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“We know more about the movements of celestial bodies than about the ground beneath our feet”, Leonardo da Vinci once wrote. Yet earth is so precious: it nourishes us and can provide shelter.
As a building material, it is the champion when it comes to sustainability. It is the only one that can be taken from nature in its raw state, processed into load-bearing walls, floors, and plaster, and recycled as often as needed – without any loss of quality. When an earthen building is no longer needed, it can return to the ground without leaving ecological scars and once again become fertile soil for a garden. From CO2-neutral production to socially just construction processes, earth can help reduce some of our greatest global challenges: climate change, growing social inequality, and rising unemployment worldwide.
Clayey soil, suitable for construction can be found almost everywhere. It is a gift from nature. How is clay or loam formed? The Earth is subject to the forces of erosion and, more generally, entropy. This has an unbridled creative power, even if we often barely notice it. It can be gentle and powerful at the same time. Above all, however, it is one thing: constant and unstoppable. And it provides the most important building material: earth, clay. Loam is eroded rocks – eroded mountains. The Alps, for example, are constantly growing, at a rate of about one centimeter every ten years. At the same time, they erode by slightly more than one centimeter. In addition to mechanical weathering, there is also chemical and biogenic weathering. It transforms coarse sedimentary material into loamy-clayey substrates. Biogenic processes partially transform these into fertile clay-humus complexes.
Life itself is an endless cycle of creation and decay. The question is: how can this elemental principle be applied to architecture?
Grafting Earth
I build primarily with clay, one of the oldest building materials in the world. No additives. Pure earth. This requires one thing above all else: trust. Everything else is already there. I often encounter skepticism: this might work as a niche building material on a small scale – but can it really be implemented on a large scale? The answer is a resounding yes. About one-third of the world’s population lives in earthen buildings today. So, it is not an experimental building material, but one of the most widely used in the world.
Building with earth also means inclusion. Because, fundamentally, everyone has access to it – regardless of financial means. I do not believe in selective sustainability. There can only be one global strategy – one that everyone can afford, not just a portion of the world’s wealthy population. Building with natural, locally available materials is as old as construction itself – and definitely older than the construction industry. Which raises the question: who does the construction industry serve?
X 8 Billion
When I design, I multiply my choices regarding materials and technology by some eight billion people and ask myself a simple question: what would the distribution of resources on our planet look like if every person made exactly this choice?
What consequences would that have for the health of our planet? Would peace and a good future for coming generations be possible? We are one human family sharing a planet with finite resources, and we are all deeply interconnected. We must begin to act with this awareness – and build accordingly. After all, hardly anything is more resource-intensive than building. As architects, we bear a special responsibility for this. Every choice of material is a decision about who benefits.
When I reach the end of my career as an architect and sum up all my construction budgets, I want to be able to tell myself that this money has contributed to global eco-social justice. That may sound idealistic – and it is. But why not? I am a stubborn idealist. I refuse to be guided solely by reality. Reality makes me angry; it offers me no hope – quite the opposite. If I focus on everything that is going wrong in the world and in our industry, I fall into lethargy and a sense of powerlessness. I prefer to rely on ideals. Because they give me direction and hope. And hope is exactly what I need – just like everyone else – to draw strength for change and to keep myself going.
Architecture as a Tool to Improve Lives
The ideal that motivates me in my work – and one I have had the privilege of experiencing through a wide variety of projects – is that architecture can be a tool to improve lives; that it is possible to build a structure while simultaneously building a community, fostering both individual and mutual trust; that the construction budget does not merely produce, for example, a school as an end result, but can also serve as a catalyst for development – all without disrupting the ecological balance.
Before I became an architect, I was a development apprentice at the Bangladeshi NGO Dipshikha. There, I learned that the best strategy for fair and stable development is one that utilizes existing potential – both intangible and tangible – and does not become dependent on external factors. After completing my architecture studies, I sought to apply this insight to building. Regarding the choice of materials, I found a fantastic resource right beneath my feet in the Himalayan erosion deposits of Bangladesh: clay. And similarly, in many other parts of the world. Admittedly, it was not easy for me to get into it at first. Clay is fragile and must be planned with the climate in mind. But that is precisely what makes it so fascinating. Its fragility is not a weakness – it is a source of inspiration. Soil varies from place to place. In some areas, it is mixed with stones – ideal for rammed earth. Elsewhere, it is smooth – perfect for Adobe bricks or wattle-and-daub construction.
Over millennia, humanity has developed building techniques finely tuned to each material’s properties and to every climate zone. The result? An extraordinary cultural diversity in architecture – born not from design trends, but from necessity, wisdom, and belonging. When these parameters – local materials and local climate – are taken seriously and used to shape the architectural language, solutions emerge that are truly tailored to a place. This is where authenticity emerges: quiet, grounded, and radiant.
Harder, more durable building materials like concrete do not have to respond to the climate – or so one believes; the freedom of design appears unlimited. However, this also creates the risk of architecture that appears architecture, that feels arbitrary, disconnected, placeless. On the other hand, buildings that are constructed from the natural materials of the place appear rooted. They carry an inherent, serene naturalness that is soothing and fosters a sense of home. So much so that we usually choose places built with these local parameters as dream destinations for our vacations.
Co-Creation
For the classrooms at the Earth Campus in Tatale, Ghana, I designed rectangular windows from my office on the Austrian-German border. They were initially constructed on-site as planned. However, I then insisted on involving women in the construction process. They were hired to apply the plaster to the façade. Women in Ghana do not use tools for this; instead, they rub the clay with their hands. Since the movements of the hand are fluid and organic, the windows became exactly that: rounded and organic. The intelligence of the hand came into play and turned the façade into a true co-creation – between the earth with its rich rust-red pigments, the flow of the women’s hand movements, and the original design.
When forms emerge without following the will of the ego, without striving for the extraordinary, but rather from a simple intention of utility – paired with mindfulness toward materiality and skilled craftsmanship – then it touches the soul. Because it draws closer to a profound harmony.
Beauty Is an Expression of Love
This kind of harmony does not reveal itself easily. To truly build in harmony with nature, we must accept that everything – absolutely everything – is subject to change and that decaying is part of life. And that brings us back to earth. No other material evokes more fear in us than the vulnerability of this one. And yet, earthen architecture endures for centuries – in nearly every climate zone. Nevertheless, because of its water solubility, earth has the image of being impermanent. But it is precisely this quality that is its greatest potential. Only through this can it be easily repaired and recycled – either into a new form or back into the building site.
We are a throwaway society. In architecture, however, we succumb to the fallacy of building for eternity. That is why we build with the hardest materials – and with more concrete, steel, plastic, coatings, and paint than is actually necessary. This excess ultimately contributes significantly to climate change.
Ultimately, sustainability is not about technologies or resources – nor is it about money or regulations. It is about something much deeper: overcoming the fear of impermanence, of mortality. Too many decisions are made out of fear. But who wants to live in buildings, neighborhoods, or cities that were designed out of fear? There is only one force stronger than fear. That is love.
When we make decisions out of a stance of love toward our fellow human beings and our planet, sustainability is not a goal we strive for. It follows naturally. That is why, for me, sustainability is synonymous with love. And love expresses itself through beauty.
This is why I believe – as a stubborn idealist – that form follows love.
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