Architecture & Design

Architecture & Design | 13 Can you tell us about how you first became interested in architecture and how that interest evolved into your wider creative practice? I was always set on becoming an architect. I was culturally and aesthetically drawn to the field, though I knew that structurally and physically, it would be more challenging for me. That tension actually became an important foundation for my practice, as architectural education demands a great deal of thinking, theory, and writing. My practice still incorporates all of that today. I was always inclined towards the arts and creative work, though I wasn't sure how that would manifest. I enjoyed art school – I even did art at A Level—but I wasn't a painter. I could draw, but it clearly wasn't my calling. Architecture gave me grounding. I've always approached things spatially, though I think I only recognised that fully towards the end of my time at San Anton. That's when I realised, I had to make a decision. I loved the challenge of study, and I was drawn to subjects that pushed me. Maths was a favourite; physics less so. I pursued art for the passion. Those three subjects made it clear that architecture could work for me, at least as a course of study. I was also inspired by creative individuals I admired, often discovering that they had studied architecture. It reinforced the idea that architecture could serve as a broad, open-ended platform. What's been the greatest challenge you've faced in your career so far, and how did you navigate it? The greatest challenge—though it's become a bit of a cliché to say—was undoubtedly COVID. I try not to dwell on it too much, but it truly was the biggest setback. After graduating, I decided not to seek traditional employment. I was focused on building my own practice, and just as I found my footing, everything collapsed. Culture, unfortunately, is one of the first things to suffer in times of economic or social crisis. That period was psychologically difficult. I'd thrown myself in wholeheartedly, with a promising start, only to see it fall apart. But it gave me a strong sense of resilience. I realised that working independently would always be tough, and I needed a system—a kind of diversification—to fall back on. Multiple strands, so that if one failed, others would support me. There were also internal struggles: Will I have work? Is my career progressing at the same rate as my peers'? What exactly is my practice about? My work is quite liminal, and I was obsessed with defining myself—something I now see as far less important. Today, I've been a curator, a creative director, an architect. Sometimes, I work in communications and strategy. I collaborate with brands, NGOs, and organisations. They've included the church and national bodies, but also individuals and independent practitioners. Understanding that I didn't need to be defined by a single label was a huge shift. That realisation eventually became, ironically, a bit of a brand. Rather than fitting into a role, I try explore how I can bring value to a wide range of contexts. From a theatre to an opera house, from corporate spaces to homes, from exhibitions to site-specific interventions—I think we have the chance to apply ourselves broadly. That understanding was a major breakthrough, and it revealed the true breadth of my practice. How do your different roles—curator, architect, creative director—complement one another in your work? My curatorial and architectural practices absolutely complement one another. I consider myself lucky to think spatially first—my starting point is always the experience I'm constructing. Conceptually, it's crucial for me to build strong foundations that are creative, theoretical, and future- focused. I'm not an art historian, so I work closely with them. Alongside the conceptual framework and values of a project, I immediately begin thinking in spatial terms: how we inhabit space, how the body moves through a set design, a shop, or an exhibition. My curatorial work is highly architectural. I've explored exhibition design in my own curated shows, as well as in exhibitions I've designed for others. Last year, for instance, I collaborated with Justine Balzan Demajo on a project for Atlas Insurance—an art historical exhibition I co-designed with Tracey Sammut. This year, I worked as associate curator on Paul Scerri's solo exhibition 'The Sound of You Dreaming', which Gabriel Zammit was the curator of. There, I played a deeply curatorial role—researching, writing, interviewing. I brought in an exhibition designer, and our curatorial narrative shaped Tracey's design. Everything is interwoven. With artist Tina Mifsud, I've worked on highly architectural, site-specific exhibitions. We once transformed an abandoned showroom in Qormi into an intimate portrait space. At the Malta Chamber of Commerce, we created a contrasting environment—almost a jungle-like oasis within a highly formal setting. For the project Crux, we intervened in a domestic remissa in Birkirkara, using light to develop an immersive architectural experience. To do all of this, collaboration is essential. My work is both collaborative and interdisciplinary—those are the two strongest pillars, and greatest privileges of my practice. I bring in different teams for each project—art historians, writers, technical experts. I've collaborated with engineers, coders, and light specialists. I always encourage solo artists to include responses from others in their shows—it opens up the conversation. Because I'm an architect who curates, a set designer who's worked in retail, theatre, dance and opera, someone who's dabbled in music videos and television—I find it exciting to accept all sorts of briefs. I love the variety. What are your thoughts on the current state of Maltese architecture, particularly in relation to sustainability and cultural heritage? When it comes to our built environment, I'm interested in a prospective politics — one that acknowledges where we are, understands what we need, and asks where we might go next. In an exhibition I curated in 2023, Experiments in Entropy, I invited ten architects I studied with at university to create contemporary art installations that explored the current state of architecture and its role in society. Many of them had never exhibited in a contemporary art context before, and I encouraged them to reflect on entropy — the idea that systems tend to break down, to lose energy over time. It was a way to open up a conversation about architecture as something that is always in flux, always responding to decay, change, and uncertainty. For me, this was not just an artistic inquiry, but also an environmental and political one. I'm not anti-development, but I am deeply interested in fostering a new consciousness — and caution — in how we think about space, architecture, and urbanism. That carries through into University workshops I deliver each year from October to January, where together We need to have more contemporary architecture to call our own. Right now, much of what we are seeing is a culture of extrusion — generic forms with little thought, where architecture is almost entirely absent. But the dialogue between historical architecture and the contemporary doesn't have to be difficult. " "

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