Many reasons to stay

LV: There’s likely a connection to the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis. Switzerland, somewhat insulated from the crisis—particularly in architecture—emerged as a place where many felt they could continue practising without severe constraints. This likely contributed to the rise of numerous new offices. It wasn’t just practical; there was an emotional aspect too—a sense of optimism and the belief that good things could still happen here. That feeling may have encouraged people not only to come to Switzerland but also to stay. Many offices are made up of diverse, international teams, often with people who first came to study here. 

RG: Plus, Switzerland’s competition system is very open and democratic. You don’t need to be an established office to participate, and it’s been an effective tool for young architects to win their first projects and gain recognition. This openness fosters a positive and motivating environment.

LV: Exactly, it’s motivating to know you have a chance, even when you’re just starting out.

RG: And it’s not just the competition system—it’s the overall environment. Many foreign architects are drawn to Switzerland for practical reasons, like the density and stability of the market and the quality of construction. But beyond that, the experience of studying and working here also plays a big role. Whether it’s the high-quality education, learning from both local and foreign architects, or forming professional relationships, people become familiar with this landscape.

LV: And once you establish relationships with colleagues and local offices, you reach a point where you need to decide: stay here, where opportunities seem more accessible, or return home, where there might be more competition and risk. Many decide to stay because they appreciate the quality of work and topics being explored here, as well as the opportunities competitions provide.

RG: That was our experience too. We met while studying in Switzerland—both coming from different backgrounds. Staying here wasn’t necessarily planned, but it happened naturally. After finishing our studies, we both received opportunities—teaching for me and working in an office for Liviu. They were too good to pass up, so we stayed.

LV: We worked in various places before starting on our own. In 2010, we decided to participate in a competition for fun with some friends after working hours. Surprisingly, we won—it was for the Romanian National Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Suddenly, we had to decide whether to leave our jobs and take this opportunity. We chose to go for it, and everything went well. After completing the pavilion, the five of us—Romina, myself, and three friends—decided to continue as a collective, which we called UNULAUNU. The collective lasted for 10 years, until 2020. By then, our son was born, and it felt like the right time to close that chapter and move forward. That’s when we transitioned into GRILLO VASIU in its current form. It marked another turning point, both in our personal and professional lives.

The evolution of a practice

LV: Many things carried over—like our discussions and approach—but now it’s just the two of us instead of five. That shift helped us crystallise our focus. Initially, we were interested in everything, but over time, we started honing in on specific topics, particularly living. Our first project as GRILLO VASIU was a house renovation in Italy, which we worked on between 2018 and 2020. That project helped us deepen our interest in the topic of living spaces.

RG: Our second project followed a similar theme—a renovation with an extension. It was about giving a new life to an existing object while reimagining it for a family who wanted to live differently. These two projects were the starting points for our personal exploration.

LV: Our practice has evolved, not detached, from our past work. The discussions remain familiar, but we’ve also opened new dialogues. For example, while we both taught previously, teaching has now become an integral part of our lives. Romina teaches in Mendrisio, and that environment allows us to pose questions and explore answers through our students. This, in turn, reshapes our perspectives and feeds back into our practice. It’s been more of a natural progression than a complete reset.

RG: Another characteristic of our practice is its international scope. While many Swiss-based practices are more locally focused, we’ve worked in multiple countries, which has brought an international dimension to our approach. It’s both challenging and rewarding. When you work in different countries, you’re exposed to diverse identities, construction methods, regulations, and ways of building. It requires a lot of travel and can be exhausting, but it also keeps you alert and adaptable. You learn to leverage the strengths of each region while solving unique challenges. It forces us to avoid applying the same formulas everywhere, which is a valuable exercise.

LV: It also keeps us curious. We’re interested in discovering the unexpected beauty that arises when projects are shaped by different cultural contexts. This unpredictability makes the process incredibly engaging for us.

A matter of ‘living’

RG: Among all the topics in architecture, living is one of the most conservative. It evolves very slowly compared to other areas, like how we work, use public spaces, or engage with museums. Over centuries, the changes in living habits have been minimal. Yet, our lives today are completely different. We have new family structures, evolving work dynamics—like remote work and global travel—and a mix of cultural influences brought by migration. These changes demand diversity in how we think about and design living spaces, but society and architecture have been slow to respond.

Ageing is another aspect. How do you live in the same flat as you age? Your needs might shrink, or your space might need to grow to accommodate a larger family. These challenges demand a more dynamic response, yet the reaction remains conservative.

LV: Living spaces do evolve slowly, but that’s partly because living is one of the oldest architectural programs. While factories or museums came much later, the concept of a house—shelter—has existed for millennia. Over time, we’ve developed established ways of using space, but we also have the innate capacity to adapt and transform almost any space into a living environment if necessary. Institutions, however, are more rigid in their approach to living because they design for the collective. This requires solutions that answer many questions at once, which slows typological evolution. Yet, people are incredibly adaptive. For example, a single large room could be transformed in countless ways to fit our needs. It’s this potential for transformation that interests us—not just as a container for life but as a space that feels personal.

RG: Or even as a space that allows new forms of living, ones that haven’t been fully expressed yet.

LV: Exactly. We’re asking more questions than providing answers because every idea we explore eventually meets practical constraints—square meters, budgets, materials, and location.

RG: Living spaces are also deeply tied to economic formulas. Unlike other building typologies, housing projects are tightly constrained by cost considerations. These constraints bring social pressures that strongly influence the design.

LV: True, but this isn’t necessarily negative—it’s part of the challenge. It makes us question everything: Why are rooms organised this way? Why must we eat here and sleep there? Why should parents’ bedrooms be larger than children’s? These conventions are worth questioning to discover better ways of living.

There’s a lot of room for innovation in living spaces. Many architects have explored alternative approaches, though these ideas are rarely mainstream. We enjoy questioning these norms ourselves.  

Working across cultures and scales

RG: One of our most unusual projects right now is in Kenya. We're still in the early stages, trying to understand the place. Building there requires sensitivity to the local context, particularly regarding the available technologies and materials. It’s a process where we start by exploring what’s possible and then design around those possibilities, rather than creating a project first and forcing it to fit.

LV: We aim to design something that aligns with the local context and that can also evolve independently, given the distance. This means creating a clear, simple framework that allows the project to develop without us being there every day. Ideally, we collaborate with someone local who understands the area and can communicate with us effectively. It’s about embracing the unique qualities of the place rather than imposing an imported way of thinking.

RG: For instance, if local builders are skilled in working with stone, it doesn’t make sense to push for metal construction just because that’s what we’re used to. It’s about enhancing and valuing what the context offers, not imposing European construction methods.

LV: The same principle applies in Romania, where I’m from. While the cultural context is closer to what we know, there are still differences. It would be challenging to build in the Swiss or Italian mindset there. Instead, we adapt and find ways to use local characteristics to our advantage. This approach applies not just across countries but even within them—for example, between northern and southern Italy, where the differences are significant. We enjoy working in diverse places because it tests our ability to create meaningful architecture within different constraints. In Kenya, for example, you might face technological limitations, but these can also offer new freedoms. This contrast makes the process engaging, as you’re constantly discovering what’s possible and how to make the most of it.

RG: Building in different contexts, whether Kenya, Romania, or Italy, highlights that beauty in architecture is universal. You don’t always need the best tools or resources to create something remarkable—sometimes having fewer options makes the architectural discourse even richer. This philosophy extends to the scale of projects as well. Whether it’s a small piece of furniture or a large urban development, the process begins with a strong conceptual foundation. A good idea and strategy are essential at any scale.

LV: For us, it’s less about preferring one scale over another and more about the time involved. We’ve worked on everything from furniture to larger buildings and urban studies. Each comes with its own responsibilities, constraints, and expectations, but the ultimate goal remains the same. We’ve even explored fields like fashion, which allowed us to apply our principles in a completely new context.

RG: Long-term projects, like buildings that take a decade to complete, can be rewarding but also challenging. As we grow older, we also seek more immediate satisfaction—projects that can be realised in shorter timeframes. It’s fulfilling to see your work materialise within a tangible period, rather than waiting years or even decades. Balancing these long and short-term projects helps us stay engaged and motivated.

Generational lessons

RG: Universities focus on the design process and creativity. During our studies, this was the primary emphasis—constantly challenging and cultivating our creativity. Whether working on a small project, like furniture or clothing, or a larger one, like a building, the enthusiasm for ideation and creation remains the same. The scale of the project doesn’t diminish the passion or excitement.

LV: Design is truly at the heart of the school’s vision, which shaped us significantly. But I think this also ties to the fact that Mendrisio has always been a diverse and international school. This diversity created a unique context for learning, where you were exposed to many different approaches to problem-solving.

Seeing how someone from a different background tackled a design problem broadened our perspectives. This diversity encouraged creativity and experimentation, not just among students but also among professors, who were just as diverse as the students. The entire environment thrived on embracing and leveraging this diversity. This diversity fostered an open, creative, and experimental approach. It’s about questioning, learning from others, and expanding your own ideas through these interactions.

RG: Now that I’m teaching first-year students, I see a big difference compared to when we were studying. These students are just out of high school, so everything is new and fresh for them—they haven’t yet developed an architectural consciousness. But their mindset is very different. Today’s students are much more critical and questioning, which is a positive change. It makes them think more deeply and engage more consciously with their work and society. They are very open, flexible, and quick to adapt. They’re not just questioning their future but also considering the kind of society they want to live in. That level of awareness is impressive. For students today, the challenge is deciding what to focus on amidst the overwhelming bombardment of information. If you’re not decisive, you risk being swayed in every direction. For us, it was different; we had to actively seek out what we wanted to be exposed to. 

LV: Exactly, and that’s probably why we’re less flexible—we see this as a limitation of our generation, or at least of ourselves. For them, this flexibility feels innate—it’s simply how they’ve been shaped. I envy their flexibility. It’s a double-edged sword. On one hand, ‘everything goes’ can mean a lack of focus, hope, or a clear goal. On the other hand, it allows them to adapt easily and respond creatively to different challenges.