Adapting to surroundings

MD: Strasbourg has a long-standing tradition of architecture and craftsmanship, shaped by its historical prosperity. In comparison to other regions in France, economic downturns such as the 2008 crisis or the COVID-19 pandemic had a more limited impact in Alsace. As a result, the region has maintained a steady flow of architectural projects.

GD: Compared to other regions, such as Bordeaux or Nantes, this part of France doesn't attract many newcomers from Paris, which helps maintain a sense of economic autonomy and keeps external pressure low. During World War II, it was German before, then French after, so culturally there’s a kind of independence. Sometimes when you talk with Alsatian people, they say they are not French, not German—they are Alsatian. Both of us are not from this part of France; we’re from “France,” so we discovered all this after school. We discovered the cultural specificities of this region and deconstructed everything we learned during our studies. 

For us, there’s a stronger connection with Clermont-Ferrand, a city in central France with a school that has been one of the first to incorporate local context into architectural education. So when we do architecture in Strasbourg, we look at a lot of different offices, not only in France, but we link them all by this aspect of building with local resources such as wood and craftsmanship, and with fewer processed materials, like concrete, steel, or glass. We have to think differently.

MD: We started in 2006 at Strasbourg Architecture School, and the professors didn’t teach how to use different materials. Everything was based on concrete. We talked a bit about forms and touched on context—specifically the site itself, rather than its cultural dimension. For me, my time at school was awful. I only really liked practising architecture after becoming an architect. We graduated in 2010, and before starting our own office, I worked for a year at a medium-scale firm. It wasn’t the right path for me, as the projects were large housing developments, and I didn’t find the scale interesting. After that, I spent five years with LDA architectes. It was there that I really learned what it means to be an architect. When we were students, there was a huge gap between academia and practice. That has changed—students today are much more aware of sustainable ways of thinking.

Seven points of an open manifesto

GD: When we started our practice, we came up with a few guiding principles. They’re not fixed—they form a kind of framework, like a support pole for a growing plant. If we ever want to remove that support, we can.

MD: We wrote these seven points after our first project, La Jetée, where we worked toward those goals. But as Gautier said, things can change in just one or two years.

GD: The first point is L’Art de la Limite—the Art of Limits. After all the 'blah, blah, blah' of architecture school—forms, sculptural explosions—we realised that, in the end, we’re just making a plan. We like architecture as the basic art of limit. Just drawing a square, marking a window with one line. The art of poché, making a strong wall. So the first rule is almost the most important—L’art de la limite.

MD: There’s a dual aspect too because the L’Art de la Limite means that we cannot build with materials from the other side of the planet. There are limits on what we can build, the amount we can build. So we try to find a good scale for the project—not too big, not too small. So there’s a dual aspect: physical limit and lines.

GD: That’s really important. When we were at school, we learned architecture was like an infinite grid—you know, Archizoom, Superstudio, Le Corbusier with this idea of beautiful, infinite volumes under the light. No limits. Like a painted wall. But in reality, a wall has limits. You have to mind these limits—they become constructive ornamentation. This idea feeds into the art of the limit too. All materials have limits, and we have to respect them.

The second point is humble-monumentalité. In La Jetée, we discovered how to use wood. Each pillar, each column, is a tree—each section adapts to the tree’s shape. The scale of these columns has a monumentality that lives longer than a human. Architecture has the potential to give a sense of memory. When we build, we know that the likelihood is that the building will last beyond our lives, and it has to communicate what we want without us, without any context. The building must be understandable to everyone. 

MD: Since it’s a public building, it must be recognisable from the public space. So we can make a strong impact with just basic elements—a pillar, two or three pillars. That’s also what humble monumentality means.

GD: Monumentality is a kind of taboo word because political powers like the Roman Empire used monumentality to show power. Here, our columns aren’t made by humans, but by nature. So it’s not only about humanity—it’s about nature too. If it were concrete, it wouldn’t be the same. So we try to balance nature and culture. Every time it’s almost a split between the two. When we use monumental architectural elements with raw materials, there’s a balance, hybridation, hétérogénéité, symbiose—that’s the third point. We like to use time, sometimes using things older than a column—you can lecture on a column for five hours and still have things to say about it. But we put it in a contemporary context. This heterogeneity can come in shapes and more complex forms.

MD: We try to make projects richer, not simpler. When we talk with carpenters or ironworkers, our process gains materials and knowledge to enrich the project. I take what I learn from a carpenter and integrate that knowledge in a detail.

GD: This heterogeneity in materials and techniques comes from the context—the geographic setting and the varying skills of craftspeople, which can differ even between those living just 100 kilometres apart. There's also a temporal heterogeneity—knowledge sometimes fades but can be rediscovered.  

L’expression de la gravité (Expression of gravity) is also very important. Gravity in the sense that we will die, and the building will stay. It’s like vanity. Auguste Perret defined architecture as l’art de faire chanter les points d’appui—the art of making the supports sing. Our buildings have to deal with gravity, physically. We have to give shelter for humans, and the architecture must express that. When we’re inside, the best architecture helps you understand how the building is made. 

MD: L’ordonnancement refers to the way we introduce complexity through planning and rhythm. It’s the fifth point in our sort of manifesto. It follows a classical way of designing and thinking architecture. It’s similar to previous ideas—we use mathematics and very basic architectural elements that can be understood as a universal language.

GD: Every culture worldwide deals with this—from Mexico to China. For us, it’s a universal language. Materials and craftsmanship skills are linked to a very specific local and regional context. Then there’s faire savoir, savoir-faire—the balance between knowledge and craftsmanship. Mathematics is universal; savoir-faire is local.

The last point, s’affranchir des règles, means to be free—not to follow previous rules, to be free to not follow rules.

Crafting continuity

MD: La Jetée is our first public project involving an existing school building, with most of the work focused on an extension behind the main structure. Our main question was, “Now that another story has been added to this building—but is hidden behind the visible part—how can we access it? How can we make this new chapter legible?” That’s why we created a large covered courtyard to express this new phase in the building’s life. We used 40x40 pillars that engage in a dialogue with the stonework at the corners of the existing buildings. This creates a connection between stone and wood—not through materials, but through scale and proportion.

GD: We chose the pillar dimensions so they could be crafted entirely from wood, without relying on industrial processes. Through conversations with the carpenters, we discovered the Compagnons du Devoir in France—a school dedicated to preserving and teaching ancient craftsmanship. They honour the knowledge passed down by master artisans. While the industry often overlooks empowering individual workers, this tradition provides that kind of skill and authority. We incorporated a gallery, which is unusual for this type of space, to connect the old and new parts of the building, creating a strong link between them. Initially, it serves as a covered courtyard, then acts as a sunshade for the classroom windows as it passes in front of them. The building also features concrete, but we used pigmented concrete to complement the local stone in Alsace. The stone here has a distinctive pink, almost orange-pink tone, so the coloured concrete creates a dialogue with the old building’s material.

MD: The wood comes from 30 to 40 kilometres from the site, in the Vosges mountains. There’s only one sawmill capable of making these dimensions. So with these limits, the project is very local, due to the process and dimensions.

Forms in stone

GD: Our Möbius project, developed in collaboration with the Parisian firm Figures, is a memorial dedicated to the Second World War. Tackling this theme with contemporary architecture is rare and presented challenges. One was the strict regulatory requirements involved in building with stone, especially since the site is located in a seismic zone. Despite this, we chose to use stone sourced from a quarry just 15 kilometres away to maintain a strong local connection. We used it as a first perimeter without any normative application; it’s only a wall, a huge fence. We decided to use it to evoke a kind of hillock, with really geometrical, pure shapes—circle, square—universal language.

MD: With this stone—particularly our local Vosges sandstone—it’s challenging to build in seismic areas. The stone is tough and heavy, and unlike limestone, it doesn’t easily accommodate concrete inserts. Since it's sandstone, we try to keep the engineering simple and the costs low. Cutting it is expensive—diamond blades and chains wear out quickly—so when we use it, we minimise cuts as much as possible.

GD: That’s why we use huge pieces of stone—it’s less expensive. We can’t make holes to put concrete inside because it’s expensive too. So we just use it to make the first perimeter. It doesn’t bear the roof. It’s just stone standing up, like Stonehenge. We refer to the ancient megalithic architecture—appropriate because it’s a funeral building. 

Working with what’s nearby

GD: There are just two of us, and we want to stay that way. Our projects are slow; we don’t need many. We usually have two or three, and everything moves slowly.

MD: We believe in our societal role and want to contribute meaningfully. We do have some private commissions, but now we prefer public projects with societal impact.  One of our latest public projects is a market hall, located 20 kilometres north of Strasbourg. It’s called Moby Dick 2. The Moby project was delivered in mid-June. The town took advantage of the Fête de la Musique evening to inaugurate the hall with local residents. The occasion was both solemn and joyous. Everyone (the mayor, the residents and us) was really proud of the result.

This project confirms that simple elements implemented in a non-routine way (an oak colonnade, a gable roof with a curved ridge) can generate a major architectural impact and create a socially attractive space.

GD: It’s basically one big empty room. It has a big concrete arch, and then a full wooden structure, made of bleached oak and pine. There’s less material used overall. We do use concrete, but only where it does what other materials can’t—those big, thin arches only concrete can achieve. But for mass, we’re actually using more wood than before. In the past, massiveness meant concrete. We’re not trying to ban concrete—it does things no other material can, especially for structure and foundations. With humidity or capillarity, stone or earth can cause problems, so concrete becomes necessary. But when we use it, it’s like jewellery—concrete allows us to make beautiful, sculptural forms. We use it joyfully, for things like benches or curves—things other materials can’t do. But we only use it where it’s truly needed.

Each material we use is very local. Alsace is a valley, and near the Rhine, you find different materials than in the mountains. There’s brick in the plains and also in the mountains. Each part of Alsace has its own way of building. It’s a very rich region, with all the materials we need within 100 kilometres. Even the concrete granules come from the river—no long-distance transport required. 

GD: We’re not inventing anything new. For us, regulations are normative. Our job is to give space a human scale, bring in natural light, and create harmony. These things are timeless.