An architect among architectures - Interview with Hüseyin Yanar
By Öykü Jeyan Taşdan and Laura Kitti Kirby, Spiritual Architecture 2026
We tend to recognize architecture in what has been built. Yet architecture may also reveal itself in the ordinary, the overlooked, and the unexpected. Where, then, does architecture truly begin?
The work and reflections of architect, academic, and author Hüseyin Yanar open up new ways of thinking about architecture and our relationship with the world around us. Having lived, worked, and taught in Türkiye, the United Kingdom, South Korea, and Finland, he moves between architecture and art, writing and drawing, practice and education. Along the way, he has cultivated a world of his own, shaped as much by life beyond architecture as by the spaces he has designed.
There is no single architecture in Yanar’s world, but many architectures to encounter, question, and discover. Moving among them, his reflections travel between the deeply personal and the shared, between intention and chance, between what we create and what we find. They invite us to question where the architect’s role begins and ends, and how much room we leave for life to unfold beyond our designs.
In this conversation, questions of spirituality, artistic expression, and education lead us towards something more fundamental: how we perceive the world, how we make meaning, and how we find our own way of practising architecture. Drawing on memories, encounters, and experiences gathered across decades, Yanar invites us to look beyond familiar definitions without offering another in their place.
Perhaps, before learning how to create architecture, we must first learn how to see it.
ÖJT: Reading your reflections on sacred spaces reminded me of Heidegger's notion of aletheia—the unconcealment of truth, where truth is understood not as something produced, but as something that reveals itself. Similarly, many spiritual traditions understand revelation not as the accumulation of meaning, but as the gradual removal of what prevents us from seeing. If meaning is something that reveals itself rather than something we construct, should architecture aspire to create meaning, or should it instead remove what conceals it, allowing it to emerge on its own? What, then, is the architect's true role in the emergence of meaning?
Let me begin with a clichéd phrase: ‘Every person is a world unto themselves.’Every architect is different from one another, and should be. In my experience, it is not just one form of architecture that surrounds us, but many different forms.
I am an architect and academic who straddles the line between art and architecture. I have written and drawn on the nature of architecture and art in four different countries: Turkey, the UK, South Korea and Finland. I have worked alongside students at architecture and art schools and learnt a great deal from them. Were it not for the students, I would be a very different person indeed. Alongside my academic work, I have designed numerous projects, and whilst some of these have been built, I have come to realise with increasing clarity that what we do as architects goes far beyond simply creating the built environment around us; it is, in fact, about constructing ourselves. In this regard, I shall begin my answers to your questions with the last one.
From Töölö Bay, Photo by H.Yanar
“The architect’s true role in the emergence of meaning” is, first and foremost, to construct themselves in every moment they live. Through this construction, the concepts you mentioned above gradually fall into place. Depending on our perspective on the world, seeing and learning to see, as well as thinking whilst seeing and learning to think, are inseparable; indeed, they intertwine. Seeing is of the utmost importance; it can be learnt, and what lies behind what we see can be interpreted, thereby opening doors before us. Yes, it is akin to the veils gradually lifting from our eyes and our thoughts. I would say that we gradually become freer.”
Our surroundings are full of signs and clues. Whatever you are doing, it becomes very important to sense and follow these relevant clues when the time is right. These are not literal but are usually intuitive and based on feeling. However, we must be ready to notice them, to see them, and to be able to perceive them. ‘If you seek water, water will find you’ – I believe that was a well-known saying of Mevlana. Or, as some meditation books state at the beginning: ‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears.’ Please do not think I am saying these things – or the points I listed earlier – from a fatalistic perspective. When the sky begins to cloud over, we sense that rain is coming from the clouds even without knowing the weather forecast. What you experience during the day or in daily life is reflected in your dreams. If there’s something on your mind—whatever it is you’re trying to create—it already forms a backdrop in your mind, whether you want it to or not. It’s something like that. Finding the method varies from person to person. In a sense, the experiments and sketches that follow the clues we encounter pave the way for the process. At that point, you’re following the trail. In other words, you become a traveller, so to speak. I believe that to do this, you mustn’t be afraid of making mistakes. I know that, with a few exceptions, this isn’t often permitted in the world of education. Being rigid keeps both the teacher and the student within a safe zone. Instead of believing in this and taking every step accordingly, we need to open the door to spontaneous moments and chance—and open it wide. Then, if you’re prepared, the rest will follow, and you’ll move towards the advanced stages of seeing, thinking and interpreting, on your own terms.
Let us consider the pattern of ripples spreading out when a stone we throw hits the water. It is as though a person’s inner world lies within the very first of these ripples, right at the centre. The second ring contains daily life and all its various snapshots, both physical and mental. We must observe these carefully. Beyond the architecture we are familiar with, other forms of architecture emerge more from that very place. In the next ring, nature envelops our daily lives and us, encompassing everything. The sky, the clouds, the shores, the waves, sunrises and sunsets, rain, snow, and the snow and ice that come and go each year, altering the boundaries of towns—particularly in the Finnish lands where I live. Once again, we find ourselves amidst other forms of architecture. But, as I shall repeat time and again, we must not simply look at them as they are; we must look beyond what we see. The time for this will come. Yes, to summarise once more: to learn to see, to see more deeply, to interpret what you see beyond the surface, to go beyond it – this is, in turn, to build ourselves. In my view, this is the architect’s truly never-ending role; and, of course, for academic architects like us, it involves sharing one’s findings and experiments with others, and listening to others—particularly students. Architectural practices should be the same. The voices of architecture students—who are, in a sense, a silent multitude—must be heard. Indeed, they should be the ones setting the agenda, and schools, their administrations, and experienced lecturers must be prepared for this. Experienced individuals should, as it were, watch the young people’s games from the sidelines. They should, as it were, act as coaches. Students, with their fresh and unjaded thoughts and feelings, can shed light on education and provide very clear insights at every level.
ÖJT: A religion-neutral sacred space inevitably gives up the shared beliefs, rituals, and symbols that have traditionally shaped spiritual experience. Instead, it must rely on the atmosphere of the place itself, where silence is understood not as the absence of sound, but as a heightened state of awareness that makes us more attentive to both the world around us and ourselves. Yet if this awareness is experienced differently by each individual, can architecture still create a shared sense of the sacred? Or is the architect's role simply to create the conditions in which each person discovers meaning in their own way?
Think Corner, JKMM Architects, 2000, Helsinki, photos by H.Yanar
Academy Book Store, Alvar Aalto,1969, Helsinki, photos by H.Yanar
I suppose the field concerning the reflection of spiritual experiences in a space is not one that can be easily defined, and it may vary from person to person. However, it is possible to answer ‘yes’ to both of your questions, taking certain circumstances into account. I would also like to say that I am not entirely convinced we should strive to create spaces with the atmosphere of sacred places everywhere. This is because such an approach could also erode the uniqueness of spaces designed for other purposes and serving different functions. Yet we know that, in some cases, even sacred cities have been established.
Of course, this cannot be said of all of them, but sacred and spiritual places are, for most of us, places where we find a quiet corner, so to speak, and turn inwards. There, we inevitably find ourselves thinking, and we are—or can be—left alone with our thoughts. This atmosphere can sometimes be felt in a library, a museum, or any place where you wish to find peace and quiet. Let me give some concrete examples from the country where I live. For instance, in Helsinki, there is a central building designed by JKMM Architects called ‘Think Corner’, intended as a gathering space for University of Helsinki students’ activities, with its doors opening onto two separate streets. If you’re sitting at the tables in the main hall at the centre of the building, you might sense a mysterious and profound atmosphere when the artificial lighting dims slightly, or if you happen to be there early, or when the crowd has dispersed. This is a high-ceilinged space where light streams in through three distinctive windows above. I imagine it is possible to sense a transcendent atmosphere in this space, whether you are working, sitting with others, or even whilst someone is speaking on the temporary podium set up there.
The light, particularly when it comes from above, lends a special quality to the living space. We know that Alvar Aalto, Raili and Raima Pietilä, and other Finnish architects have produced many other skilful examples in this northern country, where light is so sorely needed on dark days. One of the Pietiläs’ most significant designs, the Dipoli building, made a profound impression on me the first time I entered it years ago, precisely because of its unique, spiritual atmosphere. It gives one the sensation of stepping into a cave. Aalto’s Academy Library in Helsinki city centre, whilst bright thanks to its roof-window installations—which, with light streaming in from above, resemble unique volumetric ice formations—nonetheless harbours a mystery akin to that found in sacred spaces. In the works of Juha Leiviska, who attempts to capture light through a succession of walls—both on the sides of the building and from the ceilings—a similar ethereal atmosphere can be found not only in churches but also in libraries and homes. I say ‘can be found’ because I meant that if we enter those buildings with this understanding, we will perceive it.
Of course, the forests of Finland that I’ve experienced are, I suppose, the very heart of this ethereal and mystical atmosphere for architects, artists and designers living in the north. Here, one can find marvellous insights into light, shadow, reflection, place, ground, permeability and the transformations of walls – a reflection of the deep values that have been ingrained in our minds since the cave-dwelling era, whether we like it or not. It is, after all, no coincidence that the Finns say, ‘The forests are our churches’. So, in a sense, those who think in this way look beyond what they see and perceive a forested place as a church; they can feel it. In this natural setting, as you say, ‘a shared sense of the sacred’ emerges.
From Mäntsälä and Roivuvuori, Finland, photos by H.Yanar
Alongside these few examples, there is an underground church in Helsinki (Temppeliaukion Kirkko) designed years ago by two Finnish architects, which sparked major debates within the architectural community at the time and was eventually built. I have also written about this building on two occasions. The first piece, which emerged after I spoke to one of the designers, was published in Turkey. Although it is in Turkish, it has been translated into English and can be read via the link below and the links I will add beneath the subsequent replies. (1) Later, this piece was further developed and included in my book *Muotokuvia* (Portraits), published in Finnish in 2011. This sacred space—timeless, that is, not bound to any particular era—is one of my favourite places. It is one of the most visited places in Finland. Whether you believe in it or not, whether you’re from a different country, whether you’re an architect or not, you’ll find something here for yourself. Perhaps you’ll find yourself on the threshold of the sacred, within your own inner world, or perhaps this atmosphere of sacredness will deepen it even further. In any case, there is a shared depth, a shared mystery, and a shared sense of emotion and feeling here for most people. I believe that here, the two architect brothers have played their roles exceptionally well, creating the conditions in which everyone discovers meaning in their own way. However, as in the previous examples—which could be multiplied further—even if the project does not set out with the intention of creating a sacred space, you can still find the spiritual atmosphere you seek in certain buildings. As for your final question, the architect’s role is, of course, to create the conditions in which those who use the space—those who come there—can each discover their own meaning. If we rephrase your question by replacing ‘architect’ with ‘architecture lecturer’ and expand its scope, the role of the architecture lecturer is also to create the conditions in which each student discovers meaning in their own way. I would say it is to ensure that students open doors not to just one, but to many forms of architecture, and to help them find their own architectural voice.
Underground Church, (Temppeliaukion Kirkko), Timo and Tuomo Suomalainen,1969, Helsinki, photos by H.Yanar
(1) https://www.arkitera.com/gorus/cok-tanrili-mimarlik-yeralti-dunyasi-uzerine/
ÖJT: As architects, we make countless decisions on behalf of others: where to walk, where to pause, what to see, what to reveal and what to conceal. In doing so, we inevitably shape the way a place is experienced. Yet the experiences that stay with us most deeply often seem to arise precisely when they escape design, expectation, and control. Has architecture become too eager to design experience? Where do you think the boundary lies between creating the conditions for an experience and overdetermining it?
You’re right! ‘Things getting out of control’ can be very significant. A completely unforeseeable event can change everything—the entire narrative. Let’s consider a person or a family. Whilst life is simply going on as it always has—or however it may be—suddenly, let’s say, an accident happens, and this single detail alters all the parameters. It can even affect all the family members and those around them. Plans and programmes are thrown into disarray, and everything—life itself—starts over, step by step, piece by piece. Architecture is not like life. It relies on design, plans and programmes in relation to the built environment around us. This is where the problem begins. In education too, when it comes to learning, the project may need to be redefined and reinterpreted. A project is carried out step by step, quickly or slowly, with a known beginning and end, based on the parameters set at the outset. There is a certain logic to the project process, and it differs from the way life works. This is where the discrepancies between architects and life arise. If I were to take it a step further, I could even say that architects live somewhat detached from life. In my view, architectural education should connect these two—that is, life and architecture—or bring them closer together.
This is not the case in the lives of some artists or art students working in the arts or in certain artistic disciplines. Artists are far more attuned to the moments of life—indeed, they are at the very heart of it—than architects are. For some artists, even the most dramatic stories in their lives open doors for their art. Whilst there are architects who attempt to do the same, many have dedicated their lives to building structures and, in a sense, engage in abstraction through walls, floors, windows opening onto the outside, roofs or coverings, shells and so on, with the majority of designers focusing on the building’s form. A project is, from the outset, a highly ambitious endeavour that requires knowing almost everything and striving to reach that known outcome—especially if the building is to be constructed. Even if you speak to the client or those who will live there and use the space to understand their lives, designing the project remains a very difficult task. We are designing and shaping the lives of those who will live in the building. This is a huge claim. There are, of course, professionals who do this very well, but designing a building and bringing it to life is truly a highly responsible task. I suppose we must be prepared for this and wait for the right time, just as we do in life.
On the other hand, over-planning the steps of an experience feels rather like repeating the same things at the same times every day in our daily lives. But if we allow for spontaneous moments and a sense of spontaneity, or if we don’t plan too much, or if we have that sort of spirit, we may encounter very different experiences. A sudden beam of light streaming through the window and falling upon an object, or landing on sofas or the floor, or an unexpected snapshot you come across on the road or in a corner of nature, can open up a completely different path for us. Such an attitude can guide us whether we are writing, taking part in a competition, or in the process of designing a building. Perhaps stepping back from a direct, one-to-one perspective—in a sense, circling around what is to be done beforehand—and proceeding with clues that can be interpreted reflectively rather than seeking a direct answer may pave the way for us. This may help us discover our own architecture; what we wish to create may gradually emerge from the mist, and those traces may become perceptible. Of course, we might consider that beyond these well-known parameters—and beyond the single architecture that is created, beyond money, luxury and prestige—there are many forms of architecture all around us.
Chapel of St. Lawrence Competition, 2003, Vantaa, Helsinki, by A & H.Yanar / Camberra Finnish Embassy Competition,1997, by A & H.Yanar / Orpheus North Architects
Sofi’s World, 2008, Jollas, built in Helsinki, by A & H.Yanar / Orpheus North Architects
I should also mention this. We shouldn’t just keep building structures in this world. On the contrary, architectural education should be geared towards rectifying mistakes and building fewer structures. I wrote an article on this subject years ago. (1) In that article, I tried to describe the looming great danger. (1) https://www.arkitera.com/gorus/dunyanin-sonuna-dogru-mimarlik-kagittan-kentler/
LKK: You often talk about "living with sketches". During the pandemic, you started drawing your raw emotions on everyday napkins because standard paper wasn't around. Why is sketching on something as simple as a napkin so powerful for an architect? How does it help you capture invisible things like the "rhythm" or atmosphere of a place?
Red Journey 2023 H Yanar
Of course, it depends on how we view architecture, but if architecture does not go hand in hand with art, it remains rather dry. I studied architecture many years ago at an art school, the Department of Architecture at the Istanbul State Academy of Fine Arts (Mimar Sinan University of Fine Arts). In the early years, we had joint workshops with students from the various art departments, and I took ‘Fundamentals of Art Education’ classes from a legendary team of lecturers—who were leading figures of the time from both the architecture and art departments—alongside students from other fine arts and architecture departments. Within this framework, we undertook personal projects and collaborative workshops. It was during those years that I came to know art and artists in depth. This was incredibly valuable, and I have never forgotten that sense of togetherness, the essence of art, and its utterly unique nature. By the time my journeys began following my years as a lecturer at the same university, the spirit of those years had already become an integral part of me. At the Oxford School of Architecture (Oxford Brookes University) in the UK, and later at the architecture schools of Aalto and Tampere Universities in Finland, where I moved to, we ran architecture workshops that were closely intertwined with art; indeed, for two years, together with my fellow sculpture lecturer, I led a workshop at the Department of Time and Space at what was then the Finnish Academy of Fine Arts in Helsinki (University of the Arts), where, together with my fellow sculpture lecturer, I led a workshop with art students from various disciplines as part of a two-year project entitled ‘Borders’. Eventually, we travelled to Istanbul, and on our return, my fellow lecturer—with whom I had co-led the workshop—and I held our exhibition in Helsinki. As part of the work carried out in our ‘Boundaries’ workshop, I had reconstructed the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul to the north.
Some traces from the marble floor of Hagia Sophia, Helsinki- Istanbul, 2011, by H.Yanar
Father Hagia Sophia, Collage, Helsinki- Istanbul, 2011, by H.Yanar
Meanwhile, I had long since begun writing about the artists and architects in Finland whom I felt a close connection with. When I wrote about artists, I actually stepped into their worlds. I delved into the secrets and insights of art, artists and even art students regarding creation and life. Artists were very different from architects. I made very close friends amongst the artists, and some became my students. To answer your question, my involvement with art – and, as an architect, my association not only with fellow architects but also with artists – has, of course, greatly altered my perspective on architecture and profoundly influenced me. Between you and me, I’ve become something of an oddball architect. I’ve practically created an island for myself between architecture and art, and I’m very happy with that. At the ‘Art & Architecture: Conversations on Art & Architecture Without Boundaries’ symposium in Istanbul, which we organised together with well-known Finnish architects and artists such as Juhani Pallasmaa, Kaarina Kaikkonen, Samuli Woolston and Seppo Salminen, I presented my talk entitled ‘I Found My Island’ at the very start of the session, alongside the other speakers’ presentations under their own headings. It can be viewed and read via the two links below. (1) (2)
My advice to young people is to be patient and wait for the right moment. Of course, whilst they wait, they should equip themselves, realise that even the smallest, most unexpected detail can open up great opportunities, fill their own personal ‘drawers’ and ‘corners’, and strive to be ready for new steps. Every day, to the best of their ability, they should place the ‘legendary trio’—reading, writing and drawing—at the centre of their lives to give their lives a rhythm. They must place great trust in their own feelings and inner worlds, beyond all external factors, and build themselves up upon these. Rather than being members of a uniformed, homogeneous ‘army of architects’ bound by standard rules, they should find and choose their own paths. They should learn to see and, by striving to go beyond what they see, conduct spatial experiments; they should open the way for experimental approaches in their designs and daily lives, and engage in sketch-based work at every level. And, of course, most importantly, stepping outside the realm of architecture from time to time can be of great benefit to them. What they see there, beyond architecture, will transform them into entirely different people when they return.
Roots, After eating porridge with Bilberry (Puuro & Mustikka), 2020, Kallio, Helsinki, by H.Yanar
(2) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGYDOK6-oyo
LKK: You have spent a lot of time teaching and working alongside non-architect artists. You once said that people must first create something that truly belongs to themselves before they try to explain it. How did surrounding yourself with artists change your view of architecture? What advice do you have for young designers who want to find their own unique voice instead of just following standard commercial formulas?
Yes, you’re right; ever since my student days, I’ve much preferred stories that are rough around the edges to those that are polished and flawless. I also talk quite a lot about the rough draft and living with it. Over the years, I’ve written and spoken quite a lot about sketches on various platforms. In fact, towards the end of last year, I took part in a discussion moderated by my academic colleague Nezih Aysel from the Department of Architecture at Mimar Sinan University of Fine Arts. The title was ‘Living with Sketches: Between Writing, Drawing and Photography’. (1) I also recall writing an article entitled ‘The Sketch of Life: Music, Architecture and Rhythm’. In a sense, a person also becomes part of their own sketch within the sketch of life. (2)
I believe that, in one respect, the role of the sketch in architecture—that is, its function as a supporting actor on the path towards the finished work—does it a disservice. We see that some sketches are works in their own right, much like a painter’s painting, with their open-ended nature. Of course, in a sense, the sketch is a unifier, a bringer-together, perhaps one that understands both sides—as if it were fluent in both languages—between art and architecture. In architecture, far beyond the process of seamless construction and creation, the sketch acts as a guide in three dimensions and in installations alike. We have much to learn from it, with the countless rich variations brought about by everyone’s individual touch. We must place great importance on thinking and developing ideas through the sketch.
Morning Rain in Red, 2024, Kallio, Helsinki, by H.Yanar
I did draw on napkins from time to time during the pandemic, but my first encounter with them had taken place much earlier, after I’d returned to Finland from South Korea. I’d stopped for a break at the Kappeli Café Restaurant, situated at the end of the Esplanade in Helsinki, whilst out for a walk. I fancied drawing something. The notebook and papers I always carry with me weren’t with me that day. I’d taken my pens but forgotten the paper. When I ordered a coffee, they gave me a napkin with it. Whilst drinking my coffee, I began to sketch my feelings onto it using a smooth-flowing ink pen I’d chosen from the pens I had with me. What a coincidence that on that day I discovered the napkins—which for years we’d simply tossed aside once we’d finished with them—in their brand-new form. In fact, after curators saw my work, I was invited to the 2015 Tallinn Architecture Biennale, where some of those napkins were transformed into large-scale installations. They were exhibited as the entrance door leading from the lobby of the Power Station—one of the two buildings hosting the Biennale, where some scenes from Andrei Tarkovsky’s famous film *Stalker* were filmed—to the main exhibition space. I even gave a presentation there entitled *Urban Meditation / Napkin Architecture: Forgetting and Redesigning Architecture*. (3)
My Napkins, Gateway to Main Hall, Tallinn Architecture Bienal, 2015, photos by H.Yanar
The bits of paper and napkins we crumple up and throw into bin bins can, in fact, say a great deal when the occasion arises. My article ‘Architecture in the Bin’ was intended to highlight precisely this. (4) South Korea lay at the root of the story that led me to discover napkins. I taught at the Faculty of Architecture at Dong-eui University in Busan between 2013 and 2014. Some time after returning to Finland, I wrote about my experiences there under the title ‘The Architecture of Walking: Urban Meditation’ in the ‘Opinions’ section of the Arkitera website, where I have published many articles. In South Korea, I had learnt to walk—from a different perspective. (5) Subsequently, these ways of walking also led me to a whole range of other projects, including my discovery of the napkins I described above.
But I didn’t start out with the intention of drawing on a tissue out of the blue. If that had been the case, it would have been a different story altogether. There was a mystery in not knowing how it would end. I found myself confronted not only with the randomness that lay beyond the programming of those delicate, fragile yet equally flexible and strong napkins—their folds, and the moments filtering down from the layers above—but also with layers of what I saw that I’d never even known existed until that very day. When I looked at them and experienced them, the napkins struck me as far more powerful than they appeared. Yes, it was a simple thing, as you emphasised in your question. Yet beyond this simplicity lay another depth, and it was very powerful when touched. By its very nature, the tissue paper looked and felt very sketch-like, or perhaps it had a quality that opened the door to a very different kind of sketch-like quality. I sensed this the very first moment I experienced it, and the process began; it was funny, yet doors had opened onto the very heart of a very serious endeavour. Moreover, the tissue paper was extremely delicate and fragile, yet it was also a very strong, deep and permeable type of paper that seemed to know exactly what it was doing. When you drew on it, moments lay one on top of the other; the ink would seep from one into the next, or the drawn moments would accumulate in layer upon layer. If you embarked on a journey with it, you’d discover the next step, what you were going to do, and the clues that were already there to guide you.
“In order to capture intangible things such as the ‘rhythm’ or atmosphere of a place, we must first capture our emotions and sensations, and bring them face to face with what you see here to facilitate a dialogue. If we see a napkin simply as a napkin, we’ll toss it into the bin once we’re done with it. But if we see beyond that, the moment the napkin steps out of its role as a napkin, it enters another story on different scales—including the concepts you mentioned earlier. Everything is ready to transform into one another. Everything exists within everything else. The one invisible rule, as I’ve said before, is that we must not view the napkin merely as a napkin; we must look beyond the napkin, beyond what is visible.
1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e_ggOnxOqnY&t=2s
2 https://www.arkitera.com/gorus/yasamin-eskizi-muzik-mimari-ve-ritim/
4 https://www.arkitera.com/gorus/cop-tenekesindeki-mimarlik/
5 https://www.arkitera.com/gorus/yurumenin-mimarligi-urban-meditasyon/
LKK: In your dialogues with Juhani Pallasmaa, you explored how silence helps us discover who we are. You have also spent your life traveling between places like Istanbul, Helsinki, and South Korea. How can an architect design a physical space to feel like a quiet sanctuary? How have your travels across different cultures shaped the way you bring silence into your designs?
I discovered silence in Finland. When I first arrived in this country, my wife and I were strolling through the centre of Helsinki. Although there were plenty of people around – at bus stops or here and there – I was very surprised, even somewhat shocked, by the absence of sound. ‘These people never speak,’ I said. She gave me a reply I’ll never forget. ‘They do speak, but you can’t hear them – you will!’ she said. And that is exactly what happened. The Finnish world was one of the quietest places I had ever seen, and this silence was not a physical silence. It lay deep within both the country and its people, in a very profound, mental place. It was a silence that covered everything. There was also a frightening aspect to it. In fact, years ago, in 2011, when my first book was published, the Helsinki Sanomat magazine had conducted a rather extensive interview with me. They’d even titled it in Finnish, in large type, as ‘The Architect Afraid of Silence’. But at first glance, this world of silence I encountered—with all its facets, its shadows and light, its voids, its nature, its forests, the ice that reshapes the boundaries of cities, and its myriad spaces, artists and architects—had become a paradise for me to explore and interpret. Most importantly, it had created a cross-cultural bridge within my inner world, uniting the noisy world I came from with this silent world. I had come to love Finland, the Finnish people and silence very much.
Juhani Pallasmaa, whom I met in the north and who holds a very special place in my heart, practically opened the doors to this country for me through our many conversations. I first met him in 1998. Juhani had described the concept of ‘emptiness’ years ago during the final jury of the Otaniemi Masterclass—which I attended at Kaapelitehdas alongside Peter MacKeith, Tom Simons and several other tutors—whilst discussing a postgraduate student’s project. He was talking about the city squares of Finland. He had spoken of the dynamism of empty space, of its openness to imagination. According to Juhani, emptiness held a secret, an endless potential. It carried the sense that, at any moment, the square might come alive; that vast emptiness might suddenly bear witness to a completely different revolution and take on an entirely new atmosphere. At the time, having come from a Mediterranean world, I had experienced this approach; I had imagined the difference between a shared space in the city—shared on various scales—and that of the north, envisioning emptiness and fullness, silence and sound in entirely different ways. But the ‘imagination of emptiness’ that Juhani spoke of had taken root in my mind; it had become the ‘revolution of silence’. I had always remembered the provocative nature of that emptiness—and indeed that silence could take on such a form too—as if the only difference lay in their genres. With this perspective, I began to observe the Finnish spaces around me, the landscape that changes with every moment of every season – and, of course, the people who inhabit that landscape. As I’ve written in other publications before, Finland was the homeland of silence, and those who live here practise the art of silence.
When I first met Juhani, we had quite a long chat. When he saw the work I’d done, my projects and my sketches, he said, ‘These could work in art as well as architecture.’ And that’s exactly how it turned out. In a sense, I’d already been bringing architecture and art together for a very long time, even before I came here – as I explained in one of the earlier questions. It was an instinctive approach. I’d come to know both architects and artists at the very source. In my book *Portraits: Sketches from Finnish Architecture and Art*, with a foreword by Juhani Pallasmaa and published in Finnish, I envisaged placing an artist and an architect side by side as a pair, forming a series of such pairs. The significant artists and architects of Finnish culture had gradually transformed into characters within the long space I had imagined. It was as though I had built ‘a special space just for myself’ in another world, with rhythmic, massive columns arranged in pairs from one end to the other. I had spent years amongst these columns. It had become a place where I would enter at one end, move slowly whilst looking around, pass through to the other end and exit through another door, or simply linger amongst them for a long time, finding myself. It was, as it were, a northern sanctuary of my own imagination. I wrote this for the artists Kaarina Kaikkonen, Silja Rantanen, Tarja Pitkänen-Walter, Jussi Tiainen and Juhani Tuominen, and the architects Juha Leiviskä, Raili and Reima Pietilä, Jouni Kaipia, Timo and Tuomo Suomalainen, and Erkki Elomaa. Finally, in ‘Sofi’s World’—the story of a house we designed and built in the Jollas area of Helsinki—the north and south came together. Through all this, the space I mentioned earlier had become symbolic. My southern vocality and my northern silence came together in this symbolic space.
Cover of Portraits / Poster of Exhibition, Two Paths to Silence / Article of Helsinki Sanomat for H. Yanar, Architect who Fairs Silence
This Finnish Sanctuary was, for me, something I could never have imagined from the outset—it was built, as it were, through spontaneous encounters, anecdotes and writings that came together along the way, and ultimately in a way that would feel to me like a ‘quiet sanctuary’. I could say that, on the one hand, it was a physical endeavour, and on the other, a mental one. This sacred space, which embraced me, had become my own special sanctuary, which I had spent years trying to create by following the clues that came my way. In Finland, apart from the book and my writings mentioned above, I drew up projects, took part in competitions – and some of them were even built – but amongst the things I did over the years, one particularly important project for me was ‘Two Paths to Silence’, which centred on silence..
My friend Jussi Tiainen, a leading architectural photographer in the Finnish world, and I decided to organise an exhibition on contemporary Finnish churches. He would take the photographs, whilst I would write down my thoughts and feelings about the places we visited. The Finnish Museum of Architecture had shown interest in our proposal. It was there that our collaborative work—our duet—bringing these impressions together could take centre stage and be exhibited. The museum, which organises exhibitions and takes them abroad, served as an important window onto Finnish architecture. We drew up a programme, selected the venues, and set off on long journeys in Jussi’s car, travelling from the south of the country up to the north. We experienced the sacred spaces in situ. In this silent world, within the temples and sacred spaces of this silent world, we found our own paths. The concept of silence set the pace for us here too. The title of our work was ‘Two Paths Towards Silence’ (Kaksi Polkua Hiljaisuuteen). The exhibition opened with a special ceremony in the main hall of the Finnish Museum of Architecture on 8 April 2014. Excerpts from the text written about the exhibition in the Finnish Museum of Architecture’s publication read as follows:
“The silence that lies at the heart of Finland and the Finnish people is profound and unique. For the local people living here, silence is, above all, a personal space, a place to be. Silence is life itself… This exhibition follows in the footsteps of two friends—one a photographer, the other an architect. They come from very different cultures and worlds and have followed very different paths in life. Their cultures and backgrounds are fundamentally different, yet now their paths are converging. Deep down, this exhibition has something else to say. It speaks of respecting one another without limiting the experiences of people from different cultures, beliefs, concepts and countries; of transcending boundaries; and of the desire to live side by side. Each of us always represents the culture into which we were born. No matter where in the world we live, we all carry the burden of our cultural heritage. ‘Two Paths to Silence’ tells the story of how these paths intersect, and how photographs and words meet, blend and merge.” (1)
I would like to emphasise just how important journeys between different cultures are. Had it not been for those journeys, I would never have been able to interpret sound and silence in the way I do, nor would I have been able to find myself and my path amidst these forms of writing, drawing, sketching and construction.
(1) “Two Paths to Silence”, Finnish Architecture Biennial Review, MFA Publishing, Helsinki, 2014, s.11.
LKK: You have guided and taught students across continents for decades. Your ultimate mantra for young creatives is to "imagine, go beyond, and stand behind your dreams." For the students reading this blog, what is the most important lesson about the "soul" of a building that you wish someone had taught you when you were a student?
Several years ago, the Arkitera website conducted an interview with me in 2011. They used the sentence I said during that conversation – ‘Schools should teach children to dream’ – as the headline in the published article. (1) I can reproduce a small excerpt from it here.
“Alongside facts, schools should teach students to dream. After all, once they have finished school, pupils will find themselves in a very different environment. Some may never pursue this career, whilst others may never have the opportunity to do so. Schools are a vital place for students to discover themselves, to create their own dreams within their own worlds, to build upon them later and develop them further, and to create their own architecture. To this end, students must be given unlimited support. Architectural education prepares one for life. What sort of life would it be without dreams, without support!… Beyond all titles, far removed from a competitive world and grading systems—rather than forcing everyone into the same mould—we need to create an environment where diverse architectural approaches exist and are tested. I believe that if we do this, students will discover themselves more fully and go much further.”
It would be marvellous to extend the insights we gain from schools about ‘imagination’ to all aspects of life, so that everyone can find their own path. We must not forget the maxim ‘Everything is within everything’, whose principles were first set out by Anaxagoras in ancient times and which was also reiterated by my teacher Muammer Onat, who has influenced me so greatly. Education, too, should be built, in part, upon the dialogue between reality and imagination. Of course, ‘transformation’ is a key concept, acting almost like the cement that binds all the pieces together. It is a process that can be developed through experiments in seeing anew and by taking a fresh look. But imagination is the catalyst for this entire process.
You ask: ‘What is the most important lesson for students regarding the “spirit” of a building?’ I would say: first, trust your feelings. I would tell them that each student will discover everything about a building’s spirit for themselves. I would suggest that they seek out and explore buildings that are timeless, rather than those with a facelift or those designed to follow the latest trends. Furthermore, the way one perceives a building’s spirit can vary greatly depending on the observer’s education, worldview and interpretation of life. However, the spirit of some buildings is quite distinct. What makes that building meaningful goes far beyond its mere form. Your emotions become one with the atmosphere.
If you were to ask me to name three buildings like this, I’d choose the first two from the regions where I’ve lived in the north, and I’d round it off with one in Istanbul.
Underground Church, Suomalainen Brothers,1969, Helsinki, photo by H.Yanar / Dipoli, Raili and Raima Pietilä, 1969, Helsinki, Pietilä’s Archive
Hagia Sophia, Isidoros and Anthemius, 532 537, Istanbul, Photo by H. Yanar
As I mentioned in one of your questions above, the Helsinki Underground Church (Temppeliaukion Kirkko), designed by the Suomalainen Brothers in 1969, is one of the most significant and timeless structures of all time. Its story is also an instructive lesson in architecture; from the competition to its construction, it offers us vital lessons in architecture.
The second building is the Dipoli Building by Raima and Raili Pietila. Although it was actually built, it is a structure that, had it remained a conceptual sketch, would be a prime candidate for one of the world’s most significant examples of its kind. The third structure is the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. It is a very special example of those I have mentioned. Situated right in the heart of Istanbul, on the historic peninsula, it is a historical symbol and monument of timelessness.
The Tongdosa Temple near the city of Busan in South Korea, with its doors leading from one space to another, its interlocking spaces and its piecemeal arrangement up the mountainside, could, from a distance, be said to echo the examples mentioned above. Stonehenge, which I visited years ago, left an incredible impression on me, both as a colossal installation and for its profound mysticism and indescribable atmosphere. Of course, I must not forget ancient Pergamon. It is almost a turning point from the ancient world to the present day, with its poetic urban layout—which draws one from the hillside up to the summit—and the composition of its open and enclosed spaces. Its steep-sided theatre, nestled against the hillside and overlooking the plain, seems to be the finale of its story. Indeed, Machu Picchu in Peru and Isfahan Square in Iran—places I have not yet had the chance to visit—are special examples that have always remained in my mind and could well feature in this series.
I could conclude with the following words: ‘The most important lesson about the spirit of a building’ is to discover, feel and internalise its timelessness within your own world. But it all begins with the dialogue you establish with that structure. These timeless structures have no connection with architectural fashions; they make no effort whatsoever to look beautiful. They belong to that place, the place where they were built. They are timeless, even beyond their own era. With this spirit, they gradually come to occupy a place in your own story, just like all the examples I have mentioned above and many others besides.
Thank you very much for asking me these questions and making me think.
Hüseyin Yanar, Helsinki, 21 September 2026