Brutalism Is Back

If you speak with these architects, you usually detect a general interest in building styles of the past. Le Corbusier’s later work, such as the radically brutalist La Tourette monastery in France, is widely admired. However, their own architecture is in general not seen as a reference to those earlier models. Rather, it is a reaction to the challenges of today.

Digging deeper, not only the aesthetic, but also the underlying design philosophy, whether consciously or unconsciously, resembles historical precedents. Similar approaches lead to a similar aesthetic. Now as then, the goal of a decidedly “honest” architecture is to make structure and function openly visible, to intentionally avoid cladding and plaster, and to openly display fundamental building materials. Of course, it is hard to claim that a plastered wall or wooden panel is “dishonest.” Nor are they necessarily functionless, considering for example their insulating properties. Nevertheless, there is something particularly appealing about displaying the bones of a building. On top of aesthetic considerations, the avoidance of industrial building products is also said to be a pragmatic response to the growing global scarcity of resources. A brick or concrete wall saves on plaster and paint and ideally does not need to be regularly recoated.

The use of concrete, however, has long been criticized. How can we still plan huge reinforced concrete sculptures when the cement industry alone is responsible for 7 percent of humans’ CO2 emissions, while in many places sand and gravel suitable for concrete are already becoming scarce? Innovations touted by the industry such as climate-neutral cement and recycled or bio-concrete are a long way from bringing about a change of direction in the global construction industry and for the time being will remain niche products in advertising brochures.

Nevertheless, for building planners, there is still a lot to be said for conventional reinforced concrete. The construction industry readily uses it even in remote regions, and compared to many other materials, transportation routes are shorter and costs are lower. Added to this are the still-unsurpassed advantages of the properties: no other material is so freely moldable at a comparable price. Reinforced concrete allows for the boldest cantilevers, thin shell constructions, and almost unlimited sculptural possibilities.

When asked about sustainability, some acknowledge the issues but respond that concrete allows for a lot of space to be enclosed with little material, which means fewer resources are consumed overall. And thicker insulating concrete dispenses with highly specialized wall layers, contributing to a reduction in hazardous waste.

Neobrutalist projects make up only an extremely small fraction of global concrete consumption, which lessens the overall impact. But because they are photogenic and popular they have a prominent influence on our collective visual memory. This means they unavoidably serve as models of taste, which doesn’t make the question of whether to admire or condemn them any easier.

An architecture style is always a mirror of the time in which it arose. Its aesthetic results from a certain ethical stance toward design and construction. Architecture firms not only react to conditions and challenges but are also dependent on clients approving and financing their designs. And since the brutalist aesthetic is still struggling with its image, financing is not a given. But in our increasingly virtual, dematerialized, and hypercomplex living environments, there is a longing for distinctly physical, haptic, seemingly tangible phenomena — a longing that (neo)brutalism can satisfy.

Anyone interested in where and under what conditions their breakfast eggs were laid might also be interested in how a building is planned, what materials it consists of, and how it is constructed. The roughly cast concrete wall with its marks of construction not only shows how it was created, but also reveals (and sometimes exaggerates) the physical nature of the building. Where a load-bearing structure props up a heavy beam, and where cables and pipes are laid openly, the system appears comprehensible. Unfortunately, where the electricity actually comes from is still a mystery when the power line from the socket disappears into the wall just a few meters further on.

At the same time, the massive, rough surfaces offer a physical experience. Brick or concrete walls seem less abstract than glass and white-painted surfaces. Along these lines, neobrutalist approaches strike the same chord as the collective fascination with craftsmanship. Just as 150 years ago, when the Arts and Crafts movement put forward nature and craftsmanship as an antidote to a rapid industrialization that was perceived as threatening, today the regional, handmade, non-factory-produced once again offers an image of longing.

The fact that brutalism and neobrutalism differ greatly in terms of who commissions the work also fits into this picture. For brutalism, the public sector was central. Universities, cultural centers, town halls, infrastructure, and government projects were well funded, and postwar administrations were surprisingly open to experimentation. In contrast, neobrutalism is largely a project of the private sector. Education buildings such as the UTEC are being constructed for private universities, and the single-family house, while no longer sustainable in terms of resources, has become a central preoccupation of neobrutalist planners.

Priorities have changed under neoliberalism. When asked about the recent heritage listing of the brutalist building for Berlin’s Hygiene Institute, the institute’s parent organization — the state-owned hospital Charité — pondered whether buildings today were still being designed in such a way that they would merit heritage listing protection sixty years down the line. The same question should be asked of the often utilitarian, faceless, price-above-everything-else projects of recent years – because sustainable construction includes a long lifespan.

A fundamental principle of brutalism is its “memorability as an image.” When a building project goes beyond the bare minimum, the building might then more likely be appreciated. It might develop an identity, making it possible to keep it in good condition for thirty, seventy, or a hundred years, thus continuing to make use of the resources used for its construction.

The fact that neobrutalism must be described as predominantly upscale, privatized architecture does not mean that there are no exceptions to the rule. In China, a new generation of architecture firms is benefiting from a construction boom of cultural centers and development projects in rural regions. With large budgets, they are creating designs that combine sculptural forms with local building craftsmanship and materials.

Using those approaches, Wang Shu won the highest international architecture award, the Pritzker Prize, in 2012. Liu Jiakun followed in 2025. Wang Shu’s monumental Ningbo Museum is shaped by concrete that bears the traces of bamboo formwork. Other parts of the façade are made of reused bricks from houses that were demolished to build the museum. It may not be a direct criticism of the massive waves of demolition that occurred during China’s rapid growth, but it cleverly approaches and probes the issue. The museum’s surfaces anchor it in its surroundings.

Meanwhile, in Southeast Asia and in Latin America, more and more approaches to social-minded brick architecture are appearing. Tropical Space in Vietnam and Mínimo Común in Paraguay, for example, create ingenious brickwork structures that promote passive ventilation and find exciting solutions to cost-effective residential buildings. Further development is welcomed: Mínimo Común’s openly visible materials and constructions are intended to encourage people to copy them and build their own structures. They would be happy if they could reach more people with their approach. Here, architecture theory’s brainchild “legibility” suddenly becomes a practical tool for social advancement.

Despite all the raw beauty, the core criticism of a lack of climate efficiency and high resource consumption remains. And so there is a growing number of voices saying that the end of the line could soon be reached. Switzerland, for example, has a long history of high-end concrete architecture. But in recent years, the majority of public competitions have been won with wood-based designs, some of them featuring somewhat greenwashed cladding, some genuine timber constructions. One possible way forward is to switch to other materials. Even the inventor of the term “brutalism”, Reyner Banham, made it clear in 1955 that it was less about the concrete itself.

While the term was derived from the French béton brut, i.e., raw concrete, it is more about the basic concept, regardless of whether it is exposed concrete, brick, or rammed earth. Neobrutalist approaches are increasingly found in projects that place particular emphasis on ecological sustainability. The Colegio Reggio in Madrid, for example, is a quirky patchwork of glass components, masonry screens, exposed concrete arches, clay walls, and portholes, all radically raw and exposed. These exposed parts are intended to provide children with a playful approach to understanding architecture. At the same time, 48 percent less material was needed by eliminating cladding and wall layers. Cork was used for insulation, which has halved energy consumption.

Perhaps we will soon see a second end to the concrete monsters, while the style is once again renewed from within in a kind of ecobrutalism. Either way, these forms of raw architecture will continue to accompany us in our built environment for the foreseeable future.

But so far we have not seen a true revival of experimental Brutalism in the spirit of the public building commissions of the postwar period. Neobrutalism today has its roots primarily in the private sector — in well-financed residential buildings, private universities, or cultural projects by individual patrons. What is missing is the political will to once again understand public architecture as a field for creative and social experimentation, Neobrutalist or otherwise.

The public sector needs the courage to develop distinct and memorable buildings – buildings that have an identity, and that can be used over the long term. This would require not only greater scope for design ideas in public construction projects, but also a cultural shift: away from short-term efficiency thinking and toward architecture that is understood as a collective heritage – raw, open, and accessible.