frequently housing more than one generation of architects. But in the last five years, the landscape has changed. We now have simpler, more flexible structures, mostly collectives—firms with four, five, six, seven, or even twenty partners. Some are project-based collectives or run by individual architects, leading to a much more fluid and flexible role for architects today. Architects now work within diverse networks: some with colleagues they’ve collaborated with since the beginning of their careers, others emerging from academia, or from shared platforms where they meet and connect with new partners. 

As for me, I’m an independent architect working under my own name, but I never do projects alone. I always collaborate. To me, it’s common practice, as architects are increasingly working in ‘clouds’. Take this space, for instance—it started with just three architects, but as people came and went, it evolved into a shared space, a group. Sometimes, we simply share the space; other times, we share projects or references. The structure remains quite horizontal. Right now, for example, I’m working on a project with Simon Durand, collaborating with Matteo Trevisan in Geneva and another colleague in academia. This results in the multiplication of our firms. Where once there might have been one firm with five or ten architects, now there are ten different firms working together. It’s exponential.

A paradigm shift

AF: To start your own practice, you need a project substantial enough to support the establishment of a firm, because creating a firm involves setting money aside and becoming a legal entity, which requires a lot of focus. You have to commit and say, ‘This is my future from now on.’ For people like me, who aren’t from here, this opportunity doesn’t always come easily. We lack the safety net of family, friends, or intergenerational connections who might entrust us with a project. So, to establish ourselves, it’s crucial to share projects and embrace different collaborations. From there, you can build a firm—though it’s not always necessary. It’s perfectly fine to remain independent. Currently, I teach in Geneva, in the university’s history and theory departments, where we often examine the modern movement. In the 50s and 60s, there weren’t as many firms as there were projects with rotating teams of architects. Even highly famous architects would sometimes work solo on a project and, other times, collaborate with various names. I believe this structure is making a return. The super-firms that emerged post-war are now fading. Back then, we needed established businesses to engage with the public sector and make big things happen, and architectural history was creating heroes. Architects began to realise they could inflate their egos, play God. Firms became entire brands, with flashy names and images overtaking substance. But now, we share knowledge. We aren’t afraid to trust others and collaborate. Everyone is responsible for the quality of their own work.

Alexandros Fotakis’s story

AF: Before pursuing architecture, I had already studied and worked as a mechanical engineer for five years, but something was missing, prompting me to rethink my life choices. This led me to architecture—something I had always been aware of but had not pursued until then. At the time, I was living between Holland and the UK, had a good job, and felt content, enjoying a certain social safety net.

I chose Switzerland for several reasons: primarily for its high-quality education, but also because it was a place I didn't know, which meant stepping outside my comfort zone into a completely different culture. I left my job on a Friday, and by Monday, I was in classes. Since then, I have stayed here, only leaving for a couple of years to participate in an Erasmus programme at the ETSAM University of Architecture in Madrid. I extended my stay by an additional year for an internship, which is a requirement for entering a Master's programme in Switzerland. I returned to pursue my Master's and quickly found a position as an architect at Dreier Frenzel. However, I was also considering the possibility of leaving to try my hand as an independent architect. Then, the firm offered me a teaching position in EPFL in Lausanne. It was a great opportunity. It was something I was interested in, and I accepted, landing in the privileged position of a teaching assistant. I say privileged, because, thanks to how academia is structured, this is kind of an in-between position. You don’t always have to have the answers, and you’re really close to the students—you have a personal connection with them. I stayed in academia in the same assistant position, eventually working for Professor Harry Gugger, an important figure in Basal’s architectural scene. I found myself in this in-between world, representing the French-speaking part of Switzerland for a German-speaking professor. I found myself gaining a deeper understanding of the other parts of the country without actually being there. 

After that, Professor Gugger retired, and I spent two more years at Gay Menzel, a firm run by a couple of accomplished architects from the Valais region. During this time, I also worked as a teaching assistant at EPFL, where you take on many responsibilities. Simultaneously, I secured a position at HEPIA, the architecture school in Geneva. There are two polytechnic schools in Switzerland—one in Zurich and another in Lausanne—both of which are federal institutions. HEPIA, on the other hand, is a cantonal school, functioning as a vocational university, or what you might call a university of applied sciences. This institution has a fundamentally different approach to teaching architecture and shaping the role of architects as they graduate. My time at EPFL ended last year, and I was fortunate enough to receive an invitation to a professorship at the Catholic University of Louvain in Belgium. There, I spent the past year overseeing the second-year master’s studio—right before the students embark on their final projects. Leaving Switzerland was essential for me; I wanted to experience how things are done in other places and learn how to implement those practices in different environments.

Now, I’m spending more time at the firm. It's a continuous balance between teaching and practising. Sometimes it’s more teaching, less practising. Now it's the opposite. Maybe, at some point I’ll have to push one side only. But for now, I like this balance. 

Everything is context

AF: The major theme I’ve focused on at EPFL and in Louvain is understanding context. I firmly believe in contextual architecture and view our profession as one of great continuity—something that doesn’t have an end. As architects, we enter into established environments and connect our projects with what already exists around us. Context and narrative are crucial; strong narratives are essential for linking what surrounds us, and we must be able to read the different layers present in a place and make informed selections. This is the beginning of a narrative that, if compelling, can evolve into a meaningful project. v That’s something I worked on a lot with Professor Harry Gugger and Gay Menzel. I think this is why we like to work together: this focus on contextuality. How do you bring it to the surface? Context can be historical, geological, human, cultural—it can be many different things. And a project becomes stronger when it truly connects with all these pre-existing sub-layers. But at the same time, you can’t actually take everything into account. We feel the weight of all this and it’s difficult. You have to make decisions about where you want to get with a project. And if you have a strong narrative at the beginning, it’s strong enough to mutate down the line and uphold the pace of the projects. 

I also think a lot about maintenance, which I know is quite peculiar in the context of architecture. This comes from my background as a maintenance engineer. Maintenance is the moment that one starts perceiving architecture not as static but something as a project that belongs in a broader continuity. This can make architecture very humbling. You are one of many others who came before you, and when you do a project, you know that someone can come after you and do another project there. For instance, when the building next to us was designed in the '80s, the architects likely didn’t anticipate that, 30 or 40 years later, a school would no longer be needed there but that something else might take its place. Therefore, it’s wise to consider what will happen to your building after its completion. However, you create objects that are sincere and open to being adapted and transformed over time.

Points of inspiration 

AF: One big inspiration for me, in general, is the work of Hans Döllgast, the Munich pre-war and post-war architect. He had both the luck and misfortune of being an architect in post-war Germany, which meant that he participated in the reconstruction. He had some work that put him in front of the same questions that I consider. For example, the southern cemetery of Munich was completely bombed out. An important part had been severely damaged, so he had to repair it—but he had little budget, time, and resources. So, he did it in a very sincere way, leveraging great architecture and using the minimum elements necessary. He also built the Alte Pinakothek, which was also destroyed by Allied bombs, and he rebuilt the destroyed parts the way they were, but more simply and directly—always working in continuity. He felt he had to continue things to complete what was damaged. He didn’t work in opposition to what was there, but he didn’t recreate it either.

This is similar to the way the Austrian architect, Hermann Czech, approaches buildings. Sometimes, he just makes small, precise changes, and that’s enough. You don’t need to create a huge project all the time. When you work in maintenance, 80% of your time goes into understanding the context, history, and how something works, and then you repair it. 

Taking the third route

AF: When I think about these concepts, a small project I did with my partner, in Greece comes to mind. A tiny holiday home. When we visited the place and started to understand it, we realised it was a very agricultural environment. But everything is man-made. We felt we could talk about nature as much as we wanted but in a very man-made environment. Everything is terraced. Every square meter of the island is organised to serve the people who live there. We arrived and started working from our understanding of the context—the island, how it works, the valleys, where we were situated. And we got closer and closer to the answer: we couldn’t do something big. Anything bigger than a room would be too big and interrupt the continuity of the place. And, since the space is going to be used mostly in summer, most of the activity would take place outside anyways, so we didn’t actually need to build so much. Instead of a house with a garden, we made a garden with a room. The kitchen is outside; the living room is outside. The closed parts of the structure are limited to what really needs to be climate-controlled at the hottest points of the day—thinking about when people might want to sleep, or how we could keep food from animals. We took a third route.

And it was an interesting project because we weren’t rushed, so we could take the time to learn by doing. The time also gave us the distance to think and rethink the value of each element. And that’s why some things are very clear in the project, like the stone building, which follows the construction principles of the surrounding terraces without trying to be a terrace, simply because it's not a terrace. But it’s also not trying to hide itself underground, implying massive excavation. The building retains its contemporary language while searching for a certain continuity—as if something that has always been there.