text —
WILHELMINA MER
portraits —
BARB RUDOLPH
photograpy & work, courtesty of the artist
— mexico city, may 2025
WILHELMINA MER
portraits —
BARB RUDOLPH
photograpy & work, courtesty of the artist
— mexico city, may 2025
PIERO DEMICHELIS — Everything is about timing, right? My dad bought a piece of land in a town called Itzamalitlan, it’s actually a little bit further west from and much more tropical than Tepoz, down in the mountains. He wanted to build a little cabin for himself, and he asked me to design it. I was in my first year of architecture school, and even though I felt familiar with the practice and design process, I was like "there's no way - I'm not ready." He pushed me to start anyway.
There was a pre-existing adobe clay construction, maybe 40 square meters. I designed something very simple, but now I see it has a very strong line that still exists within me. That project was special because of the timing. It made me lose the fear of actually building at a very young age. This made a big difference in how I understood architecture, pushing me beyond just conceptual drawing in school. There were so many changes during construction where you needed to make decisions and adapt. I felt a lot of tension and pressure, and that drive still exists with me today.
WM — It's rare for someone of your age to have their own firm. Is that common in Mexico? We don’t see that so much north of the border.
PD — It was a thing of timing and luck, having my first project when I was 19 years old. Sometimes you don't trust an architect until you see something that they’ve built on their own, and that project was it for me. After that, I was never able to work for any other architect. In Mexico, there are a lot of young people starting firms. I think that in Canada, you’re more specialized - you either work in housing, in retail, in gardens, this or that. Mexico has a strong DIY culture and broad definition of practice. So it’s much richer in the options that it provides to creatives. The implementations of those bureaucracies are very different.
WM — We’re red-taped and overregulated in Canada, which can have the effect of everything looking more or less the same.
PD — So that is the main difference. There's so much more space for new things, new projects. We have all these rules for construction, but aesthetic restrictions are not really implemented here. A great implementation would be in terms of program. However, our regulations are lacking a deeper layer of investigation and research; and are not asking, what actually makes these better for the communities?
WM — What effect does this have on the built environment we see in Mexico City today?
The identity of this city is a mash up of different ideas and cultures since its foundations. From prehispanic culture to colonialism to modern Mexico, this city has had very distinct different stages of how it's been developed. Today I feel there's no strong voice in the architecture community that is directing the trace of how the city will develop. Even though I like diversity, I think that there's a strategy that should be followed.
WM — Is there not a certain freedom working within loose regulations?
PD — I believe some regulations are required because architecture, at the end, is social. It's not only about these private projects, or these new bars and housing projects in Condesa. It's more about how the rest of the city is gonna evolve because the way it is now is not sustainable.
WM — What kind of program could support Mexico’s social structure as the country develops?
PD — You need to have a mixed program. In the Netherlands, for example, there's no way you can build an apartment building that is only for rich people, that is gated, and no one can get near it. In the same building there should be apartments of 35 square meters for one person along with penthouses of three levels for another, but everyone is sharing the same elevator. Those kinds of things are what we need. That’s the reason why right now, Condesa and La Roma, for example, are becoming boring because it's now become for just one kind of person. And that is lacking social threads, which is unfortunate in terms of culture.
We need to think of a future that is richer in culture and much more equal and horizontal rather than vertical. That is something that the city is in massive need of. If you're gonna have a permit for a fancy apartment building in Condesa, it should also have social housing. We need to integrate, create a community rather than these divided urbanisms that further reinforce social stratification. Latin American architects show very interesting takes on how this could work, but the problem is that we don't have more power from our governments in implementing these concepts into developers.
WM — What is your approach to mitigating overdevelopment?
PD — I like to see every project as a case study. I don't have many projects in the city. I work more in the literal, on the coast, on projects that typically are not so social, and are more in the private realm. I was approached to build a hotel on a pristine beachfront dune in Baja's East Cape. I immediately saw a problem – altering this delicate ecosystem would upset the ecology of the site and potentially destroy the beach and surf break.
I declined three times, suggesting they find different land. When they threatened to hire someone else, I realized I needed to think creatively. My solution was "The Stranded Hotel." I was inspired by the image of a stranded boat on a beach: how the sand fills and stabilizes it. We designed wooden canoe-shaped structures filled with sand to create stable hotel rooms scattered across the dunes. This approach preserved the natural dune movement while creating unique accommodations.
What ultimately won the pitch wasn't environmental consciousness but economics. I told them: "Instead of spending a fortune removing dunes for conventional construction that might lose its beach and surf break, build these sand-filled cabins for a quarter of the cost. You'll still charge $500 a night because it's a unique experience, and if a hurricane damages one, you simply replace that cabin." That's where we need to invest our creativity – not in aesthetics, but in reimagining how to develop coastlines sustainably. Otherwise, places like this will end up looking like Miami. I love my country and don't want that to happen.
WM — I have a Mexican friend who wants to implement a park ranger program here, similar to what exists in the States - something to protect Mexico’s indigenous plants. Similarly, there aren’t protective measures built into construction regulations. So, this is a big responsibility for Mexico’s architects.
PD — It is our responsibility, and it is a massive responsibility. Architecture is social. And through it you can have a positive social effect in addition to the aesthetic effect.
If all of us could be in symphony regarding how we respond to developers who come and want to develop this dune, so that every architect in this country would tell them, you know what? You cannot develop it. I'm not going to do a project in that dune. You want to build six levels on this pristine, virgin beach? Even though the government says you can build six levels there, I am not going to do it for you. Whoever takes that job is not taking care of the place at all. He's taking care of his wallet.
I work a lot with people that are doing hotels, which for me, is very special. I grew up going to Tulum, which I haven't visited in over fifteen years because after what I saw I've never wanted to go back. You know the road along the beach - this was a place that I remember walking along with my father that would be completely filled by crabs at six every night. Today there's no living animal, not even in the water.
PD — I was born here in Mexico City. Every aspect of growing up in Mexico is particular. More when you're actually lucky enough to go to other countries and understand how funky, crazy, and interesting a place this is. It’s very mystical.
I grew up between Polanco and Condesa, these hip areas of the city today, each with their own style. But when I was growing up, it was very different: in Condesa there was only one restaurant, called Margarita, and one cafe called La Palma which is now where Macque cafe is. The 90s was a very important phase for the city in which many of its creative people gathered in the Condesa area. I certainly think this era does have a reference to me because these were friends of my father’s, furniture designers and artists that must have somehow indirectly shaped my eye.
I think it's a blessing to be born in this country. It’s hard to describe it - but it’s a magnetic, special place. I feel so inspired by just looking at the hanging cables and disaster everywhere. It's a very DIY place.
WM — You were just in Paris, so you might agree, but I always love the contrast coming back from this manicured, grey city to Mexico City where everything is colorful, wild and lush. It’s strong coming from any place, really.
PD — Yeah, that's something very special. The green is amazing. The relationship with the plants in architecture is super special. I worked with a botanist, making a botanical garden for another hotel in Baja and ever since, I became very fixated in understanding plants more and more. This city inspires me a lot with its lushness and the greenery. Even the tree roots that break the streets are just the best. It's not a safe city, you know (laughs). You've got to be careful with your feet.
WM — Whenever I come back after some time away, I’ve forgotten how to walk. I'm tripping and falling over.
PD — I can only just imagine that [laughs].
WM — I think I’ve got it now. It's a style. Can you remember the first moment that you thought you could be an architect? Is there a building or place associated with that memory?
PD — I was actually doing the foundation year at Central Saint Martins, and I was taking photography and art courses. There was this day that I was in the South Bank looking at the National Theatre, and I was just taking photos of it, fixated on the physicality of the building, the sculptural part and also the social part. I was taking photos of what people were doing inside of the buildings and how the light looked inside and outside of it. And suddenly I had that moment. I wasn't really sure about studying art - both my parents are artists and I understand the artist’s struggle.
So I decided on architecture school. And, I would never change it, because today I do art and I do my photography. I also do lamps and I do sculptures, and I also do architecture. And I found some stability in this way of doing things. It's a school of seeing and understanding life and understanding society. From that point, you can design houses, hotels, cities, objects, or think of ways to do photography that are deeper.
If you're a painter, I don't think you should study painting. I think you should maybe study neuroscience or biology to feed your paint. So that's how I see architecture. I remember I went to an interview with Hector Esrawe when I was building the house when I was 19 years old, because he's friends with my parents. He's a great industrial designer. And I was like, 'I don't know if I'm that into architecture - I'd like to do furniture or sculpture.’
And he said, “Yeah, but, you can go there from architecture. If you ditch architecture and go to industrial design or sculpture, you can't go back.” From architecture school, you can be an octopus and have different outputs. That's what I love about it. It feels like I’m coming full circle from that moment of realization, when I was taking photographs of architecture. I left art school and started this whole process, and now I'm understanding that it all ends up in that same spot.
PD — I inspire myself through music. When I'm traveling, I'm looking for music. I'm looking for experiences. And that is part of my process for design. Music is the thing that moves me and that inspires me the most; it actually makes my brain shift and reinvent itself.
WM — Let’s hear about your process.
PD — My creative process includes being in and feeling the space. I take footage with my camera and from a drone. Then I just start drawing, but I don't start with a white piece of paper. The beauty of architecture is that nothing is a blank piece of paper. Even if your plot is in the middle of nowhere, there's plants to analyze, there's wind to analyze, there's a society and mechanisms and materials to analyze. From there, my approach is very rational. I don't like ornaments. Sometimes my architecture ends up being ornamental, but only if there's a reason for it to be. I don't dig decor ation. I think that structures are beautiful on their own
When they’re overly ornamented, there's a lack of honesty in the form that just doesn't make sense. The rationale of my work comes from looking at the world and understanding that the flowers have their form because there's a function. I'm very fixed with physics and mathematics – when I design, I think of rhythms, like music. You know, that's how I relate to music.
WM — How do you approach more ethereal architectural elements, like light? I’m thinking of the lamp of yours we have at my place, which is not so much about illuminating the space, but about what?
PD — It's about the lack of light. It becomes a void, because the light that emits only lets you see the lack of light. That is the most commercial example of my lights, which are all one of a kind. I also have these light sculptures that I call Armada, ‘the army,’ that are made of concrete. These ones come from a massive fixation I've had for 15 years of taking photos of unfinished structures and rebar in Mexico. I see these as a sign of hope, in that they are another layer of construction to extend or expand the house.
One day I was leaving my construction site, and there was some rebar, some plastic, and some concrete left over. And, I don't know; I just thought of this very simple way of putting these three materials together and creating an element that could have a light bulb inside, as easy as that. These pieces echo my overall idea of design which is about letting structures be seen, but at the same time to let them float and to suspend like light - suspended in time. So as simple as they are, they mean so much to me. There are different sizes because the debris was different at every site. So, you will have fatter soldiers and taller soldiers. I don't sell these pieces; I've been asked for them and I won’t because it's a project for myself.
Every time I have a construction project I start new projects using the debris. I'm very fixated on finding things on the street, on the beach, or anywhere. I gather it, take it out of its context and it becomes art to me. It has a massive story - it represents for me the aesthetic of this city. There’s a reference to artists, to people like Abraham Cruz Villegas. All his work is auto-construido, self-constructed and speaks to the self-constructed Mexico in which we live.
WM — Made by Mexico City.
PD — Yeah. There's an expression in Spanish, a “pepenador,” the guy in the street picking stuff up. I love that word, so sometimes I’m thinking of myself as a professional pepenador.
WM — A modernist pepenador. Okay, on that note, why don’t we go back to the project you were showing me before we started talking?
PD — Right. They say your vibe attracts your tribe [laughs]. Also, your vibe attracts your clients in architecture. So, somehow I ended up knowing this person who wanted to build a house in a plot in Nayarit in the jungle, in a place without light, without water, without anything on the top of a hill. It's literally this eroded, super vertical plot in the middle of the jungle with about 300 square meters to build on.
So, I designed this ring around the plateau on the top of the mountain, so that it’s a circular house with a central garden and a rounded pool. It has 360 degree views - 180 of the jungle, 180 of the ocean and the wind ventilates through it from every direction. Like I said before, I've always thought that I'm very rational. This rounded house is very rational. The rhythms are super marked.
But it becomes a little bit more organic in that it expresses the nature of the site - it was what was needed, you know? It’s a very particular situation to be working in the middle of nowhere, without any architectural reference in sight. Working with a circle not only felt functionally and experientially juicy, but also in dialogue with the organic forms that surround the house.
It’s this flying structure, made of concrete, that feels both lightweight and heavy at the same time, that could feel like a structure from the past or from the future. When you approach it, it could appear to be an abandoned temple from long ago, or some kind of UFO that’s landed - but it's a house in the middle of the jungle, just not of the present. It's ancient and futuristic at the same time. You know, there was a certain mysticism in the plot that I needed to respect.
WM — You know, I wasn't sure if I was going to ask about this or not, but I have noticed a mystical, ritualistic line throughout your work. Where does that come from?
PD — Mexico is super magnetic, super mystical. I started having conversations about things that are not tangible since I was a kid with my mom. It's something that is present in my life. There's a connection with it that maybe other people in other countries have, but I feel it very strong here. I do feel a connection with it, so it certainly has an output in my work when it’s called for. It's always kind of necessary, but there's projects and places where it applies more than others.
PD — This story has a few layers, one being the rite of passage. As much as I love this country, and as much as I love being able to develop my creativity in this place… and, you know, I couldn't live in any other place. I’ve thought about it a couple of times, but I've always loved it here. This time, I didn’t love it that much. I used to have another office and it got completely wiped, robbed. Absolutely everything was taken. That's why I call it the rite of passage: being able to experience all this freedom, all these super cool things about this country. Then, getting robbed of all of my work, hard drives, computers, everything.
WM — And then what happened - how did we end up here today?
PD — And then I had a trip to New York, literally the day after this happened. Then I had a DJ gig at YuYu the day I got back. I went out to have a smoke, and I met Mauro, who also has a space in this office, and I told him my story. He was like, damn, I have a space that could be for you. And he showed me a video of this space, but most importantly, the access to the space, which is the garden. The moment I saw the garden, I was like, okay, I don't really need to see more. I would like you to not show this to anyone else. And I'll be there on Monday with my two possessions that I still have. I arrived on Monday, and by Friday, there were computers here. I was just back on track.
Two weeks later, my dad visits the office, and he sits where you're sitting. And he turns around and tells me, no wonder why you just like this place so much. Do you remember the photo that I have of you with a cacti when you were a kid? I'm like, yes, I do remember that photo. And he points and says, well, that is the cacti. This was a garden in which I spent time when I was a kid. And I do remember that it had an impact on me because it's a very conceptual garden of gravel and cacti, in the middle of the city, that you don't normally see.
WM — No way.
PD — So this space was the photography studio for images of my dad's clothes. After he finished a collection, he’d bring it here and do the photography against that wall that is right there. Then I ended up coming to this same place to take care of that same cacti. Actually, it fell and broke recently. It used to be fifteen meters long, but it's already growing now. I love it. I take care of it all the time; it's my garden.