Portrait by Paula Ziegler for PIN–UP.
When, in 2014, Chilean architect Smiljan Radić planned to set a translucent fiberglass dome atop large rocks for his Serpentine Pavilion, he went to the quarry and picked out the boulders himself — they had to be a particular size so that the dome would appear to float. While the Serpentine marked the 59-year-old’s transition from niche hero to international celebrity, its boulders had long been a Radić trope, as had the penchant for mixing the fragile with the rugged. At Casa Chica in Talca (1995), rough granite slabs combine with recycled doors and windows to form a one-room dwelling just 300 feet square; at the VIK Winery in the Cachapoal Valley (2013), large rocks bestrew the ground either side of the walkway; while at the Casa del Carbonero in Culiprán (1997), the building — a charcoal furnace made from baked soil — appears like a smoking asteroid that has just crashed to Earth. For Radić — who works with his wife, the sculptor Marcela Correa — rocks convey a ponderous timelessness that he partly subverts with his obsession for inflatables, whether long-term, as at the Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art, or temporary, for pop-up pavilions and runway shows. Such dichotomies are also reflected in his 1,000-strong collection of books, drawings, and pieces of ephemera related to post-war radical architecture, among them works by the likes of Lina Bo Bardi, Christo and Jeanne-Claude, Guy Debord, Le Corbusier, and Aldo Rossi. In 2020, he published a book about it, Cloud ’68: Smiljan Radić’s Collection of Radical Architecture, co-edited by Fredi Fischli and Niels Olsen, and in 2024 he finally opened a home for the collection, the Fundación de Arquitectura Frágil (Foundation for Fragile Architecture), where he also runs his office. When it comes to his own drawings, however, he’d rather throw most of them in the trash...
Drawing by Smiljan Radić for Serpentine Pavilion. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Smiljan Radić’s 2014 design for the annual Serpentine Pavilion was the architect’s first built structure in Britain. Radić created this semi-translucent fiberglass dome, resembling a shell, and rested it atop large quarry stones to create the effect that the dome was floating. Photography by Gonzalo Puga. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Interior of Smiljan Radić’s 2014 design for the annual Serpentine Pavilion. Photography by Gonzalo Puga. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Fredi Fischli & Niels Olsen: You recently opened the Fundación de Arquitectura Frágil, which functions as a display space for your collection, and so is a type of museum. Today, the lens through which we view museums has become tainted — for many people, they’re a place of ruin where objects go to die, an artificial hell, a machine, a monster. What are your thoughts on the matter?
Smiljan Radić: When you sent me your manifesto about the museum, it made me think about the differences between cultures around the world and their perceptions of what museums are. The last time I visited a museum was three months ago in Chile — we were working on a new exhibition, and I visited this prominent institution as a potential location. As I stepped into the director’s office, she said, “Wait. The smell in my office isn’t mine — I opened the window to get some fresh air, and a horrible stench from the park is wafting in.” To me, this illustrated the urban reality of museums in Chile. We have a different relationship with the concept. We are just working hard to ensure the museums we have are in good condition, which is essential for us. In our context, if cultural artifacts are not properly cared for, they end up in the trash. I have some intuition about the issues with museums that you’re considering, but they don’t feel particularly relevant or important to the context here. I understand the institutional challenges, but discussing them feels odd to me because, when I go to Europe, visiting museums is primarily what I do. Museums offer a fantastic panorama. I could extend this idea by saying that, in a way, all of your cities function as large museums for me.
FF & NO: Were museums censored, changed, or closed during Chile’s military dictatorship of 1973–90?
Take the example of the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, which has long been a major institution for artists in Chile, and whose directors are traditionally appointed by the state. This was the case during the dictatorship, so in those days the museum symbolized what one had to oppose — not only the concept of the museum itself, closed and conservative, but its association with the regime. Today, the Museo de Bellas Artes still receives support from the state, but has become flexible and open. Historically, it was associated with exclusion, which must not be forgotten; today it is a public-political space in the heart of the city. However, it is not significant to our government, which spends very little on culture. Artists in Chile are accustomed to working without financial support. The government views them as el último pelo de la cola — the last hair of the tail. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a right-wing or left-wing government, the situation remains the same.
NO: What was the situation when you extended the Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art in Santiago in 2014?
It was very different because the funding came from the mining industry, not the state. At the time, the sponsors were flush with cash due to rising copper prices, and the fantastic director of the Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art proposed a comprehensive project. The sponsors invested a substantial amount of money — they expanded the museum, renovated the archive, and paid the staff well. However, this was a rare occurrence, and wasn’t necessarily a long-term commitment. It felt more like a windfall from the sky.
NO: The museum grew by 70 percent: the pre-Columbian artifacts are now displayed in an underground vault, while the social space with a café is covered by a bubble. Can you talk about the ideas behind the project?
The idea for the bubble came about because the existing building had been landmarked by the Heritage and Preservation Commission. I thought they were going to give us a lot of formal rules if we wanted to build a roof over the courtyard, so instead of a conventional covering I proposed inflatable ETFE, making the structure essentially immaterial, composed of air. To my surprise, the Commission agreed to it. Enclosing the courtyard was not enough to supply all the extra square meters the museum needed, so, after considering an extension on a neighboring site, they decided to go underground. This added real value to the museum, since it kept everything on the same plot, creating a cultural block. It turned out really well, aligning perfectly with the national context in Chile. But decisions like these always depend on specific circumstances — it’s never a systematic process. Each museum project is a unique opportunity rather than part of a broader trend. You solve each problem as it arises. When someone wants us to design a museum, we usually say yes.
Smiljan Radić pictured amongst his collection. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
A view of the inflatable roof on the north patio of The Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art, located in downtown Santiago de Chile. Radić redesigned and expanded the building in 2014. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Radić designed this opaque, temporary inflated bubble, sewn and built from nylon parachute cloth, for Céline’s Spring/Summer 2018 show — Phoebe Philo’s last as creative director — at Paris Fashion Week. Radić’s inflatable was meant to render the site’s actual “hostile interior” — a set of tennis courts on the outskirts of Paris — invisible for the duration of the show. Photography by Tim Elkaim. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Portrait by Paula Ziegler for PIN–UP.
FF: What other museum and exhibition projects have you been working on recently?
In July this year I did an exhibition about the performance artist Carlos Leppe. He was a really amazing guy — so funny, sad, and beautiful. Leppe made most of his work between the 70s and the 90s. He brought performance art to Chile. The museum curators wanted to set up his videos in a big room, more or less 24 by 45 meters. I produced the exhibition display, which cost only 4,000 euros. My idea was to insert spaces by hanging big tent-like structures in the gallery, so you could go inside with a smooth floor as a mattress and watch the performances in a protected environment. Since the tent fabric was translucent, the videos were also visible on the exterior, so there was an interplay between inside and out. In the space outside the tents, the sound of the ten videos mixed together to create a sonically confusing public space. That was my last exhibition project. We’re currently preparing an exhibition about our collection for the end of 2025, more or less what we did with you at ETH Zürich gta Exhibitions in 2018 with Cloud ’68.
NO: We are curious about your ongoing interest in inflatables. You’ve used them for fashion shows — an opaque indoor one for Céline’s Spring/Summer 2018 collection, and a transparent outdoor bubble on top of a building for Alexander McQueen Spring/Summer 2022 — while at the 2023 architectural biennale in Santiago de Chile you made a whole Inflatable pavilion. Are you influenced by utopian ideas from the 1960s?
Inflatables are a kind of ugly and amorphous type of architecture. They are always peculiar, their space feels almost visceral, and it’s difficult to measure their sizes and proportions. That’s why they are attractive to me. The difference between contemporary inflatables and those from the 1960s is not so much the technology involved but the safety regulations. In the 1960s, the focus was on working with the limits of insecurity; the experimentation was based on being aware that one was entering a structure akin to an art installation and not much more. Today’s European inflatables must meet strict safety regulations, just like any conventional building. This means that something that was originally ephemeral and radically anti-establishment due to its ease of construction is now simply a controlled building, albeit with special form and materiality. Neither approach is better or worse. With both you can build good architecture, they’re simply two different ways of doing something that appears similar but is not.
NO: Can you tell us about your collection of radical architecture ephemera that makes up the Fundaciónde Arquitectura Frágil?
It all began with a workshop I did with [Chilean academic] Manuel Corrada in 2005. At that time, I didn’t know much about Situationism. When I saw Guy Debord’s beautiful psychogeography map, I started searching for two years. I began to collect more and more pieces. It became something of a fetish. After a few years, I needed to understand what I was doing. I don’t like doing things just for the sake of it. One key difference between art drawing and architectural drawing is that art drawing exists for its own sake, if I may explain it naively, while conventional architectural drawing is a representation of something that needs to be built. The papers I’ve collected occupy a middle ground, and I really appreciate this hybrid state. Since Chile is somewhat isolated from the global scene, I thought it would be best to continue importing architecture from abroad, as it could bring fresh perspectives to local architects. Our collection comprises about 1,000 drawings, lithographs, and a small collection of first-edition books. The essence of the collection lies in the hybrid space between utopian ideas, installations, and fragile constructions.
NO: And what about the space you designed to house the foundation?
We have three rooms for the foundation, and a fourth for my studio. In one of the rooms, which can accommodate 40 people, we organize seminars, three each year. Participants pay about 60 euros, and the seminars consist of three days of presentations by one speaker on a single theme. The first one this year, in May, explored the radical movements in Florence, Paris, and London; the second, in August, was focused on Latin American radical architecture; and the third seminar will focus on Rodrigo Pérez de Arce’s book City of Play, which aligns closely with our collection. We don’t record the seminars because the immediate experience is what matters most. The interaction with the audience is crucial. In my opinion, recording and sharing the event diminishes its impact. Attending a special place to hear a great speaker for three days is truly amazing. It’s an old-fashioned approach, but it works. At the end of the sessions, we make a small exhibition with original papers from the collection that relate to the theme. The other rooms house the archive and a book collection. It’s a very domestic setup.
La Fundación de Arquitectura Frágil (The Foundation for Fragile Architecture) (2023), located in Santiago’s Pedro de Valdivia Norte neighborhood, houses Radić’s office as well as his collection of architectural drawings and documents related to utopian ideas and fragile constructions from the second half of the 20th century. The building is constructed from fabric with various textures and levels of translucency. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Installation view of El día más hermoso (The Most Beautiful Day), a retrospective exhibition showing ten videos of performances by the radical and renowned Chilean performance artist Carlos Leppe (1952–2015) at the National Museum of Fine Arts in Santiago de Chile, 2024. Radić contributed the idea of hanging tent-like structures in the gallery and letting the performances reflect onto the fabric’s exterior. Photography by Jorge Brantmayer. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Smiljan Radić’s Casa A (2008), located in a forest in San Clemente, Chile, is a restoration of a generic A-frame. He built the house for him and his wife, sculptor Marcela Correa, who scattered 60 monolithic stones on the property and the terrace. Photography by Gonzalo Puga. Courtesy Smiljan Radić.
Portrait by Paula Ziegler for PIN–UP.
FF: Why is it so important for you and your practice to learn about radical architects’ work?
As an architect, being surrounded by beautiful things — things with their own character that you genuinely care about — will influence your work. It’s about the ambiance of your environment, about blending past, present, and future through references. I’m not always consciously aware of this, but I believe more in this confusing environment than in the objects themselves. Most of the things I collect aren’t conventionally beautiful, but they possess a lot of character and ideas. I’m fascinated by their imperfections and imaginative qualities. My architecture might not be what you’d call elegant, and that was perhaps influenced by the references I’ve collected. Working from Chile, I see the reference as a way to connect with the history of architecture. It’s about being part of something, and I love the idea of having unclear roots — then you can be part of anything you choose.
NO: To me, these traces of radical architecture, these fragments of something that happened, are akin to ruins. Is the collection perhaps a form of ruin? And does it relate to the interest in ruins that manifests in both your writings and your architecture?
I hadn’t thought of it that way, but maybe it is a kind of ruin — a new type of relationship. For me, there’s something almost pathological about it. When I was at ETH showing these ephemera, I was surprised that many students didn’t know these images were analogue. They’ve always seen them on a computer. Because of this, I often emphasized that someone physically had to create them, either paint or draw them, and that they represent the culmination of a long process. Today, what you see when you flip through a magazine has generally been done quickly. Architects’ monographs, for example, often feature the same colors, the same types of plans and buildings, the same renders made using the same software programs that dictate how to produce them “better.” The result, though often very good, is anonymous and homogenous. When you look at this collection, you always sense the presence of someone behind it — someone pushing the limits with a pen. This is where art and architecture connect for me. I’m not deeply connected or a great critic because I don’t see much of it. Traveling helps me understand architecture.
FF: I think that what your built work shares with the museum is the idea of storytelling. When you walk through a museum, you see all these paintings and things that tell you stories. Your work is also often based on cultural references that you combine to tell fables, myths, or fairy tales.
I think the best museums are those that are free. You go there for maybe ten minutes, see something, and leave. It’s like walking through a park. You see a beautiful tree, a dog jumping, and then you move on. It’s amazing because you can choose what you want to experience. At my age, I don’t want to learn too much — I just want to see beauty. And, of course, when something attracts you, you naturally want to know more about it. I prefer to talk about presentation rather than museography. Typically, conventional museography displays artworks with little apparent care. It crucifies them by nailing them to the walls with a certain domesticity, as if they were at home. Also, it reads the available space from left to right, obediently following a certain narrative, turning the exhibition into a mere pretext for the catalogue. With museography, the vibrant force of the curated works, a certain complicity between them, is often disregarded. Presentation, on the other hand, prioritizes the life of the exhibit and arranges it in space, triggering strange energies among the works shown. This strangeness helps to awaken objects that have been slumbering in storage. That’s something they cannot achieve from the epitaphs hanging beside them or from the lengthy catalogue texts. Presentation is the well-lit field, a series of spatial positions that allow the curators to take a stand and to engage with the present.
Portrait by Paula Ziegler for PIN–UP.
FF: We’re doing the opening exhibition at the new permanent home of the Museum of Modern Art in Warsaw, which for years was a nomadic institution. That nomadism was interesting to us because it worked against the typical idea of the museum as an oversaturated power player.
Yesterday, I spoke to my friend and fellow Chilean architect Cecilia Puga about your critique of museums, and I said, “They just don’t like that new museum building in Warsaw. Maybe that’s the problem!” [Laughs.] Four years ago, I took part in a competition here in Chile for a private museum. My design was just a flat plane with some moving walls and everything made from aluminum. I never thought I’d win, it didn’t seem like something for Chile, but I wanted to envision a museum as a real support space — flexible and open in its administration. The concept of the museum should be closer to a public square than to a conventional building. I’m very curious about how the Centre Pompidou renovation will turn out. Beaubourg was so radical for its time, and it’s still important. I’m not referring to its utility, but rather to the idea of the environment it creates. For example, since MoMA’s recent expansion, it’s become a commercial environment, which I think also sheds light on another problem. I often feel uncomfortable there because I get easily lost and confused, with people constantly moving up and down the escalators consuming images. While MoMA is an amazing museum, the atmosphere inside makes me feel strangely sad. Perhaps this is my issue rather than a problem with the building.
FF: When the Pompidou was under construction, Jean Baudrillard wrote that it should stay empty to present the emptiness of culture. He also said it should be empty but far away, so you can hardly see it — just one lamp that, from time to time, gives a little bit of light, like a memory of how culture disappeared. It’s such a beautiful image. It’s wonderful to hear that to you this reflection on the Pompidou is still relevant.
That idea sounds really amazing. It’s really about pushing the limits again, about going back. Another example of this, in the context of museums, is the renovation of Lina Bo Bardi’s Museu de Arte de São Paulo. They recreated her incredible display system to showcase paintings from the collection. It was fantastic — truly in tune with the times and our current epoch. It’s really beautiful.
FF: Drawing and painting are integral parts of your process. Do you archive all your work?
Most of the drawings I make are done on the back of used paper. They all end up in the trash, except for a few I decide to use for publication. If I made the mistake of keeping them all, I’d be overwhelmed with useless papers I wouldn’t know what to do with. Collecting one’s own work is very complicated.
FF: You have five people who work with you in your studio. Most architects would want to grow their office, but you’ve said you don’t want that number to change. What would you like to do with the studio in the future?
The future is not here. I am 59 years old — my future is limited to a maximum of ten to 15 years. In that time, I might be able to complete around ten buildings. I hope at least a couple of these will be truly great pieces of architecture. I am really ambitious!