Modern Forms: Nicolas Grospierre’s Ongoing Photographic Exploration of Modernist Architecture Around the World

Iker Gil: I’d like to start by asking you about your path from studying political science as well as Russian and post–Soviet studies to your architectural photography.

Nicolas Grospierre: There is no direct link or connection. On the one hand, I had practiced photography as an amateur since I was a teenager, and, on the other hand, I was interested in the former socialist countries ever since my studies. My architectural photography began in these countries and especially in the former USSR. They had this quite extraordinary aura, during the nineties, of a space that had been closed for so long, difficult to access, somehow mysterious. On top of that, they were fascinating because they exuded this atmosphere of a fallen empire and very little imagery existed of what this architecture actually looked like.

Then, the trigger happened a bit by chance. I was on a trip through the Baltic states when I noticed modernist bus stops on the side of the road: minimalist, made of concrete, with simple yet appealing shapes, and painted in bright colors. I made a photographic series out of it. Then I explored—on a theoretic level, through old books—the architecture of the Soviet Union, and I started photographing it whenever I had the chance.

IG: How did your photographic documentation of architecture over the years turn into the 2016 book Modern Forms?

NG: It was never a planned thing. Since the early 2000s, whenever I travelled somewhere, I would photograph any and every modernist building that I found interesting. I would sometimes drive specifically to photograph one building or even a whole architectural phenomenon (as in the case of soviet kolkhozes or kibbutzim in Israel); sometimes, the buildings would appear by chance after the turn of a road, unexpectedly. I would push the brakes, jump out of the car, and take photographs. After a decade and a half, I realized I had gathered an incredibly rich collection of photographs—several hundred—of such buildings. I started a Tumblr blog in 2015, which garnered over 25,000 followers after only a couple of months. This was for me the sign that there could be more than some fleeting interest for this kind of architectural photography. In 2016, I had an exhibition of these photographs at the Architectural Association gallery in London. Together with photography curator Elias Redstone, we approached Prestel, who agreed to publish it as a book.

IG: You start the photographic section of the book with a quote by Le Corbusier from Toward an Architecture: “Architecture is the learned game, correct and magnificent, of forms assembled in the light.” Why was this sentence relevant in framing your work?

NG: For one thing, I find this definition of architecture very beautiful. It is clear, yet poetic, and has a straightforwardness that really appeals to me. I also like the fact that architecture is framed through a balancing act between a subjective gaze (“magnificent”) and an objective appreciation (“correct”), which eventually has a playful, yet quasi-scientific character (“learned game”). It really resonated with my “subjective atlas,” a term which combines these two antagonistic vectors of subjectivity and objectivity. Furthermore, this sentence, in extremely lapidary terms, summed up what my work is all about: the dialogue of forms under the sun, one shape opening the door to another. I could not dream of finding a better patron to my work than Le Corbusier, although his work does not appear in my books. This is not by lack of willingness; it just happens that I did not have the chance to photograph his buildings when I was working on the book.

IG: After the publication of the book in 2016—and a new and revised edition in 2021—you have now launched a website that expands the work presented in print. Can you talk about the decision to present the project in digital form now and how it might evolve?

NG: Books are material things, and once they are out of print, they become, over time, sometimes difficult to find. I wanted to give my photographic work on modernist architecture a perennial life on its own, independent of the print version. The website is thus imagined as the permanent repository of my architectural photography, available to all.

As in the book, the photographs are arranged by the shape of the buildings depicted. However, the website makes full use of the flexibility of an online presentation, so that the viewer can interact and play around with the shapes of the buildings. On the one hand, the viewer can filter the buildings according to their shapes, and, on the other, in the future, I can include other photographs of buildings that have remained unpublished, so the website will contain several hundreds or even thousand photographs. It is an open-ended and flexible endeavor.

IG: The buildings are organized according to their formal approach, from “Arch,” “Cantilever,” and “Circle,” all the way to “Trapezoid,” “Triangle,” and “Zigzag.” Can you talk about the decision to present the atlas formally through each building’s exterior view?

NG: When I started working on the book, I was faced with a technical dilemma: how should I organize the photographs, since they depicted buildings located in various countries, by different architects, in different styles, and shot in different formats (horizontal, vertical, square)? It struck me that the only logical organizational key would be a formal one, i.e. to classify the buildings according to their shapes, to create a visual sequence where one shape would be followed by another, visually similar, and repeat this again and again and again. Eventually, once all the possibly imaginable shapes are exhausted, the image sequence leads back the first shape, the first photograph, looping thus the photographic cycle. That is the reason why the first photograph depicts a very simple shape, that of a bus stop with a cantilevered roof in the shape of a circle, visually announcing the loop to come. This looping of the images can perhaps be read as a formal trick, but relates to the idea of the globe, which has no beginning nor end, and which itself relates to that of the atlas.

Beyond the playfulness, and perhaps artificiality of the device, I find that this visual flow provides a specific aesthetic satisfaction, and it also has the virtue of showing the way modernist architecture was capable of embracing all and every imaginable shape.

IG: The buildings, located across the world, were built for different uses, under different political contexts, and in different decades of the twentieth century. In a way, it talks about the universality of modernist architecture. Despite that universality, were there particular conditions that favored the type of buildings you documented?

NG: I started documenting the buildings of the former socialist countries—Poland, the former USSR, Czechia, Slovakia—because they were the closest, geographically, from my hometown, Warsaw. I had the feeling, back then, that there was a formal specificity to the architecture of these countries. However, after traveling to many other contexts—geographical and political—I came to the conclusion that there was an incredible universality of this school of architecture (even though there are local variations), as it embodied a movement present under all latitudes: that of modernization (to be understood as the effort to foster and implement modernity in any particular country). Therefore, these buildings would appear sometimes as the reflection, the echo of societies that achieved a certain level of modern development, while in others, they are the symbol of the drive toward this development, the testimony of the effort to reach that status. This is visible, for instance, in postcolonial or countries of the Global South, where independence from former colonial countries led to a surge of this kind of architecture.

IG: Most of the buildings are public and originally built with an ambition of fostering social progress. How does the current state of the buildings, many in disrepair, relate to the ideals of modernism of improving people’s lives through architecture?

NG: I like thinking about modernist architecture as progressive social engineering, that is, the idea that the physical context in which we live creates the condition of development of a certain society: liberal, pluralistic, perhaps not egalitarian, but at least aiming at a balanced distribution of wealth. In other words, that modernism is the embodiment of the idea of progress, that tomorrow will be better than today.

Perhaps less idealistically, I appreciate this idea on paper, from a theoretical standpoint. Modernist architecture developed in democratic as well as authoritarian regimes, where progress was only a theoretical view. As a broader analysis, we know now that the idea of progress is perhaps only relevant as technical advancement. Real, in-depth social and civilizational progress has been relegated as an ideal of a bygone era. There is no linear progress. It is really an illusion; at most, a catchphrase for populistic politicians. It is quite a dreadful conclusion, I have to say, but it suffices for us to look around to grasp the downhill path our societies seem to be taking, be it the restart of wars we thought were chapters long closed, the rise of extreme and intolerant ideologies, the climate crisis, and finally the looming yet unpredictable threat from AI: the picture is bleak.

How does modernist architecture fit in this context? First, when looking back when modernism developed, I have to confess that my view of modernism as progressive social engineering was somehow flawed. It did happen, as is the case, for instance, of social housing or cultural public buildings, but there are also many cases where modernism was imposed upon, with not much regard for the people it was intended for (however this is a much wider debate). Second, when looking broadly, and in spite of all that I have said about the illusion of progress, I still long for—and regret the loss of—that moment when we did indeed believe in such a civilizational upward motion. The fact that it failed makes it all the more moving. The state of disrepair of many of the buildings I have photographed are the most adequate metaphor to all that I have said. These buildings are beautiful because they stand for illusional ideals, and the fact that these structures are in ruin only contribute to making them even more beautiful.

IG: Many of the buildings included in Modern Forms are lesser-known projects designed to support civic activities. Some of these buildings might have been built by the government and others by private institutions. Can you talk about the origin of some of these projects and how location may have played a role?

NG: Indeed, looking back at the bulk of my photographs, I realized that many of the buildings I documented were raised with the public good in mind, that they were part of what Jürgen Habermas called the “public sphere”: a space designed for the development of public discourse, the free and unfettered exchange of ideas, the growth of dialogue within a given society—and all this devoid of commercial calculus. According to Habermas, the public sphere develops in democratic and pluralistic societies; it is a prerequisite for its harmonious implementation. Practically, and in physical terms, I am thinking about all buildings dedicated to any given society for its enjoyment: libraries, concert halls, sports facilities, houses of culture, swimming pools, and the like. It is quite relevant, I should say, that many examples of such buildings that I photographed were raised in the former socialist countries, where the public sphere was rather atrophied. Another very interesting example is that of the architecture of the Israeli kibbutzim, which were in most cases built from scratch according to a master plan, where the common buildings (dining halls and houses for culture) played a central role within the urban setting and in the fostering of the community bond. Sadly, this egalitarian and progressive view of architecture is being eroded (when thinking about the kibbutzim) because of strong privatization trends. But this leads me to yet another remark: overall, I have the feeling that this paradigm of the architectural public sphere—devoid of commercial interest and value—which is so important in the modernist’s program, is being fought back in the contemporary development of architecture. There are exceptions, of course, and very significant ones, but I have this feeling that today, any building has to somehow be economically viable, something that the modernist practitioners, with their utopian visions, did not really take into consideration.

IG: Are there any buildings that are particularly important as part of the development of your project?

NG: I have a strong feeling towards the Balneological Hospital in Druskininkai, Lithuania. It was the first really crazy, incredible, and utterly beautiful building I had the chance to photograph. That was in 2003. It used to be a huge sanatorium/spa center/hospital where patients would receive all sorts of water treatments. It was built in the mid-1980s on a grand scale—that of the Soviet Union—and shut down in the late 1990s. When I stumbled upon it by chance, I was utterly struck by its fantastical yet gloomy architecture, as if Albert Speer and Antonio Gaudi had together designed a building. I photographed it passionately for a few days, and it gave me a strong impetus to look for and find other such structures. I discovered later that the hospital eventually underwent radical renovations; to be totally frank, I should say that it was defaced. This dark, dismal structure, with strange and imposing concrete shapes, had been transformed into an aqua park, with plastic-colored slides and fake palm trees, and with its most awe-inspiring feature—the water tower adorned with whirring concrete laces—torn down. I sometimes wish they had destroyed the whole thing.

IG: You have photographed thousands of buildings over the years. Would you mind sharing a couple of interesting stories that are associated with the buildings you have visited and photographed?

NG: There are a couple of interesting ones. The first relates to the Ciech Headquarters Building in Warsaw. This is a typical soc-modernist building from the 1970s that is designed with grand ambitions. It is an inverted ziggurat, cantilevered structure, whose construction started in the mid-1970s and that lasted until the early 1990s because of the lack of proper financing. It was ultimately demolished in 2010, so the actual usage of the building lasted less than the time it took to build it. This building is close to my house, and therefore I was used to seeing it, and I always liked it. When I learnt that it was going to be destroyed, I rushed to the owners—a chemical company—and I asked for their permission to shoot inside before demolition. They agreed, so I spend a few days wandering in the empty rooms and halls. I understood then why they wanted to demolish it; it was totally unpractical as an office building. The cantilevered structure required that bearing columns would strut out at seemingly random places almost everywhere inside the building, making all sorts of narrow passages and/or crannies with no real use. On top of the land value that the company was expecting to get, the unpracticality must have been an additional reason. I took many photographs, but because of these pillars and narrow spaces, the images were quite unsatisfactory as well. I decided that instead of documenting the building, I would use it in a kind of farewell performance of the building itself. With the Raster Gallery in Warsaw, we created a site-specific installation based on the interior winter garden of the building: replenishing it with exotic plants, shrubs and trees, and placing venetian mirrors as to create an illusory infinite space, made out of this lush jungle. On top of that, the gallery organized a huge concert that took place inside the building. Two weeks later, the building was torn down, together with the installation and the plants. The performance was called The Glass Trap.

The second story is related to the Spanish Cultural Heritage Institute (1967–70) in Madrid by Fernando Higueras and Antonio Miró. I had known of the existence of this building for a long time, and I wanted to document it. From the outside was easy: just point and shoot. But making interior photographs proved more difficult, as the building was heavily guarded, because of the various priceless works of art that this institution restores: Goya, Velazquez, Murillo, and the like. The guard that was at the entrance told me that I could only shoot the interior patio—that was more than nothing. I started shooting and, after some time, I felt a presence behind my back. A man was looking at me while I was working. At that point, he asked me, “Why do you take photographs?” and I replied “Well, because I am fond of this kind of architecture; I find it very beautiful and interesting.” He then said, “I guess you are in luck today. I am the director of the Institute. Let me take you on tour, and you can take all the photos that you want.” This is exactly what happened. I spent the whole afternoon with him, and documented the building through and through, including its breathtaking library.

IG: There are two photographs of buildings located in Chicago: the 1959 Pride Cleaners by Gerald Siegwart and the 1968 University Hall at the University of Illinois at Chicago by Walter Netsch of SOM. What interested you in those two buildings?

NG: I have the tendency not to focus or even look at one particular building, even though, as you noticed in my previous response, there are exceptions. The workflow, when thinking about the whole project, is two-fold. First, there is the photographing. I photograph any and all modernist buildings that I find visually and formally appealing, and that was definitely the case of the Pride Cleaners and the University Hall. In this case, it is for opposite reasons: one is a joyous dynamic Googie avatar, and the other is a dark Kafkaesque brutalist grid. Second, there is the visual sequence, the flow of shapes. Both buildings perfectly matched the buildings that preceded them and nicely announced those that would follow them. There is yet another Chicago area building that I intend to insert in my visual sequence, and that is the Errol Kirsch House (1982) in Oak Park; what an incredible building. I only had the chance to photograph it a couple of years ago.

IG: What do you hope people take away from visiting the Modern Forms website or flipping through the two books?

NG: Quite simply, the joy of discovering an intriguing, sometimes strange, and definitely beautiful body of architecture. Also—this was probably more relevant in the books, because of the page-turning—the curiosity to flip to the next page, and to ask oneself the question: “What on earth is going to follow?”