An open path to architecture

JK: Our perspective is rooted in Switzerland, but it’s clear that design, broadly speaking, is an expanding economic sector. Andreas Reckwitz's book Society of Singularities discusses how we’re now in a post-industrial, post-modern society focused less on shared social projects and more on individual self-fulfilment. In some ways, architects and designers have become service providers for this pursuit of self-fulfilment, helping clients express their unique needs. The shift isn’t just in architecture but also in fields like industrial and graphic design, where specialised designers now handle work that might have previously been done by a talented family member for small businesses. In this sense, I’d say Switzerland isn’t too different from other parts of the world.

However, Switzerland does stand out in that the architecture profession is not protected here. Unlike other countries with regulated professions, Switzerland has a liberal system where anyone can call themselves an architect. This system allows people from non-academic backgrounds, like those who start as draughtsmen, to grow into the profession through hands-on experience rather than formal university education. This liberal, merit-based path to becoming an architect makes the profession more accessible, encouraging practical expertise alongside academic knowledge. It also keeps architects connected to the reality of everyday people, making it easier for clients to approach and hire an architect without the barrier of professional elitism.

Pragmatic beginnings

JK: We both studied at ETH, though not together. Some professors and studios—like François Charbonnet, Patrick Heiz, and Christian Kerez—had a shared influence on us. After graduating, Didier worked with Made In, and I worked with Christian Kerez for a few years. We later decided to start entering competitions together, drawing from our studies, which trained us to observe the real world and consider the reasons behind design choices. Why is a balcony shaped this way? Why is a building tall or wide? Rather than approach these questions theoretically, we were encouraged to look at things pragmatically. This meant questioning norms, like corridor widths or building heights, and imagining what might happen if things were different.

Over time, we developed a method of observing and questioning real-world conditions, then finding ways, big or small, to make contributions through architecture. This curiosity sustained us through each competition. We didn’t just aim to meet standards; we wanted to see where we could add value. Eventually, we secured commissions, and with that, the resources to run our office. But there’s no romantic founding story here—just a steady journey of questioning, experimenting, and seizing opportunities as they came.

DB: The diploma semester we did with Christian Kerez's chair was probably the starting point, as we decided to approach the research portion together. Even though we each did our own projects independently, we enjoyed the discussions during the research phase, so we later decided to try some competitions. As Joni mentioned, our approach isn’t about focusing on economic efficiency but rather on architectural elements and what impact they can have on everyday life,, observing things, and understanding what they mean for reality and space itself.

Questions at the core of process

JK: The challenge of a project lies in questioning things, developing answers, then drawing or building a model. Once you see it, you realise that while you've answered the question, many other questions arise, leading you to start again. It’s not just about questioning the visible reality but envisioning something new, then imagining how it might exist in the real world. This becomes an iterative or parallel process that can not easily be divided up because each part influences another, and there’s a lot of overlap. Observing reality doesn’t end with what already exists; it extends into the reality you envision for the project, making it interesting to consider what would happen if this idea took shape in the real world.

To be concrete, in any project, you can ask many questions, but it’s not just about questioning—it’s about carefully selecting and focusing on questions that can be answered through architecture. We aim to ask questions that require architectural space as a medium. For example, in a school building, you might question how and why children are taught in a certain way, looking into the history or evolution of teaching. These are valid questions, but we focus on questions we can address as architects, using walls, columns, ceilings, floors—our own architectural vocabulary. We’re interested in exploring what we can do with our tools—drawings, models, structures—to represent a possible reality while staying grounded in the real world.

DB: This also means we're not really interested in being the ‘school architects’ or specialising too narrowly. While we’re of course interested in typologies, we work on everything from small to large projects, because the underlying questions are the same across all scales. For us, it's important not to narrow our focus to just one area.

JK: I think there's value in maintaining a sense of naivety in observation. When you approach a place or task with fresh eyes, even naively, you start asking questions you might miss if your routine is too stringent in a certain typology. We like to approach projects with a kind of unprofessional curiosity, and that lets us ask very simple, but sometimes far-reaching, questions. For instance, asking, ‘Why does a teacher teach this way?’ can uncover fundamental insights. If you already know the answer, you’d never question why a classroom has certain dimensions, specific lighting, or corridor placement. So, we try to avoid becoming overly specialised in typologies, even if it’s a bit inefficient.

Transcending limits

JK: One of our recently completed projects involved restoring a protected farmhouse that was in dire condition—decaying, mouldy, and lacking a foundation. This house, originally a storage space with some living niches and low ceilings, needed intervention to make it liveable again, while preserving its protected status. So we had to adapt by inserting new elements without altering the original structure's dimensions or usage while adding modern necessities like electricity, plumbing, and air.

After close examination, we designed a very thin staircase of reinforced concrete, only 52 millimetres thick, to stabilise the house and integrate necessary features while generating a space that is high enough according to today's norms, as the existing spaces were only 1.95m and therefore lower than what is allowed today. Prefabrication was impossible due to the house’s irregular shape, so we cast the concrete in situ. The staircase’s folds gave it structural rigidity and allowed it to serve multiple functions: it stabilised the existing rotting wooden beams and provided access to the house, while incorporating a kitchen and bathrooms. This new addition created a different spatial relationship between the existing rooms, allowing them to be used in varied configurations—three rooms together and two separately, or one room independently and five as a group—without altering the historic spaces.

This experience showed us how a single, carefully considered intervention could transform the existing space without annexing or physically altering protected elements. The staircase became an active spatial feature that redefined spatial relationships and functions within the constraints of preservation.

When building new, we have to adhere to current norms, no matter how tedious it is to navigate them. Yet, when dealing with existing buildings, there’s always a tension between how things are, how people want them to be, and how architects envision them. This farmhouse project, although spatially limited, expanded beyond its physical bounds by creating new connections between spaces, altering the entrance and roof usage, and changing circulation—all without changing the appearance of the six original spaces. 

Changing perspectives

JK: Having both small- and large-scale projects in the office is valuable. One project, for instance, involved converting a former printing hall for a media company. Originally built for industrial use, the hall was repurposed multiple times: first as an office, then as a new printing hall, and later, after COVID, it became a workspace again. With many employees now accustomed to remote work, the company wanted to adapt the building to draw people back by creating a more engaging work environment. They aimed to introduce concepts like ‘new work’ and ‘work-life blending’ but, in essence, just wanted to encourage employees to return to the office.

Our approach was to observe how the employees actually used the space rather than immediately applying a generic design concept. We spent time with each of the 14 departments to understand their interactions with the space and each other. This allowed us to identify areas that could benefit from change and others that could stay as they were. In the end, we proposed an intervention that balanced small, intimate spaces with larger, open ones. We introduced a new staircase that not only connected floors but also brought light into the former printing hall, which helped create different spatial qualities within the same structure—intimate versus exposed, small versus vast. 

During the meetings with each department, the HR manager was present. She made an observation we hadn’t considered because we were so immersed in the project. She pointed out that, in her many years as an HR manager, she found it unusual—but in a positive way—that the space where employees take breaks and interact is the very same space used to represent the company to clients and the public. This made us realise that, in this project, we had unknowingly dissolved the traditional ‘front stage’ of the company—a concept that likely dates back to the post-war era, where corporate identity was often detached from the actual workspace. In a way, we unintentionally merged the production and consumption of the space: clients consume it, and employees in the media company produce within it. By doing so, we created a unified space that embodies a new typology—one where the company’s public image and the needs of its workers are considered together, not separately. We aim to dissolve these distinctions and create spaces that cater to multiple perspectives, allowing new spatial typologies to emerge.

From theory to practice

JK: This media company project gave us the confidence to take these ideas to students. We’re teaching a studio course for third-semester students at the University of Lucerne, called Labour Spaces. In this course, we examine what it means to transform existing buildings, from individual structures to entire cities, using architecture and construction. Our goal is to show students the multiplicity of realities that buildings can have—beyond academic or economic views. For instance, a church isn’t just a place of worship; it’s also a site of historical significance, a tourist attraction, and a workplace for clergy and maintenance staff.

In Lucerne, one in eight people work in tourism, so we chose to focus this semester on tourism-driven spaces. Many architectural masterpieces are tourist draws, like churches and concert halls, yet their maintenance involves a variety of hidden labour. We asked our students to investigate all forms of work involved in sustaining these attractions. For example, curators, city marketers, logistics managers, and maintenance workers all contribute to the ongoing life of these sites. Students then designed transformations to integrate these labour elements more visibly into the architecture, shifting the focus from a purely consumptive experience to one that acknowledges the labour behind it. Ultimately, the aim was to encourage students to see buildings with fresh eyes, enabling them to ask fundamental questions: Why are things as they are? Could they be different? We encouraged them to see buildings as dynamic spaces shaped by various activities and perspectives, fostering a mindset of curiosity and identifying potential fields for architectural intervention.

DB: When we started teaching at the Hochschule Lucerne, one important thing was to teach concepts that we also practise in our office. In fact, the project for the media company was actually the starting point for the idea of Spaces of Labor. This concept involves observing different types of work and understanding their spatial implications. For us, it’s crucial to have this connection between practising and teaching architecture.