Encounter

DK: I am Austrian and I moved to Switzerland in late 2012. Despite the fact that both countries share obvious similarities, their approach to architecture—both in mindset and culture—strikes me as quite different. I enjoy how unique characteristics of a country or a region manifest in the way architecture is debated and realised. I miss the radical, unrestrained spirit of Austrian architecture here in Switzerland, as much as I miss a more refined cultural sensibility in my home country.

Throughout my studies, I didn’t have a prominent mentor or a particularly influential figure. I mostly pursued my education independently, focusing on the areas that sparked my curiosity. However, there is one person I would like to mention—Till Lensing, who was a lecturer at the time and taught a course I was enrolled in. Sometimes, someone helps you open a door, organise your thoughts, or giving meaning to ideas you already have, allowing you to move forwards independently. That was one of those moments for me. Till introduced us students to Tendenza, the Italian-Swiss movement including architects like Aurelio Galfetti, Mario Botta, Luigi Snozzi and Livio Vacchini. We were each assigned to analyse a house and capture the essence of its structure and space in clear, precise sentences and plans. This experience, along with my later exposure to Till’s work, profoundly shaped and enhanced my thinking.

Even prior to this encounter, Swiss architecture had already played a part in my life. When I decided to attend a technical upper-level secondary school (HTL), my great-aunt, who lived in Switzerland, brought me two books—one by Mario Botta and a magazine on Herzog & de Meuron. I remember browsing through them briefly and leaving them on my bookshelf for years. Later, during my fourth year of study, the work of Herzog & de Meuron suddenly came back into focus. Until that moment, architecture for me was merely about the visual appeal of certain buildings, rather than architects or intellectual concepts. This changed. I began to understand that there are ideologies, continuity, collaborations, ideas and themes. That there is a real body of work. Architecture is about mindset; it can be deeply personal and full of character. Since that moment, I’ve found myself more drawn to architectural biographies than to particular works.

Later on, other Swiss architects, like Peter Märkli and Valerio Olgiati evoked my interest. It was also inspiring to follow Pascal Flammer und Raphael Zuber, who were emerging talents at that time. I was captivated by how each of them established their own vocabulary. My growing interest in Swiss architecture also led me to consider studying at ETH Zurich, though I did not pursue that path. Ultimately, my move to Switzerland was initially driven by visualisation, not architecture itself.

Obsession

DK: As an architect, obsession is certainly a defining characteristic of who I am. It is deeply tied to my personality—I am an all-or-nothing kind of person. When I engage with something, I immerse myself fully. In the most positive way, I don’t have a clear work-life balance, as architecture is ever-present in my thoughts. I am obsessive not just because I want to learn or create, but because I want to understand. This is an important difference! I seek to understand the 'why' of things, explore their inherent meanings, and find ways to innovate or improve. Comprehension always surpasses mere knowledge.

Although I can't pinpoint when, I eventually noticed patterns emerging in my habits—Our ways of thinking and making evolve according to our character and capabilities. Where does this come from? I thought it might be worthwhile to trace it back, so I started jotting down significant moments and memories in my life. For example, as a child, on my way to secondary school in Murau, I would cross a very unconventional, newly built bridge every day. I sensed that this bridge was somehow different and unique. Many years later, I discovered it is an important project by well-known Swiss architect Meili Peter and structural engineer Jürg Conzett. This realization gave this childhood memory a new meaning, and the bridge has remained an important reference ever since. Another would be playing with Legos at a young age. Although I could use a bunch of colourful bricks, the houses I built only had one specific colour. These small, early observations somehow are still evident in my practice, and it is worth recalling them. They form a kind of personal history—not through projects, but through experiences. It is a wonderful way to retrospectively understand yourself and your work.

DNA

DK: From the 1960s to the 2000s, the so-called Grazer Schule was an influential architectural movement in Graz, Austria. By the time I studied there, this era was already fading, with newer directions becoming more exciting. Some time ago I revisited Graz and started exploring buildings created by former professors and teachers. These structures, once overlooked, now started to appeal to me. Most of them have a very significant authorship and a strong, emotional expression—lightweight, complex and experimental. This rediscovery also led me to explore other architects, such as John Lauter, Sverre Fehn or Carlo Scarpa—names I was familiar with but never resonated with before. Typically, we gravitate towards architects whose work feels similar to our own, but these figures opened up something new for me. I have noticed my approach evolving towards a more pluralistic way of dealing with structure and space. Sometimes it is rewarding to confront yourself with things that are not part of your own DNA at first.

This raises a crucial question about representation in architecture. When you envision a project and want to communicate it, you must translate what is in your mind into a medium that makes it tangible. Architecture can be represented in many ways: through models, sketches, plans, photographs, renderings or even written descriptions. Each medium offers specific possibilities. The level of representation also affects how it is perceived. A minimal, simplified plan evokes a completely different response than a more detailed one. Both are valid, but which is closer to the DNA of the project and why? These questions of representation intrigued me. How can I make them precise enough to reflect the project's identity without overshadowing it?

While getting my degree, I explored this concept of representation, and it has only grown more relevant with the advent of digital image production. For me, it’s not about whether something is beautiful or ugly, but about whether it’s precise and complements the project’s narrative without redundancy.

Instuments

DK: My fascination with constructed spaces dates back to 2003 when I was doing an internship and became friends with a guy who was working on digital images in that office. That’s when I realized the power to transform simple lines into a photorealistic image—or at least realistic by the standards of that time. I could experiment in three-dimensional space, with materials and physics and quickly understood that visualisation was an incredibly freeing and impressive tool.

Another pivotal experience occurred during my bachelor’s degree, when I started creating compelling images for my study projects. My professors took notice and began requesting images for their competition entries. I realised it was a rewarding job, which eventually led me to apply for a position as a visualisation artist in Zurich. This was the first office I worked at when I moved here, not in architecture, but in visualisations.

Entering that field prompted me to explore the question of perception—how reality can be experienced in various ways. There are many iconic buildings that we as architects have stored in our minds. Think of Fallingwater by Frank Lloyd Wright or certain buildings by Mies van der Rohe. They are all connected to iconic images. I became intrigued by the idea that the buildings we admire, many of which we’ve never experienced firsthand, exist only in our minds and memories, often shaped by photographs in books or magazines. All the personal references and places we favour are almost never present. We create our own reality of these projects through what we see in images and plans, imagining space and sensation. Our mental image of a project can often feel more compelling than reality.

This ties back to the question of representation. Reality exists only when observed. Our eyes show us the visible, but what lies behind walls and ceilings—the entire construction process—remains hidden and is not part of our immediate experience. This alternate reality exists in plans, stories, and writings about a project, not in what we perceive on-site. Sometimes it makes me think that reading a plan is a more accurate and exciting experience than being somewhere physically.

The progress of computer technology in the 90s intrigues me, as I grew up at a time when home computers were becoming more powerful. In those days, computers had noticeable constraints, so we were forced to engage with them actively, diagnosing and resolving issues ourselves. This early relationship with computers sparked an interest that later influenced my approach to digital spaces. Over time, digital models have become indispensable to my process of creating both images and architecture. I call them digital instruments, as they are just part of a larger toolkit. I take pleasure in thinking precisely, and computational tools help me control these thoughts through accurate data. It’s like working on a virtual construction site.

Realism

DK: I was there at the beginning when rendering engines were still developing for consumer products. I experienced the growth of this technology firsthand, as it continually moved toward more photorealistic depictions, striving for the most lifelike results. The industry aimed to match photographs with the realism already achieved. Now, everyone is catching up to a common standard. I’ve always seen myself as a digital photographer, setting up and capturing an independent portrait of a project in virtual space. Unlike traditional photography, every element of the image must be constructed and composed.

Over the years I have created a vast amount of renderings, and when I look back at them, I am surprised by how my perception has changed. What I once considered convincing now seems dated and incomplete. Some, while technically imperfect, have maintained their balance and integrity. Time reshapes how you see things.

Another question is whether pursuing full photorealism was ever truly relevant. Detailed, photographic images can suggest a lot. When a client sees an image with every screw and finishing visible, they might assume it represents exactly what they'll receive. This can be both a blessing and a curse. Why do we even consider understanding and seeing everything as a quality? Incomplete, blurry, more limited images create a mystery, allowing the viewer to participate in the experience. An image should stimulate and raise questions rather than give unsolicited answers.

I had been familiar with AI for a few years, using it occasionally to create independent references and narratives. When the first AI engines were released, I was both amazed and uneasy about their performance, especially given how quickly they were evolving. It’s clear that we need to develop a new kind of awareness and sensitivity towards a technology that’s surpassing our own capabilities. The key is to recognise AI as a tool that complements and enhances our creativity.

Duality

DK: The moment I decided to become an architect, I also decided how I wanted to work. This meant determining not only how I approach tasks and structure my thoughts, but also how I organise my office. I’ve always felt the need for two distinct components: my architectural practice, where I focus on architectural projects, and my image production, Studio Diode, where I specialise in creating visuals for clients. Two independent disciplines that complement and reinforce each other.

After my studies, I started developing virtual projects that I think of as workpieces—exploratory, imagined works that come with no fixed responsibilities, enabling me to experiment without constraints. I’ve accumulated around forty such projects, which I keep with me and regularly reflect on. They attempt to address every aspect of architecture that I consider important. It is a mental inventory to discover, prove and manifest new ideas. This is, of course, a completely different realm than working on projects with real-world constraints, where I have to contend with specific realities, norms, and regulations. While I may draw from my exploratory work, I am conscious that I’m working within a different framework. I make an effort to keep a clear distinction between the two, knowing what can be transferred from one to the other.

As time went on, I started collaborating with other offices, engaging in installations, and participating in competitions. Many projects were carried out with BothAnd, an office I’m partially involved with. When I collaborate with someone, things can become more dynamic, eventually leading to compromise. That is natural. Either way, I highly value the discussions, reflections and positive surprises that push you ahead, motivating you to step beyond your comfort zone now and then.

It is important to acknowledge that everything we do can only be an approximation. In the real and virtual world.