Architecture & Design

Architecture & Design | 15 with other staff at the faculty, we bring these questions into the design studio. It's where my environmental and political perspectives are most present — where I try to create a space for students to think critically, prospectively. What will the next generation do? How can we be more sensitive in our approach? What do we value, and what do we reject? What deserves preservation, and what is simply indefensible? One of the biggest issues we repeatedly discuss is rampant construction — real estate development that lacks architectural thought, vision, or respect for context. There's an overwhelming absence of architecture, a void where intention and care should be. I'm especially concerned about the disregard for Malta's modernist period. We've lost so much, and what remains is under constant threat from unchecked urban sprawl. Recently, I worked on a project called 'Silence Within Abundant Birdsong', an exhibition by the Archbishop's Delegate for Culture investigating the significance of the Church in Manikata by Prof. Richard England. Manikata was once a quiet, landscape-embedded village. Today, the church is increasingly surrounded by blocks of flats. That transformation says a lot about where we are — and where we're headed, if we're not careful. So, whilst I am critical on the state of our built environment, I am not defeatist. This is not to be confused with toxic positivity—across all issues, and as a widespread attitude which I find dangerous—but I do retain hope. This is where I place myself: in a space that's politically engaged, environmentally conscious, and always pushing toward thoughtful, forward-looking dialogue. What kind of architectural culture do you think Malta needs to develop in order to move forward? First, 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. It can be natural — even exciting — when we foster a culture of architects who both understand what we've inherited and are eager to contribute to that lineage. That's how a zeitgeist is formed — not by freezing heritage in time, but by engaging with it, building upon and alongside it, and keeping it alive through new work. You don't preserve heritage by simply framing it or treating it like a relic. You preserve it by creating something that speaks to it — something that lives in conversation with it. That's one of the reasons I was excited to collaborate with Anthony Bonnici on URNA. Anthony is exploring a new kind of monumentality — one that acknowledges the richness of Malta's architectural heritage but also pushes toward a language that feels genuinely ours. That's incredibly compelling to me. Bridging what we have with what we can create — there's so much potential in that. At the same time, I think we desperately need a better conversation between the economic drivers of construction in Malta and the cultural stewards of the built environment. That's the biggest gap right now. We operate under the assumption that making money through architecture means destroying, compromising, or erasing what exists. But it doesn't have to be that way. Profit and cultural value don't need to be at odds — we just haven't built the frameworks for them to coexist yet. Is there an appetite for this kind of progressive thinking among your students? How do you approach that in your workshops? There is definitely an appetite, but it often takes time to surface. I am excited by workshop briefs that come across as quite radical, challenging the foundational thinking around architecture. When we begin, there's often confusion about how what we are discussing relates to architecture at all. But eventually it settles. Students take time to reflect, and they start to see that with greater consciousness, architecture can— and must—be cultural. They begin to identify the problems of our time, to critique them, and eventually to become prospective. That shift doesn't happen instantly, but it does happen. It's not something they arrive with—it's something the workshop cultivates. I don't do it alone; together with other creatives we challenge the students to question the role of the architect. We ask: how can we cross over disciplines? How do we read, interpret, and also envision the future? I like to draw a distinction between brand culture and cultured brands. Brand culture is internal—it's about how people work together. But if it's insular, it risks becoming disconnected from contemporary thinking. A cultured brand, on the other hand, engages with the outside world. It welcomes critique and new ideas, no matter where in the hierarchy they come from. This is something we build into the architecture workshop as well. Every week, students create work, and every Monday they are assigned to critically review a peer's project. And by "critical," I don't mean sharing what you like. I always ask them to start with what didn't work—what failed, what could be pushed further. That's where the learning happens. What was the thinking behind the URNA project, and what drew you to work with cremation as a theme? I've been fascinated by the introduction of cremation in Malta, and what that shift could mean culturally. I didn't think it should become just another economic opportunity that's poorly executed or visually hollow. I wanted to create something meaningful— something that speaks to how we remember, how we monumentalise, and how we relate to death. That's how URNA was born: from the desire to create a proposal that was culturally rich, economically viable, but most importantly, conceptually grounded. I approached Anthony Bonnici, whose architectural practice is deeply interested in monumentality. We were both excited by the idea of using Maltese stone and traditional materials in a contemporary way and were joined by Thomas Mifsud, an architect who is part of his firm. We collaborated with Matthew Attard Navarro in London, whose studio is known for bold art direction. Together, we built a multinational team that included architect Tanil Raif, filmmaker Stephanie Sant, and photographer Anne Immelé. The result was something that sits between radical reality and speculative fantasy. Can you tell us why you decided to use the sphere, to represent your vision? The shape of the sphere was central. 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