A practice with local impacts

GG: One of the main reasons behind the recent boom of emerging practices in Switzerland is certainly the architectural culture here and the quality of education—not only at ETH, EPFL, and Mendrisio, but also in how it is now grounded in studios like ours. There is a strong tradition of apprenticeship—covering drawing, house building, and design. Many architects today are taking the step of starting their own offices, something I’ve seen grow significantly over the past years. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why this is happening, but it feels like a positive development—a broad diversification and increasing specialisation among architects.

RC: The education system in Switzerland is very strong—diverse, high quality. That probably gives us the opportunity and freedom to choose our own path. Maybe we also look at the world and see that things aren’t going so well—the economy, for instance—and running your own practice becomes a way to contribute something, even if it's small. That feels meaningful.

GG: If I think about our specific region, the Swiss canton of the Grisons, part of it is that we belong to a smaller community with our own language, Romansh. This is a peripheral area of Switzerland, with smaller offices, which might not seem significant at first, but can still have a real impact. Here, we have the chance to proceed step by step, following a different rhythm compared to big cities like Zurich, and to rethink things on our own rather than being overly influenced by trends or external expectations. For instance, we often ask ourselves: How can we translate tradition, or architectural phenomena, into something new? Something new in a way that is meaningful for both the people and the place. Our projects also tend to be smaller in scale—so even a modest house can have a disproportionately large impact. The scale amplifies its relevance, and that’s something we see as a real strength. We aim to work small, step by step, and remain flexible. It’s a combination of the place and the human scale.

RC: And connected to what Gino just mentioned, here we have excellent craftsmanship. We know the people—we work closely with them. There’s a wide ecosystem of highly skilled craftspeople here, and we involve them directly in our work.

GG: I think there’s some resistance here to new or experimental ideas—maybe just a little—but it’s something we’re aware of. That’s also why we feel lucky to have our roots here. People know us, and there’s a certain level of trust. That helps open doors—people are more willing to listen, even if only once, to what we propose. For us, that’s a real advantage. But for outsiders trying to do something here, it can be more difficult; it’s harder for them to connect with the community.

RC: Many young people are returning to the region. Still, there’s a lack of spaces and activities. The villages around Ilanz aren’t very well-connected, and not everyone can easily reach Chur or beyond—this is part of the reality.

GG: Exactly. And it’s not just architects who are returning. Some are dentists, others climbers—like a friend who lived in Bern and knew all the bouldering spots. With people like him, we found opportunities to build something together, such as a project for a climbing room in Lumnezia. These individuals, like us, who are from here but have also studied or worked in other cities, are coming back and often becoming our clients. 

When place inspired

GG: The name of our practice, sumcrap., is inspired by a place in the mountains here in Grisons. We weren’t initially aware of its meaning in English, but when people started saying it aloud, I realised it sounds like a slang word for “nonsense” or “crap”—and thought, OK, maybe it fits somehow. Our work is serious, and sumcrap. reflects an approach focused on authentic spatial experiences and meaningful human connections. 

We use local and natural materials, and our references are mostly cultural or traditional—rooted in the region. We aim to create architecture that is in harmony with the place, the context, and the people who live there. At the same time, we’re not afraid of friction. We engage with people and show what we believe in. Creating good architecture doesn’t have to be a perfectly smooth process—without some back-and-forth, you don’t reach the best solutions. We challenge expectations and try to translate tradition into something relevant for today—for how people want to live now, especially the younger generation. That’s the inspiration behind the name: it reflects the landscape, translated into our architecture.

Balancing influence

GG: Our practice also brings together two different backgrounds. I studied at ETH in Zurich and returned to work locally, spending a year working closely with craftspeople. Later, I joined Conradin Clavuot’s office in Chur, which is where I met Romano. We collaborated on various projects for two or three years and participated in many competitions.

RC: I was trained as a carpenter and then pursued further education. After working with Gino at Conradin Clavuot’s office, I gained further experience in Solothurn and Chur, where I was able to deepen my skills in design. In 2021, I joined sumcrap. 

GG: This dual profile—me trained as an architect, Romano from applied sciences—is our strength. Thanks to his carpentry background—four years of hands-on experience with wood, furniture, and building interiors—he notices things on site. If someone isn’t using a tool correctly, or if a task isn’t done properly, he spots it right away. This is a huge advantage when working with craftspeople. Every architect should have some of these skills; I do too, but not at his level.

RC: And the other way around, I benefit a lot from Gino as well. Gino quickly recognises the quality of a building or object and has a strong sense for the overall vision of a project.We both work across all phases of a project, which allows us to engage fully—from conception to detailing. Our process evolves through continuous dialogue, spanning every stage from design to construction.

GG: Especially in detailing. When we sketch an idea, Romano pushes us with the question, “How will this actually work?” That helps us catch issues early—not just when we’re already on the building site, wondering how to solve a major problem. So the process is already shaped by construction knowledge. 

RC: We influence each other—me from the technical side, Gino from the conceptual side. That’s how we work.

A place to think and experiment

GG: In terms of inspiration—where ideas come from and how we keep learning—we’ve created something called Brimborium, now available on our website. It’s a space to collect thoughts and topics, almost like our own in-house school. Sometimes we choose a subject and discuss it together; it might come from a trip, a detail we noticed somewhere, or even something completely random. It keeps our process alive, even though we’re not formally teaching at the moment, we still want to engage deeply, so we do it internally.

RC: Brimborium is also a way to show the process behind a project—not just the finished, polished result. It reflects the reality of how we work and think.

GG: It is about letting those ideas flow, seeing where they go, and using them to shape our practice. It represents, in a way, our working method, but maybe more the formal side of it: the steps we set up, the topics we want to explore, and what should be reflected in the final result. Not everything, of course—but they act like guiding principles. In Brimborium, you can find many of the themes we often explore in our practice: craftsmanship, an appreciation for detail and the beauty found in small things, a strong connection to nature, and, more broadly, issues like sustainability, the materials we use, and being mindful of resources.

A mountain chalet

GG: Tegia da Cuolm is a project for a chalet. In Romansh, the name refers to a small hut or shelter high up in the mountains. This project is particularly interesting for its approach to materials. The wooden structure was newly built, but the timber itself came from another house. It had been carefully disassembled and reemployed here. The original joints and connections were still in place, so we had to select the right pieces of wood to reassemble them in line with the architectural design we were developing. In that sense, the project is really about giving existing materials a second life. 

We also wanted to continue a traditional approach in the way the wood was assembled: the original method of joining timber elements was brought back. Some adjustments were necessary, of course, because our proposal included larger windows on the front façade. Traditionally, there wouldn’t have been openings of that size, so we had to rethink certain joints and structures to accommodate the new design. This touches on a broader discussion in the region: Should traditional buildings always retain their façade configuration with small windows? Small windows are typical in mountain areas due to the difficult climate. Today, however, large windows are technically feasible, which was not the case years ago. Often, small windows are now just stylistic references rather than necessities. We wanted to reinterpret this tradition. On one side of the building, we introduced larger windows deliberately—so you can see how the material continues from exterior to interior. This transition was important to us: it makes the house feel as if it grows naturally out of the mountain landscape. Inside, the experience is equally powerful: you feel under the weight of the stone walls of the Sardona region, with gems and ibexes climbing around above you.

RC: The project was completed in 2025, just before winter, allowing the client to move in for the season. There are still a few details we are refining this year—small adjustments that reflect the careful, patient approach we believe each project should follow. The site sits at 1,700 metres above sea level, with limited access. Some materials had to be flown in by helicopter, as not everything can be driven up. Long winters also slow construction. This is very much a slow, patient project, in line with our practice’s philosophy that each project should follow its natural rhythm.

Furniture for climbing

GG: Another interesting project is called LOCAL. We started it on our own after noticing the need for a climbing and bouldering wall in the area. At the moment, if you want to climb indoors, you have to drive to Chur or Landquart—about 45 minutes away. Our idea was to create a space locally—not only for convenience, but also to support climbing as part of the alpine culture here. Many people are active climbers, but to train at a high level, especially for bouldering, you need to practice at least three or four times a week. With such long travel times, that becomes difficult. So we decided to launch the project ourselves. 

We approached the municipality to ask if they had a space we could use, and they offered us one free of charge, which made the project possible. In this region, there are many unused school buildings—classrooms and gyms—just sitting empty. We saw this as an opportunity. Our aim was not just to build a single climbing wall, but to create a prototype: a modular structure that could also be replicated in other unused school buildings across the region. Something low-tech and flexible. 

The school was no longer in use; at one point it had even hosted a small supermarket, which eventually closed because it became unaffordable. Today, the bouldering wall is installed in what used to be the school gym. The challenge was that in our village—and throughout the valley—there is a regulation that school gyms cannot be permanently altered, since they remain classified as public-use spaces, even when empty. The idea is to keep them flexible, available for any kind of event or activity. Our solution was to design the bouldering wall as a large piece of furniture. It is completely freestanding and can be removed or disassembled at any time, which was key to getting approval. The modules are quite small—about 60 x 60 cm—made of plywood and simple materials. We built everything ourselves, assembled it, mounted the climbing holds, and were involved in every step from design to execution. For now, it’s just one wall—but we’re glad it exists, and we hope it’s only the beginning.

Pushing tradition further

RC: We are now finalising a project for a colleague—his surname is Casanova, which in Romansh also means “new house.” It’s in a nearby village, and it’s a friend of ours who’s building it. He works for a company that produces Valser stone, and we’re using that stone for the roof, which is a particular feature of the construction.

GG: The wooden structure is built traditionally, with a stone roof that also gives the house its weight. Each 20 centimetres of wood actually shrinks by around three millimetres, so you need that weight to stabilise it. We were lucky that he works at the Truffer AG stone company, because it allowed us to use that material for the roof—maintaining the weight, but also rethinking how it’s assembled. The technique for assembling the wooden beams is based on traditional methods. If you look at old barns, they are made of round wood, and the corners are interlocked, providing all the structural integrity themselves without any additional materials. The length of the wood was determined by how the trees grew, and the upper floors were used to store hay for cows and sheep, with the animals living below in the enclosed part of the building. This is what we call Strickbau. It’s a known technique, revisited and employed by well-known Swiss architects such as Gion Caminada, Conradin Clavuot and Peter Zumthor, each reinterpreting it in their own way. Historically, though, it comes from barns and houses we still find today—some 500 to 600 years old—built entirely with this wooden technique. The way the corners were joined gave strength to the building, and window sizes were determined by the available lengths and structural needs. Every part of the system shrinks over time, so you have to calculate how much the structure will settle to ensure, for example, that windows can still open. Caminada really brought this method into a new light—exploring how to work with it and what to consider. Zumthor interpreted it somewhat differently. He considered the wooden pieces as forming an entire tension wall—almost like building a house of cards—bringing the traditional system into a new structural logic. This took things even further, especially in housing. 

RC: We’ve tried to translate all this into our own architectural language and to give our own input to the house. The project is still ongoing, but now we can see the joints we designed physically taking shape. It really feels like the right house for this place. It’s not about copying a Zumthor or Caminada house—it’s about building the right house in the right context, while drawing inspiration from reference architects who have pushed the limits of local techniques. Our generation takes these references as a starting point, interprets them in its own way, and seeks to push them even further.

GG: There are also many local references from this region. In recent years, they’ve been traditionally building houses. They haven’t really reinterpreted the elements, but instead built as it’s always been done—and that works. In the architectural discourse, they often get criticised, with people saying: “You’re not rethinking anything.” But I think that’s a valid approach too. They’ve looked carefully at how things were done and almost copied them—and that’s not wrong, especially when the context supports it. In fact, there are far more questionable projects than those. And that’s a point we often return to: We don’t always agree with the theoretical stance, for instance, of ETH. There is very good work being done that doesn’t always fit the academic narrative.