The importance of ‘why’

SZ: The name of our practice, vizo, came from a process of reflection. We didn’t want a name that was simply our three names plus ‘partners’ or something like that. It needed to represent our working methodology. We founded the practice as a trio and each of us brings very different backgrounds and perspectives on architecture and life, and our strength lies in merging these perspectives into our projects. Rather than simply combining ideas from three individuals, we create something new—each contributing from our individual backgrounds.

The word ‘vizo’ came from a blend of our last names, developed through a process of adding, testing, and refining until it stuck. The name also hints at the German word ‘wieso’, meaning ‘why’, which is fundamental to our approach. We constantly ask ‘why’ instead of accepting answers at face value. Why is it like that? Why not differently? Why does it work best this way? We don’t look for a specific architectural language—however a certain preference might be visible in our work. But primarily, we ask: How is this building going to function? What impact will it have on its surroundings? Why should it be here? Should we demolish or preserve it? Should it be underground or not? Each project answers these questions differently. It is a journey of discovery and this questioning ideally leads to a vision: a ‘vizo’(n). This vision forms a narrative that we can explain and share, helping others understand the broader picture of our process.

A knowledge exchange

LV: In today’s world, we’re free to choose how we work and with whom, which allows us to form collectives, joint ventures, or firms that work together toward a common goal. It’s not that we don’t have an architectural style—we try to incorporate it into our buildings—but it’s not our top priority. The project and its impact come first, and then we discuss and refine it. We create the main narrative, and when the concept is done, we start giving it an architectural form or expression. This is when we think about the appearance, the windows, the colours, and so on, and during the whole process our three unique perspectives come together to create projects that benefit the environment and the world. I’d add that the toughest questions often challenge our own opinions, and we work hard not to cling to them. This is the most challenging part because it can feel personal when opinions are questioned. But we aim not to have fixed opinions; instead, we form them around the project itself—based on what’s best for it, not for us individually. Here, it’s not about ‘me’ or ‘you’—it’s ‘we’ and the project.

SZ: And I’d take that further; it’s not just about the three of us but includes everyone we collaborate with, from engineers to landscape architects. We bring them on as early as possible into the process—not to get lost in technical constraints or details but to incorporate a range of perspectives from the start. 

Our first project really exemplified this approach. We only studied together for a few semesters ,and then went our separate ways, each gaining different experiences before coming back together. We tackled our first competition for a school in Zurich, each bringing diverse perspectives and learning to communicate our ideas constructively. When we handed in the project, we couldn’t recall whose idea was whose. It was a blend of all our contributions, which felt significant. Although we didn’t win, we ranked highly, and the client—the school representatives—felt the project was what they wanted. Ultimately, we didn’t win because our proposal was less efficient than the winning proposal, but it was a pivotal moment. It showed us we had a collaborative process worth pursuing and developing further.

Redefining standards: a critical perspective

SZ: In recent years we have observed quite a significant shift in how architecture is created but also communicated. This is particularly visible in competitions. In private client projects and housing, the evolution has been more gradual, but in competitions, we’ve seen a clear break. This shift was strongly influenced by climate protests, where clients—particularly communities—began to demand more sustainable solutions. This marked a break from classic Swiss architecture. The response had to be a dramatic shift, and I believe it’s still happening. Both emerging and established architectural firms are working to determine their response to those new demands. I hope that it is not just about adding symbolic gestures like greenery on facades or solar panels; ideally, the dialogue will become more holistic. Questions arise about whether we can continue demolishing buildings or constructing as much underground as before. Also the monolithic, austere architectural language of architects like Diener & Diener Architekten or Zumthor, where everything fits neatly together, are being questioned. That approach has lost some significance. Now, there’s experimentation. There isn’t one dominant style, but there is a new material-focused, ecological approach emerging.

LV: 50, or even 40, years ago we didn’t face the same issues we do today. A lot of this is due to the need for better land use. Space in Switzerland is limited, as are the number of cities. The government has requested that we focus on urban growth, reducing development outside city limits. This brings new challenges, including the need to build taller structures. For example, a single-family house might now be replaced by a 50-metre-high building on the same plot, which requires a new way of thinking. 

I think the most important step is figuring out how to use land more efficiently. And then, of course, there’s the climate impact to consider. We now have different approaches: Will the building be used for 10 years, 20 years, 50 years, or even a thousand? If the goal is short-term use, then different materials might be more appropriate. So we face many new challenges we want to address because our goal is to positively affect the world with our work. 

SZ: One result of these trends is that many schools and flats today look almost identical. A few years ago, the Biennale featured a notable project called 2 Meter 40, which explored how new housing often defaults to a standard ceiling height of 2.4 metres, along with standard kitchens and room sizes. Schools are similar; you often receive a very strict brief depending on the campus and its pedagogical system. Schools basically tell architects, ‘This is the layout we need for our school to function effectively.’ For example, you may need 72 or 80 square-metre-rooms with specific proportions for optimal lighting, plus flexible common areas, all within a set structural grid. This leads to floor plans and building volumes that feel homogeneous—sports halls, for example, have fixed dimensions, so they often look alike. 

The facade becomes a secondary focus in competitions, and some architects use the same facade design across multiple buildings. Others put significant effort into making each facade unique. We don’t just settle for any facade; we also work hard to achieve something thoughtful and distinctive. However, these rigid floor plans and similar volumes result in buildings that resemble each other. In the 1970s, architects played a more active role in defining school design, often dictating how a school should look and how classrooms should function, which led to very specific, perhaps less adaptable spaces. I understand the criticism that everything seems to look the same now. Yet, it’s also sensible to listen to pedagogical experts since, as architects, we aren’t experts in teaching. I appreciate that educational professionals can now specify how they want their schools to be, so we design spaces that truly support their needs and requirements.

Straightforward answer to complex questions

LV: To me, consistency in your way of thinking is key, even if you don’t win the competition. When we work the way we do—always questioning and looking deeply into the ‘why’—we come up with answers that feel right for that problem. Now, when you get to competitions with their rules and requirements, you face a choice: adapt your work to fit the criteria or stay true to your initial vision, even if it doesn’t align perfectly with the brief. That’s the hardest part: do you make the building bigger than required or use materials they didn’t ask for? Or, say, the brief calls for demolition, but you disagree—do you hold to that conviction or not? We're still navigating this challenge, trying to find the right balance. It’s a difficult decision each time, requiring us to question how far we’re willing to go and how much we believe in our work.

SZ: Exactly. You have to keep asking why. Is it right to go against the brief? If someone commissions a building, you need very solid arguments to challenge the brief. It's not about forcing your vision over the client’s needs, which does happen sometimes, but if you’re genuinely convinced you have a solution that better serves those needs, it takes courage to put that forward. That’s a big risk—to spend one or two months on work that might just get rejected. We've seen others do this in competitions, and it takes real conviction. Sometimes we take that leap, and sometimes we don’t. But the “why” always matters. 

The strength of differing opinions

LV: The unique aspect of our collaboration is that we often have 99% differing opinions on everything. But we also share similarities. What’s important is that we treat each other with respect, even when we disagree. We try to understand why someone has a particular opinion and what experiences led them to it. In many situations, people avoid discussions when faced with opposing opinions, but we actively engage with one another. We genuinely have three distinct perspectives on many issues, shaped by our diverse backgrounds. One person is a father, another lives in Zurich, and another in Bern, coming from the mountains—all of us with different views of life. Yet, we share a desire to create something new. We aim to find a balanced solution rather than simply categorising ideas as good or bad, right or wrong.

SZ: It can be easier to disengage rather than seek understanding or definitive answers. Instead of labelling materials or clients as good or bad, we recognise that concrete, for example, is a brilliant material, despite differing opinions from clients. While our personal lives differ, our professional paths are also varied. Loris has worked on large-scale competitions, organising and coordinating architecture offices from the client side. My experience spans multiple countries, contributing to a rich skill set. And, Samuel Rothen, partner and co-founder of Vizo, began with an apprenticeship as a carpenter, gaining hands-on experience in project execution. 

This diverse background allows us to navigate the entire architectural process—from assessing a vacant plot and developing a strategy to intense design phases, whether through competitions or direct client work. Our expertise extends through to execution, detailing, and cost considerations. It’s nearly impossible for one person to encompass all these perspectives in architecture today. So, it has been crucial for us to integrate these various viewpoints at every stage of our projects while maintaining a holistic vision. We believe in collaboration, not in claiming that there is only one right solution.