DAVID KLEMMER

︎︎︎Samuel Penn

SP

Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. Your work is immediately recognisable—precise, consistent, and shaped by a strong internal logic. While it doesn’t rely on overt references, it seems to position itself within a broader architectural discourse—echoing certain typologies, formal languages, and sensibilities. With that in mind, I’d like to begin with the idea of inheritance—not simply in terms of style or influence, but as a form of critical engagement. What architectural attitudes or practices do you feel you’ve inherited from your teachers or early education, and how do they continue to shape your work?

DK
The topic of inheritance feels particularly significant to me. Before studying architecture, I had considered Industrial Design and Music—disciplines that seemed to involve a certain rigour and structure. I sensed that architecture might bring those sensibilities together. But during my studies, I didn’t find a particular professor or department that shaped my direction. I developed my interest largely through self-initiated work. The person who had the greatest impact wasn’t a professor but a lecturer—Till Lensing, a German architect. I took his course on Tendenza, the Italian-Swiss movement involving architects like Livio Vacchini, Galfetti, and Botta. That was a turning point. Until then, my education and approach had felt vague and unfocused. Meeting him and studying the rational, structural projects from that period opened a door. I began to sense something I now call resonance—an intuitive connection with the work.

SP
Is that something you’ve continued to rely on—this sense of resonance?

DK
Yes, even if you don’t fully understand it, you can feel it when it’s there. It was the key to understanding order in architectural work, how to prioritize and structure things. This realization led me to discover architects like Louis Kahn and Valerio Olgiati, whose work had a similar impact on me. From that moment, my approach to architecture—and my projects—shifted. While at university, I began crafting what I call an architectural autobiography, a personal record of pivotal moments of my life that influenced and shaped my work. Some of these moments came before I formally studied architecture. For example, as a child, I often crossed a newly built bridge designed by Meili and Peter, with engineering by Jürg Conzett (Figure 1). At the time, I didn’t know anything about architecture, but I could sense there was something special about that structure, and it left an impression. Later, through Lensing and my exposure to Swiss architects like Herzog and de Meuron, I began to understand architecture not just as a collection of individual buildings, but as a larger field of shared ideas and practices. That’s when I became interested in autobiographies of architects—understanding how their personal experiences shaped their work.`

Figure 1. Footbridge over the River Murau, Steiermark, Austria, by Marcel Meili, Markus Peter, and Astrid Staufer, with Jürg Conzett, 1993–95. © Heinrich Helfenstein.

SP
I remember when Herzog and de Meuron were more theoretical, especially early on. Did their thinking influence you more than the work itself?

DK
It was both. What fascinated me about Herzog & de Meuron, especially in their early works, was how they approached each project with the same care and attention as an art piece. Their collaboration with many artists and the way each project was numbered, titled, and surrounded by an artistic aura felt mysterious. Beyond that, I was drawn to the ephemeral qualities of their architecture—the ability to create something atmospheric, not just tangible. For example, they began experimenting with olfactory objects—fragrances or perfumes designed to evoke memories of places through scent. One project of theirs that resonates particularly with me is PROJECT 028 – One Specific Room (Lego House) (Figure 2). It encapsulates many of the ideas we’re discussing—reality, imagination, innocence, and dreams. It’s playful yet profound, demonstrating how architecture can merge these elements. The project taps into the concept of architecture as both a game and a reflection of desire and reality. There is a beautiful text printed on the plexiglass side, which powerfully speaks to the relationship between the real and the imagined. I’ve always been fascinated by oppositions in architecture. In my own projects, I think about light and dark, hot and cold, open and closed, narrow and wide. These are qualities that, as human beings, we instinctively relate to, regardless of cultural, educational, or generational differences. When architecture engages with these elements, I believe it resonates with something timeless or eternal.

SP
Architecture has a long tradition of treating the project as a theoretical construct. How did the idea of developing your own conceptual studies first take shape?

DK
In fact, during my studies, I realised that I wanted to explore certain ideas and typologies independently. To do this, I began treating myself as a kind of academic client—setting myself briefs, often prompted by a vacant plot, a spatial concept, or a structural curiosity. Over time, I’ve initiated around 50 of these projects—some remain purely conceptual, others I return to and revise. Instead of documenting theories or accumulating references, I constructed a personal referencing system grounded in recurring questions: how to approach structure and space, how draw the edge of a roof, how to precisely fix a window. Whenever something captures my interest, I start sketching a project around it. Most remain incomplete—some merge, others fade—but occasionally they materialise into finished works. This evolving archive becomes a mental framework I draw on when working on competitions or commissions. It’s a system in constant flux, and it shapes how I start and develop projects. I call them work-pieces.

Figure 2. 028 Lego House: One Specific Room, contribution to the exhibition L’architecture est un jeu… magnifique, Centre Georges Pompidou, 1985. © Herzog & de Meuron.

SP
It's a very compelling process, but don't you find it a bit inward-looking?

DK
I do. This approach is personal. I’m not claiming it’s the right or wrong way—it’s simply what works for me. Of course, there’s the reality of daily life—competitions, the building industry, regulations, and norms. But my personal projects are an introverted space where I can be alone with my thoughts, working through ideas that help me understand myself. For an architect, it’s crucial to be aware of your strengths, limitations, and preferences. This space of self-exploration shapes how I think and how I work. A building may remain unbuilt, or a project may exist only as an idea, but that doesn’t make it any less significant or fascinating. In fact, it’s often the opposite—the process of exploring these ideas always leaves me with a sense of mystery. I don’t consider this practice necessary, but it’s incredibly helpful. Many of the issues and challenges you face in competitions can be anticipated, or at least explored, through this process. It lets me engage with a much broader field of architecture than daily practice would allow. That’s what I enjoy about it.

SP
It’s almost like an athlete trying to beat a personal best.

DK
Exactly. As an athlete, you’re not just competing—you spend a significant amount of time training alone, honing your skills, and developing both your physical abilities and mental focus. It’s a fitting metaphor for the approach I take with these projects. This ties back to my encounter with Till Lensing, who started designing imaginary houses to explore spatial and structural concepts. As I created images for these projects, I realized that all the houses shared common themes. It also relates to Kazuo Shinohara’s work, where each project delves into a distinct spatial experience. His work is carefully archived and curated, with enigmatic titles, detailed texts, and precise plans, even for his later unbuilt projects in the fourth style. This is where much of my mindset originates—from a fascination with unrealized, yet meticulously curated works.

SP
Unbuilt works have always fascinated me too.

DK
But more recently, I’ve tried to move away from a rigid architectural system toward something more open and flexible.

SP
So, you’re in a pivotal moment?

DK
It seems so, yes. In the past two or three years, I’ve experienced a shift—developing a growing fascination with architecture that isn’t focused on a refined object but instead feels more incomplete or fragmented. This has ties to my past as well. I studied in Graz during a time when the influence of the Graz School of Architecture was still present. The movement, though already fading, left its mark on the professors teaching there. At the time, I wasn’t particularly aware of it, but recently, after revisiting the city and these projects, I’ve rediscovered that period and recognised qualities I had previously overlooked. Examples of such works include those by Günther Domenig, Manfred Partl, Volker Giencke, Klaus Kada, Raimund Abraham and many others. They hold attributes that, for me, feel relevant once more. This interest also opened my mind to architects like Carlo Scarpa, John Lautner, and Sverre Fehn. These architects, once on the periphery of my thinking, have now emerged as a significant source of inspiration.

SP
It’s interesting how those earlier periods continue to influence our thinking.

DK
Yes, I’ve been reflecting on that. I feel a strong connection to the 90s—probably because it was when I was becoming more aware of the world. When I think back to the architecture of that time—Kazuyo Sejima, Peter Märkli, Rem Koolhaas—I recognise something that feels familiar. Maybe it’s just that these architects were prominent during that period, but I think it also has to do with a kind of parallel development. I was growing and figuring things out at the same time their work was emerging, and it creates this strange sense of alignment.

SP
A kind of synchronicity?

DK
Yes, that’s probably why I find myself looking back now. I think there’s a sense—whether real or imagined—that things were more open then. Architecture seemed to allow for more experimentation, less pressure to conform. I sometimes feel nostalgic for that—not to recreate it, but to ask what can be carried forward. Another part of it was the arrival of digital tools. In the early 2000s, when the internet became widely accessible and home computers were more common, it felt like a shift. A transition between analogue and digital ways of working. I experienced that change quite directly.

SP
Did those tools change the way you thought about working?

DK
Definitely. The computer became my tool. It introduced a level of precision that was completely new—suddenly you could control everything with exactness: line weights, spacing, the structure of a drawing. That kind of refinement became part of how I understood clarity in architecture. I think of someone like Livio Vacchini, who was deeply engaged with what computers made possible. He developed drawings that were computational and rational, but still expressive (Figure 3).

Figure 4. Digital Negatives, David Klemmer, 2024.

SP
And in this context, representation becomes crucial, especially when you’re not building—the way you represent your work can influence how it’s understood.

DK
Yes, for young architects, or those not building much, representation becomes increasingly crucial. It’s about perception. A simple change in line weight can entirely alter how a floor plan is read. Representation not only clarifies a project but also shapes how it’s mentally interpreted. For unrealised works, representation essentially becomes the project itself. When I was working on my diploma project, this was a critical part of my process—understanding what a plan, a text, a title, or an isometric drawing should convey, and how each discipline illustrates a distinct aspect of a project. A plan offers a different reading than a text, a physical model allows for interaction, a photograph captures atmosphere, and so on. This is particularly relevant in the context of digital renders. I’ve been working on a series called digital negatives (Figure 4), which I approach as a way of leveraging the unique capabilities of the computer. Initially, I rendered them in perspective, but I later switched to isometric views, as this projection is something you can’t capture with photography. The inversion of colour evokes a connection to the aesthetics of analogue films. Both decisions cause the simple generated images to appear at once familiar and unfamiliar, with the readable space and the structure of the projects standing out distinctly.

SP
What about three-dimensional visualisations—spatial models, for instance—what do they offer that other forms of representation don't?

DK
With real-time computing, we can experience virtual space from the outset, making it an efficient tool for exploring spatial concepts that physical models can’t match, especially in terms of speed and precision. It’s also a flexible tool for researching and modifying projects—allowing easy adjustments or deletions. I don’t see it as competing with other architectural tools; rather, I view the digital realm as an additional instrument in the development process. The digital world offers a fascinating juxtaposition to the physical world. A few years ago, I began noticing a resemblance between the blackness of outer space and the blank computational space of 3D programs. They're quite similar—both allow things to exist and rotate without the constraints of gravity. In the digital realm, we can achieve things that aren’t possible in the real world, and that’s what makes it so captivating. When discussing oppositions, we must recognise that our awareness of balance stems from knowing the extremes. The extremes help us appreciate the middle ground, and that holds true for the digital world as well. It offers possibilities that are completely opposed to the real world’s limitations, though there’s always an effort to merge the two. It’s a complex relationship.

Figure 5. Microprocessor 80960JA, Intel, 1990.

SP
What I’m getting at is that the real world is chaotic—full of uncertainty, failure, and compromise—whereas the digital allows total control. That pull toward order is understandable. But even in your digital work, you stay grounded in structure, gravity, and physical logic. So, I wonder if you would be uncomfortable producing projects that were purely fantastical or non-physical?

DK
While we strive for order and stability in the real world, the digital space requires a hint of imperfection and error to feel relatable. My focus on the digital realm aligns with my deep-rooted interest in realism. Even as a child, I was drawn to it—never using colourful bricks when constructing Lego houses, always imagining how toys like cars and planes would function in the real world. My passion for model-making, building railways, ships, and cars with a focus on scale and accuracy, has stayed with me. Even today, I view the world attentively and with interest. It is important to train the eye. However, this grounding in realism also allows me to appreciate objects that challenge traditional notions of visual design. Take, for instance, the microchip—a fascinating object because, although it is usually hidden, its design is surprisingly beautiful and complex (Figure 5). The way its connections are laid out creates a visible, almost architectural pattern. To me, the microchip is the heart of everything, powering all the digital processes I work with. There’s something intriguing about this small object, which reminds me of satellites or space modules—there’s no aesthetic decision or visual design, just the result of a system’s logic. It’s this precision and function that I find compelling, and I look for similar ways to integrate functional elements into my architectural work.

Figure 6. International Space Station (ISS), 2021. © NASA

SP
You often reference space-age technology, like satellites and scientific instruments, on your website and in your projects. Where does that come from?

DK
Satellites and instruments captivate me, especially when it comes to exploring how they are assembled. For example, the International Space Station (Figure 6) is entirely functional—there are no aesthetic choices. It's equipped with sensors, solar panels, and other components carefully integrated into the main structure. In my projects, I strive to create a similarly efficient system, where elements like staircases, roofs, chimneys, or technical components are integrated but retain their distinct appearance. A good example is the Lido Bruggerhorn project (Figure 7), where certain elements contribute to the sense of assembly, enhancing the expression of the project. I frequently join parts using a hinge—it’s a wonderful component that separates and connects a static and a dynamic element. Visually, it alludes to movement and function. This technical curiosity also connects to my interest in industrial design. I think the comparison between machines and instruments is interesting here. The beauty of an instrument lies in its technical necessity and precision, but also in how it allows for human interaction. The way we touch and engage with it—the sizing of elements, how it reacts to an individual. The performance it generates needs to be precise, but at the same time, it has to be adaptable, allowing me to interact with it. The Polar Planimeter Type 7 (Figure 8), for instance, relies on you to guide it—it becomes an extension of the body. That closeness is something I find very beautiful. In architecture, there are comparable moments—doors, handles, windows, railings—objects we interact with every day. They’re not just there; they ask something of us. In that sense, a house can be understood as an instrument for daily life. A machine, on the other hand, is designed to run on its own—you press a button, and it performs its task without you.

Figure 7. Lido Bruggerhorn, plan drawing by David Klemmer, 2022.

SP
You’ve described all of that in very tactile terms, but let's shift the perspective slightly—from the detail to something broader—what would you hope that your work contributes to the discipline?

DK
That’s a tough question. When you’re serious about your profession, of course, you want to contribute something meaningful. We live in a time driven by the pursuit of comfort. This is also reflected in architecture, whose outcomes strangely seem both diverse and yet uniformly similar. Standardised solutions dominate, shaping the visual appearance—not only in the built environment but also in its representation. Technological advancements reduce errors and the need for workarounds, leading to fewer opportunities for individual expression. While technology opens new possibilities, it also closes them off—particularly for those who can't or don't want to engage with these matters in depth. I would love to do and see more projects that emphasize the individual and personal, even if they're incomplete, fragmented, or flawed—projects and images where the focus is on finding our own idea and its representation. So hopefully I can stimulate that in some way.

SP
It’s much easier to create an image that looks finished and convincing, and then say, “That’s it, that’s the building.” It’s no longer about creating ideas.

DK
That's true. The pursuit of photorealism has become an obsession. The visualiser works on an image until their effort merges with the result and becomes invisible. This is precarious. On the other hand, photography, through the methods of image editing and retouching, is approaching the classification and aesthetics of rendering. Both disciplines offer manipulated renditions of a reality that exists somewhere in between. There’s something interesting—and slightly absurd—about the insertion of future projects into photographs of existing sites. It creates a perfect contradiction: on the one hand, there’s this drive for accuracy and believability, but on the other, the image ignores how time will alter the scene. This simultaneous presence of both states—between what’s depicted and what will really be there—is what makes it valuable. It’s not just a gap; it’s a tension between control and uncertainty, and I think we’ve stopped paying attention to that.

Figure 8. Polar Planimeter Type 7, Alfred J. Amsler & Co., 1918. © Mathematical Instruments.

SP
Yes, that tension—the sense that something hasn’t happened yet—feels important.

DK
Exactly. It resists finality. I think we should reconnect with this uncertainty to allow images and architecture to evolve—perhaps incomplete and with errors, but at least with a clear attitude and idea. If we look back 30 or 40 years, almost every architecture office had a recognisable language, visible in their drawings, plans, layouts, visualisations, and ultimately in their architecture. Representation was a natural part of their identity. Some of them were still sketching, others used perspective line drawings, worked with collages, or explored early CGI techniques. The limitations of tools and technology were not a barrier but instead encouraged individuality. The distinct personality and character of these offices was unmistakable. Today, everything is reduced to two or three obvious approaches, influenced by media trends from everywhere. Even though it’s difficult to escape this influence myself—I want to challenge it.

...