What is Mexican architecture?

CC: What truly defines Mexican architecture? Is it Hispanic colonial structures, quaint vernacular architecture, or something deeply rooted in our pre-Hispanic past? The term 'pre-Hispanic' itself is complex, now intertwined with what I interpret as a kind of neo-neo-pre-Hispanic movement. Take the Anahuacalli Museum extension, for instance, which blends various elements: it is profoundly Mexican, utilises local materials and techniques, and is a fusion of pre-Hispanic, brutalist, and modernist styles. The result is a unique Mexican architectural language using volcanic stone that integrates the surrounding vegetation. It’s a strong example of what Mexican architecture could be, resonating with a sense of place and identity. Then, consider a scenario like Oaxaca, which is almost a world unto itself, where buildings are traditionally crafted from clay and stone. An architect like Juan José Santibañez is doing really interesting things with his firm Arquitectos Artesanos. They bring an artisanal touch to contemporary work on projects for private clients, public institutions (like museums and libraries), and social initiatives for under-resourced communities. In such a diverse landscape, each part of Mexico has the potential to explore and define its own architectural identity.

Reimagining Mexican architecture

CC:  Many of us Mexican architects are striving to be artistic in our practices, and often, we find ourselves doing similar things: using earthy colours and local materials, collaborating with artisans, and seeking to understand our identity. Currently, there’s a trend of returning to quintessentially Mexican designs, using materials like earth or adobe, and this trend is being adopted by the affluent—perhaps because of its popularity in magazines and on social media. Different parts of Mexico have adapted these ideas uniquely, and while the results are interesting, my concern is that this focus overlooks other types of architecture, like the construction methods that most Mexicans, who are not wealthy, use. While millions struggle, very few enjoy opulence and can access the materials and methods behind some of the “trendier” designs. My hope is that someday, our new wave of architecture will push beyond aesthetics and client-driven trends. I think that architecture, instead, should provide solutions to the pressing issues we're facing. I believe that current architectural practices, including ones I find myself using, harm the environment, and I am hopeful we can all shift towards addressing real problems. Some architects are challenging the norm with great results but also sometimes embracing more widely accepted approaches. At times, it feels like individual efforts are too isolated, with everyone pursuing their unique path instead of coming together to figure out how we address pressing needs and issues in our nation. Perhaps we should join forces and write a manifesto.

Self-discovery

CC: I'm originally from Puebla and graduated from the Iberoamericana university there. After trying to work in Puebla for six months, I was feeling off. Right at that time, I happened to get a chance to go on a literal pilgrimage from Puebla to Mexico City´s Basilica de Guadalupe, walking for a day and a half, crossing the volcanoes between the two cities. It felt like a rite of passage—asking for permission to enter a new phase of my life and pursue my dream of working at an architectural firm. There were no other architects in my family at the time, and I didn't know any in Mexico City, so there was no one to help me land a job at a firm. I was on my own. I hand-crafted a physical portfolio, personally delivered it to firms, and requested interviews. This approach landed me various interviews and job offers, and I chose a position at a small firm. It was my first real experience working as an architect. It was just the owner and his wife, two others, and me. We tackled big projects as a close-knit team. About a year and a half later, I quit when I got a unique opportunity to explore the West Coast of the United States in a van with my cousin’s band, which was going on tour. That two-month journey continued to help me develop my perspective and practice. When I came back to Mexico City, I returned to the firm where I’d been. Another year and a half later, I moved to a larger firm, and while I was there, I took some time to do a visiting school program run by the Architectural Association (AA) in Edward Frank Willis James´ surreal Las Pozas garden in Xilitla, San Luis Potosi. This experience deeply influenced my understanding of architectural landscapes and land art. Inspired by that experience and what it taught me, I was eager to go out on my own. My big break came with an invitation to show my work in an art fair. While this opportunity helped me grow and allowed me to show my individual work, preparing for it left me without savings. So, I went back to work at yet another big firm. Soon after, I got a house project in Puebla and left the firm, establishing my freelance studio, where I'm the sole architect to this day.

A nomadic, enigmatic architect

CC: When I moved from Puebla to Mexico City, I consciously decided to stop using a car. I wanted to bike, walk, and use the city's excellent public transport system as much as I could. This choice reflected a broader philosophy in my life, one that informs my approach to being a freelance architect. I don’t work in a traditional office setup with fixed hours and formal meetings. Instead, I prefer to be mobile, carrying my books, drawings, and laptop directly to my clients or construction sites. I don’t think we all need a conventional office to demonstrate our professionalism. There's an expectation for us to have nice offices and branding to gain clients' trust. I want to challenge that idea. Having worked in large firms, I started to question environments where the main architect was disconnected from their projects. I prefer a more hands-on and intimate approach to architecture, where I'm deeply involved in every design aspect. I enjoy building close relationships with my clients through frequent meetings and site visits. Plus, working across different cities, like Puebla, Guadalajara, and Mexico City, has reinforced my decision not to have a fixed office. My backpack is essentially my office. I carry books and materials, always ready to be on-site. If a project in Guadalajara takes ten months, I'd rather be there for the duration of it, immersing myself in the project and the local context. This approach aligns with my core belief in staying true to my convictions. It's all about being in touch with the clients, understanding local materials and how artisans work, and recognising the nuances of practices in different locations. This nomadic lifestyle enriches my understanding of diverse contexts, which, in turn, enhances my ability to come up with unique architectural solutions. I question the practice of hiring international architects for local projects, too. What works in one part of the world often doesn't translate well to another because of differences in culture, craft, and construction methods. I find it funny that, when I was getting my degree, I aspired to be a traditionally-renowned architect. Now, I like being a little under the radar and constantly moving around. I get to dive into a local context and make architecture that resonates with its surroundings and the people who inhabit them.

Knocking on doors

CC: I had a show (De la técnica a la tectónica) during an architectural, art, and design fair in Mexico City. I had my heart set on a particular location: an old, abandoned church in the city's downtown. It seemed far-fetched that I’d be able to gain access to such a place, but we all have dreams and goals that seem out of reach. So, I took my shot. I knocked on the door of the church, where the property’s caretakers were living. We started to talk, and they understood what I hoped to do with my project. To my surprise, they offered me the space for free, allowing me to bring my idea to life. It was an incredible moment, making a dream that once felt unattainable come true. The exhibition was a collection of my drawings based on analogue photographs I took, all in collage format. There was a live sound installation performed by Otto Malgesto and an additional photographic intervention by Fernando Cordero. It was my first solo show, and I got to have it in this old church in Mexico City. This experience taught me the power of belief and perseverance. There's nothing wrong with pursuing what you want. Sure, I could have opted for an easier route, like paying to use a more conventional space, but this unique opportunity wouldn't have arisen if I hadn't taken the initiative to knock on that door.

An itinerate workflow

CC: My first solo project was a weekend house for a family of five. The family gave me considerable freedom with the design; some of their only requests were open spaces, white walls, and black steel elements. At that time, I was really into the modern movement. I mean, I still am. I admire modernism's expressions worldwide, from Africa to Brazil, and I particularly like Mexican modernism, which has unique facets. In Mexico, modernism meets muralism, which emerged as a tool for conveying powerful political messages. Prominent muralists like David Alfaro Siqueiros, José Clemente Orozco, Diego Rivera, Juan O´Gorman and Carlos Mérida created pieces that were not just art but also a part of their surrounding architectures. I often use muralism, or what Mathias Goeritz and some of his contemporaries used to call 'plastic integration,' in my work. This house project allowed me to merge modern architecture with prefabricated elements. My goal was to minimise the number of walls and columns to create large social areas that could accommodate the large family and their friends who gather there every weekend for get-togethers and celebrations. The house's design also reflects my interest in tectonics. Large, open spaces present structural challenges, which I find intriguing. I focused on creating impactful, functional spaces with the structure. I've always been captivated by the Nordic Pavilion made for the ´62 Venice Biennale, designed by Sverre Fehn using only concrete beams. This, combined with the Mexican modernism of the ’50s and ’60s, greatly influenced my approach. Both Fehn and Mexican modernism play with natural light, something very important to me. My projects aim to bring natural light into spaces in modular and mystical ways. I experiment with stained glass, bare frame beams, glass blocks, and lattices to create lighting effects. I always strive for “play” when working with light; sometimes, light becomes a structural element. The parts of my childhood spent in Guadalajara, which was important in the modernist movement, influenced me greatly. Architects, like Fernando González Gortázar, used the sun as an integral part of their designs, creating incredible lattices from concrete and other materials. In this house project, I considered how the sun's trajectory through the pergolas would create alternately lit or shaded spaces. 

Also interesting to note is that my role in this project was unexpected. It all started when a friend asked me to take a look at her parents’ house project, which she was concerned about. When she sent me the files, there was just a single page with simple plans and rudimentary renderings. It was clear that more information was needed, especially since construction had already started. I was working at my third architectural firm in Mexico City at that time, but when this friend reached out for help, I felt compelled to jump in. Despite having been at the firm for only three months, I decided to leave and go to Puebla to work on this project. This marked the beginning of my nomadic lifestyle, as I was constantly going back and forth between Puebla and Mexico City, where I still lived. 

The intricacies of Mexican design

CC: While working on that house project, I faced a unique challenge: the construction had already started, and the clients didn't want to pause it. They gave me two weeks to develop the conceptual design, bypassing the typical detailed planning stages. I was asked to work on-site, collaborating closely with the construction team. It was a hectic yet exhilarating process, as I was there from 9 AM to 6 PM, and then I had to get home to prepare drawings and plans for the next day. This hands-on, fast-paced approach didn't allow much time for contemplation, unlike in other projects, in which I could delve into the conceptual phase before construction. Another unique part of this project was that the clients gave me the freedom to design various elements of the house an architect might not usually create. Often, firms have an interiors department, and designers would focus on these elements. But here, I made everything from sinks and beds to lamps, sometimes with the help of an old friend who is an industrial designer. Additionally, instead of designing a typical TV room, I created a family gallery, where they could house artifacts from their rich history. This added a unique and personal touch to the project, turning the house into more than just a living space but a reflection of the family's history. I also designed a sculpture patio outside of the gallery. I wanted to commission a mural by an artist for that space, but the clients insisted that I take on the project. I did a deep dive on muralism, developing the mural's central theme (familial love) using my typewriter and drawing by hand. I was inspired by elements like photos I'd taken of murals and used telephone cards—vestiges of a bygone era—which featured bits of Orozco’s paintings on them. The family’s mural was my way of expressing gratitude for the incredible opportunity they had given me. I wanted to create something myself physically, and I sought help from Humberto Bonilla, the son of the maestro, the head of the construction team. He was skilled in laying stone, and I asked him to guide me and work on the mural. He agreed. We set up a workshop in what would be the garage. The mural was constructed entirely of concrete—a grid of at least 100 pieces. Each piece had a different texture but was made from the same concrete mix, using various tools and techniques to achieve different finishes. This hands-on approach to the mural was a creative endeavour and a deeply personal and rewarding experience.

That was an amazing time for me. I got to be an architect in the traditional sense that they taught us in school and also get my hands dirty at the construction site. I was there almost 24/7, mixing and preparing materials for a month. Humberto was responsible for attaching the pieces to the wall. During that phase, I mostly took photographs and occasionally checked if things were level, but honestly, I felt almost useless in that intricate process. Watching Humberto render the layout from my large-scale drawing was fascinating. He memorised where each piece went and even took offence if I stepped in too much. To me, he was an artist, meticulously assembling the mural, and he did an incredible job. This project taught me the importance of connecting with clients and the people who bring our designs to life. Since then, working with maestros in places like Guadalajara or Tepoztlán has been incredibly rewarding. Despite the fact that all of these places are in Mexico, each has unique methods and techniques to show for. 

Material rawness

CC: I begin each project with a main idea, often inspired by my initial visit with the clients and unique aspects of the site—whether the landscape or other natural elements. Understanding the site and the clients´ needs is vital. I capture the main idea as a concrete poem or in a brainstorming session using a typewriter, creating a kind of manifesto for the project that merges my insights with client requirements. This becomes the project's core concept. Then, my creative process moves to books and extensive freehand drawing. While adept at digital tools like AutoCAD and 3D modelling, I prefer more traditional tools, like rulers and pencils, when doing technical drawings in this initial stage of my process. I compile these materials, together with physical and digital images into a hybrid computer/print presentation of the concept I show the clients. Because I use so many physical materials and draw by hand, I can work wherever and whenever the inspiration strikes. Sometimes, I refine ideas on the go in places like cafés and libraries in my sketchbook. 

If I'm material in my practice, I'm also material in my materials. While I don't believe that 'ornament is a crime,' I prefer raw beauty. I'm also interested in the way time morphs surfaces, creating unique patinas and textures, as we see in ruins and archaeological sites. Although I aspire to rawness, not all projects allow me to use the materials I would like to. But that doesn't stop me from experimenting. In fact, sometimes it presents an opportunity to mix new and old materials and discover the beauty in their layers. At the end of the day, for me, architecture is a palimpsest of human expression through time and materiality, and I'm trying to understand my part in that.