A shift in perspective

LT: A growing collective of emerging architects is gaining wider attention in Switzerland. Although the country has long been regarded as an interesting place for architecture, I would argue that only in recent years has it achieved greater credibility. When I studied in Berlin, the ambition was to work for a big name such as OMA. Everyone was following the Dutch model, and there was almost a sense of arrogance toward Swiss architecture at that time. From my perspective and education, Swiss architecture felt solid, but it wasn’t seen as forward-looking. Over the years, however, my view changed drastically. I worked at OMA in New York, and the longer I spent there—and later after returning to Berlin—the more I realised that the very nature of the profession drew me toward Swiss architecture. I came to appreciate the exceptionally high standards: not only in planning and competitions, but also in craftsmanship and construction. The quality, the durability, the longevity. To this, I would add another central aspect: the profession itself is more accepted, respected, and well-integrated into Swiss society than in many other contexts. In a way, my perception of Swiss architecture has come full circle. Growing up as a third-generation architect, it was always present in my life, yet in my younger years, I didn’t see its value as clearly as I do today.

An accelerated start

LR: The story of how we ended up working here, in a studio in Sittertal in St. Gallen, is quite interesting. I started my studies at ZHAW in Winterthur and had the chance to do an Erasmus exchange in Berlin. After that, I returned to Switzerland to finish my bachelor’s in Winterthur, and then I decided to go back to Berlin, where I applied for the master’s program at UdK (Universität der Künste Berlin). That’s when we first met, through friends. 

LT: My education was very different—and I’m from another generation. By the time Luca was completing his studies, I had already been freelancing in Berlin for about three years. Before that, I worked in Olafur Eliasson’s art studio, where I was involved in art production, but eventually I decided to return to architecture. Around that time, we met and began collaborating on a few projects. Everything happened very quickly—the pandemic accelerated things even more. 

LR: Yes, it felt quite immediate. Soon after, an opportunity arose in Sittertal, where we are now based. For my master’s thesis at UdK, each student had to define their own theme, and I was drawn to the textile industry of my home region, which has such a strong tradition. I already knew the Sittertal, an old dyeing factory that Felix Lehner took over in the early 1990s. Today, around 80 people work there, producing and restoring artworks for artists, galleries, and museums worldwide. Very close to this site, we then found the chance to work on a multifamily housing project, Sittertalstrasse 18. That project is what ultimately brought us here. 

LT: The Sittertal is becoming a reference in Switzerland, a place where a lot of people come to research or do art residencies. Thanks to this opportunity, we started dividing our time between Switzerland and Berlin, commuting constantly. In Berlin we had a couple of freelance collaborators who worked with us for about three years. But at some point, we realised we were spending more time on trains than in the office. Honestly, I had never imagined moving to Switzerland for work, but once we started discussing it, I was struck by the incredible teamwork here, and especially the level of craftsmanship. It really surprised me—how strong it is, particularly in this region around St. Gallen. It was really a combination of factors. Working on this project in Sittertal also gave us the opportunity to be on site and to work from this new office, located in one of the buildings on the complex, surrounded by artists and interesting initiatives—while also being able to make a fair living.

Perfect place, perfect time

LT: This place really connects our interests—art production, architecture, testing things, designing not only on the computer but also hands-on. From art production, we brought a certain mindset: don’t spend ten days drawing a balustrade—weld one and see if it works. Whenever possible, we prefer to design out of a workshop. 

With the multifamily house, we realised how important it was to be present on site—to understand construction and how things are built. That connects directly to the quality we’ve found in Switzerland: the chance to learn how to build. In many countries, you make the plans, but you don’t really know what’s being built—you’re not in control of the details. In the future, we hope to continue in that direction, living close to the sites we work on. It started as an experiment, but being so near to the building process has shaped a lot of our perception and approach. Here on site, there’s still a standing mock-up from Roger Boltshauser—a clay façade created with the foundry, ETH students, and the Sitterwerk Foundation. This kind of intersection—academic research, industry, and practice—is exactly what we were hoping for. It creates a sense of community. 

We’ve been welcomed warmly by the neighbours, which feels very special. They built this place up, and now we can join in and benefit from it. Being in the countryside, rather than a big city like Berlin, has also given us the space to pause and reflect—to question how we work, how we act as architects, how we build. That shift was necessary. The project request was already here, and that’s what brought us to the valley. In the meantime, the artist Jeewi Lee won an art competition with us, which led us to start working with the foundry. So, we came to the valley for the project, for the art production—and then suddenly everything began to overlap. At just that moment, a loft became available for rent, and we could live and work there. Suddenly we were part of the community. We could share resources—use the canteen and kitchen. There’s even a chef who cooks healthy, local food from nearby farms, and we get to be part of that.

Transforming a living space

LT: As we were discussing, one of our most emblematic projects—and almost the main reason we are based in Sittertal today—is the multifamily house at Sittertalstrasse 18 in St. Gallen. The project began as a small, straightforward request from the Stiftung hausen+wohnen, a foundation that has been creating and providing affordable social housing in the St. Gallen area for about 30 years. The foundation provides affordable homes. You can see in many of their buildings how they try to do as little as possible to keep costs low—working with limited budgets yet carrying big ambitions.

The building at Sittertalstrasse 18 is only a few hundred metres from Sittertal. Coming from the city centre, you follow the road, cross a massive concrete bridge from 1941, descend the hill, and right next to the forest stands this house. Historically, it was what we called an Arbeiterhaus—a working-class house, typical of the area. It had green wooden sheds, a creamy white-brown plaster façade that had been patched, broken, and repaired multiple times, and children’s drawings covering the walls, left by the residents. The people who lived there were very happy—enjoying cheap rents, but in a house with minimal heating. When we first encountered it, the place had the atmosphere of a kind of squatters’ house. The residents appreciated the affordability on one hand, but on the other, the building was clearly in a very run-down state.

If maintenance had been done earlier, things would have been different. But that’s just the point: By not maintaining a building, you keep rents cheap. In this case, it was decided the building would be demolished, and the replacement building—in German, Ersatzneubau—was basically given to Luca as a “little task”. Like, "Could you make a quick proposal? Maybe a drawing?" Then it went to the building permit stage—but it still wasn’t clear whether it would become our project or just stay as a feasibility study.

LR: In the beginning, we said, “Okay, let’s try to do something nice, something interesting.” We started visiting the house, meeting the people who lived there. We spoke with them, held a workshop, and gathered information about the space—about that peculiar area beneath the bridge, the house under the bridge. At the time, we were still based in Berlin, but we believed in the project so strongly that we really invested ourselves in it—and Stiftung hausen+wohnen could feel that commitment.

LT: We became really interested in what this house was actually about—who were the inhabitants, what was this weird location under the bridge, and how does it feel to be there? The questions we asked the inhabitants were also meant to better understand the space and its context. 

With our proposal, we also showed Stiftung hausen+wohnen that it was feasible to create four flats instead of three, even though the building volume had to remain the same. We needed to maintain the size and preserve the perception of the building within its landmark context. The house might have been built around 1900 or earlier—it wasn’t even archived—so we had the chance to start documenting the entire building. The client began to realise what they actually had: run-down, yes, but a beautiful place, a home for people, right next to the forest. 

LR: The permission process took more than a year, because of the agricultural zoning and the exceeded forest distance—in the end, an agreement was found to build again, but four meters further away from the forest to protect the old-growth forest. And the new building had to follow the same volume and maintain a similar presence on the site.

LT: Looking back, we realised three key steps were really important to making this project happen. The first was the workshop with the inhabitants. The second was the renderings. Normally, we don’t believe renderings are that important—but in this case, they brought the project to life. People could imagine it, and see the similarities with the old building—but translated into something new. You can’t just pretend to rebuild an old building with today’s construction methods. It has to become a new building—but one that references the old one, plays with those similarities, fits into the context. The third step was making a 1:20 model of the flats. With it, people could suddenly see the quality of what we proposed. And the client was immediately convinced. 

From competitions to transformations

LR: We also enter competitions, maybe we don’t put the most effort into them, but we really like thinking about them. Like the questions of kindergartens, housing, and larger project structures. In our smaller projects, those questions of efficiency or grid systems aren’t as dominant. But we enjoy tackling them in competitions.

LT: It’s almost like solving small math problems—finding the perfect spatial solution for a specific area. Competitions offer a playground for exploring spatial and structural configurations. We aim for designs that are simple, sustainable, and sometimes even assembled. In small-scale housing renovations, interventions are precise and targeted, but for entirely new buildings, sustainability must be considered from the very start. Not everything that looks green truly is. Open competitions without a fixed site are particularly challenging. The simple act of deciding where to place a new building can already determine the outcome. In one competition for a daycare, we think our proposal was not considered because we suggested extending the existing building to preserve the football pitch—a space valued by the entire neighbourhood, not just the school. Practical aspects also weigh heavily: for example, during refurbishment, where will the children go? Temporary buildings are costly, and often the new construction wins simply for practical reasons. That’s why I admire Lacaton & Vassal—their housing extensions allow residents to stay in their flats during construction, keeping projects affordable, avoiding rent increases, and, importantly, working with what already exists. This connects to the larger question of whether to build a new or transform what is already there—a central theme in Switzerland.

LR: A lot has changed in the six years we worked on that project. We started it in 2019. Two or three years later, in universities, you no longer talk about demolition. We believe it will be our task to find ways to maintain, renovated and transform existing buildings and convince others of why this is important.

To build or not to build?

LT: Academia in Switzerland is very strong, considering the country’s size. ETH is one of the world’s leading universities, and research has a huge impact. In Switzerland, many professors still practice. That’s not always the case elsewhere. Teaching isn’t just for those running big offices—it’s for those committed to the academic process. There are few with PhDs, but many studios are taught by architects actively involved in the field. 

I’ve been teaching for eight years, first as an assistant, now as a guest lecturer at FHGR with Lando Rossmeier and Luca Romano. In the future, the goal would be to teach more—perhaps as a guest professor in Switzerland or Germany. Our interest in art production, furniture, and design keeps me in dialogue with students. Teaching is not just about giving—it's about learning. I’m still studying through it. I see the next generation with pride—they’ve freed themselves from hierarchical structures. But they also face intense pressure, especially ecological. Some young architects are paralysed by it. That’s sad. Our role is to keep them motivated—to test, fail, improve, and stay active. In architecture, if you’re afraid to fail, you can’t do anything. I understand the desire not to build—but how do you sustain your practice? 

When teaching, I always emphasise two things: really look—study what you see. And question—constantly. To understand, to design, to improve. Designing isn’t just about taste. It’s made of many components.