1 week Ago By Dsimms29
On a recent trip to Bukhara, Uzbekistan, Lina Ghotmeh fell in love with the city’s 10th-century mausoleums. “The woven brickwork is mind-blowing,” says the Lebanese architect on a call from Paris, where her eponymous studio can be found in the 11th arrondissement. It’s the type of design —rooted in tradition, materiality, and memory—that Ghotmeh is most passionate about.
Since completing her studies at the American University of Beirut, that dedication has made her one of the most sought-after architects working today: From an eco-conscious leather workshop for Hermès to last year’s Serpentine Pavilion to the upcoming contemporary-art museum of AlUla in Saudi Arabia, her projects span the globe. Given the demand, one could understand the pressure to do things faster. But for Ghotmeh, there are no shortcuts.
“Sometimes a client thinks that we can finish in a month,” she says with a laugh. “With me, that’s impossible—it’s so important to do the research to understand the typology, history, environment, and resources that we’ll be working with.” Looking back in time, she explains, and into the earth itself, is what allows her to bring innovation and originality to her buildings.
Alongside her team, which fluctuates between 25 and 30 people, the goal is to capture the “fragile monumentality” that characterizes her vision. We spoke to Ghotmeh about her upcoming projects, her passion for archaeology, and why we all need a reminder that it’s actually bacteria that rule the world. As a child you wanted to be an archaeologist, and it’s something that has continued to have a big influence on you.
Where do you think that passion came from? I grew up in Beirut, which is still very unstable. You can see the history and scars in the city. Buildings have been destroyed and renovated, and the Mediterranean light brings a unique contrast that heightens materiality.
At the same time, I spent my weekends and summers in a village in the mountains where my father is from. I remember seeing masons working with stones and earth. As a child you imagine, “I can build this house.
” How does archaeology show up in your work today? Archaeology is a process of finding architecture that has been swallowed by the earth. That capacity to become one with our environment is fascinating and something that nourishes the way I conceive of my work. Every project is about a quest—like a dig.
It’s about finding traces that already exist and bringing them to life in an original way. The field of archaeology is always telling you stories about how we used to build and interact with our environment, constantly putting in perspective what has been done already. You recently completed a major project for Hermès—a vast workshop made with 500,000 locally sourced bricks and geothermal energy for heating—which received France’s highest energy- and carbon-performance ranking.
That seems like a wonderful example of the mindset you’re describing. Exactly. It’s not just an obsession with ecology, it’s also a quest for more sustainable materials.
Any act of building has to have a positive impact on its environment. Materials that are bio- or geo-sourced become part of a circular mode of production, where everything you extract can be brought back to the ground. The Hermès design is rooted in that relationship: The bricks we used were handmade from earth found on the site.
They speak to the possibility of the architecture becoming a ruin one day and eventually being reused. In that sense, it closes the loop of archaeology. How would you summarize your design ethos? At its core, my work is about the existence of a piece of architecture that could be very present and at the same time very capable of disappearing or dissolving.
There is a sense of complex simplicity and fragile monumentality. I look to partner with clients who are willing to take the time and to do quality architecture. It’s a lot of effort to build; let’s make it worthwhile.
Heritage and tradition are very important in your work—why is that? In architecture, we’re acknowledging the importance of our collective unconscious—the fact that we’re not only rational beings, but that we’re driven by the memory and history that constitutes us. It’s about trying to listen to who we are as humans and perform that through architecture. When you’re acknowledging that complexity, you’re also allowing architecture to be more inclusive of people, and more in tune with our emotions.
Of course, we learn from the past, but it’s deeper than that. As institutions take an increasingly considered approach to the design philosophy of the architects they’re commissioning, it feels like your mentality has really tapped into the zeitgeist. Do you think there’s something about your approach that’s especially timely? When I started my practice and was looking at the relationship between architecture and nature, I wasn’t trying to respond to anything.
It came spontaneously because I was very attached to nature. It was a way to see beauty and survive in a context like Lebanon and Beirut. That’s something that I always held on to.
When you’re designing a building, you cannot ignore the environment or the people who are going to use it. If we look at the societies that came before us, they were more in tune with themselves and nature—able to live in a more ecosystemic way. The relationship to tradition is becoming very relevant today, and I’m happy to be one of the architects participating in developing that mode of thinking.
What does your process look like in practical terms? It always starts with questions. What is the site like? What are the resources? Are there any local artisans close by? We try to understand the history of the place and the typologies of architecture that exist there. At the same time, like most architects, I have my Moleskine and am always sketching or doing watercolors as I think about how all of that information nourishes the project.
It’s never a linear process. It’s like detective work. The narrative is not just a concept that you’re selling a project with—it’s embedded into the final project itself.
I’m happy when people experience a building and feel the lived experience. That’s very important. Then it becomes collective and goes beyond the architect.
You’re currently at work on two major projects, the National Pavilion of the Kingdom of Bahrain, for next spring’s Expo 2025 Osaka , and the forthcoming museum of contemporary art in AlUla, Saudi Arabia. Tell me a bit about working on such distinct spaces. When I was asked to design the pavilion, I considered the common elements between Bahrain and Osaka: Both cities are close to the water and have a sea culture.
It was very important to partner with local craftspeople and use techniques they had already mastered. I did not want to impose another method of construction. This is why resources are so important.
Wood was an obvious material. We specifically used un-engineered planks that could be reused once the pavilion is dismantled. The form is intended to evoke a boat that is under construction, getting ready to take us all together on a journey.
Inside the boat there is a smaller, womb-like structure with stretched fabric on which a story about the sea culture of Bahrain will be projected. It’s a very immersive, intimate experience. The museum, on the other hand, is in the desert that the Nabataeans crossed, and where they built their tombs within the rocks.
It’s an amazing landscape. Working in this space, you learn a lot about climatic architecture and how we can respond to our environment in a better way. It will be an oasis and question what role a contemporary-art museum can play in bringing people together and connecting art with nature.
Where do you see the future of architecture going? What’s on the horizon that you find exciting? Today is what makes the future. It’s all about focusing on new materials to work with—more ecological and sustainable bio-sourced materials. As architects, we’re constantly struggling with consumption and waste.
I’m most excited about projects that develop and use new materials, like hemp and mushrooms. I grew up with a desire to build as a way of bringing people together to counter war. When I see all the destruction around the world, and that we’re always on the fringe of conflict, it’s troubling.
It makes me feel even more of the urge to drive positive change and build rather than demolish. We’ve certainly got a lot to learn. I read some time back that as bodies, we’re composed of more bacteria than human cells.
That thought allows us to realize that we are a continuity of nature. As humans, we’re constantly looking to control our environment and control nature, while really we are nature. When we realize that, it underlines the strength of our relationship with nature.
There’s no duality. It also brings modesty to us as a human species. We’re not actually ruling the world.
.
