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BRUTALISM IS BACK  
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Felix Torkar
August 16, 2025
Jacobin
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_ Not everyone is excited about the resurgence of brutalism. But the
rise of neobrutalist projects shows how the polarizing architectural
style can also be a pragmatic use of scarce resources. _

The Universidad de Ingeniería y Tecnología in Lima, Peru. An
architectural style is always a mirror of its time. In a digital and
virtualized world, neobrutalism reflects the yearning for the tangible
and the material. , Gatodemichi / Wikimedia Commons

 

A new generation of architects around the world is adapting brutalism
to modern times. Neobrutalism is not just a resurgence, but leading
toward an ecological development of the polarizing architectural
style.

 

For several years now, brutalist architecture has been undergoing a
revival. But not everyone is excited about it, yet. When the infamous
Mäusebunker building in Berlin was saved from demolition in 2023
through a petition with ten thousand signatures, the local right-wing
tabloid _B.Z._ ran the headline: “Berlin’s Ugliest Building Now
Heritage Protected.” In tandem with the aesthetic arguments over the
brutalism of yesteryear, amazing things are happening in the
contemporary world of architecture.

New projects around the world seem to once again follow brutalist
approaches of the 1950s–1970s. Raw materials, exposed structures,
legible arrangements, and a new appreciation of sculptural forms cast
doubt on whether brutalism really disappeared into oblivion after
1980. If you look at buildings like the Universidad de Ingeniería y
Tecnología (UTEC) in Lima, completed in 2015, you’re immediately
struck by the similarity to the bold designs of half a century ago.
What we are witnessing is nothing less than a global resurgence that
could be called neobrutalism.

Can We Still Build Like That Today?

The Nubuke Foundation building in Accra, Ghana (Amuzujoe / Wikimedia
Commons)

If you speak with these architects, you usually detect a general
interest in building styles of the past. Le Corbusier’s later work,
such as the radically brutalist La Tourette monastery in France, is
widely admired. However, their own architecture is in general not seen
as a reference to those earlier models. Rather, it is a reaction to
the challenges of today.

Digging deeper, not only the aesthetic, but also the underlying design
philosophy, whether consciously or unconsciously, resembles historical
precedents. Similar approaches lead to a similar aesthetic. Now as
then, the goal of a decidedly “honest” architecture is to make
structure and function openly visible, to intentionally avoid cladding
and plaster, and to openly display fundamental building materials. Of
course, it is hard to claim that a plastered wall or wooden panel is
“dishonest.” Nor are they necessarily functionless, considering
for example their insulating properties. Nevertheless, there is
something particularly appealing about displaying the bones of a
building. On top of aesthetic considerations, the avoidance of
industrial building products is also said to be a pragmatic response
to the growing global scarcity of resources. A brick or concrete wall
saves on plaster and paint and ideally does not need to be regularly
recoated.

The use of concrete, however, has long been criticized. How can we
still plan huge reinforced concrete sculptures when the cement
industry alone is responsible for 7 percent of humans’ CO2
emissions, while in many places sand and gravel suitable for concrete
are already becoming scarce? Innovations touted by the industry such
as climate-neutral cement and recycled or bio-concrete are a long way
from bringing about a change of direction in the global construction
industry and for the time being will remain niche products in
advertising brochures.

Nevertheless, for building planners, there is still a lot to be said
for conventional reinforced concrete. The construction industry
readily uses it even in remote regions, and compared to many other
materials, transportation routes are shorter and costs are lower.
Added to this are the still-unsurpassed advantages of the properties:
no other material is so freely moldable at a comparable price.
Reinforced concrete allows for the boldest cantilevers, thin shell
constructions, and almost unlimited sculptural possibilities.

 

When asked about sustainability, some acknowledge the issues but
respond that concrete allows for a lot of space to be enclosed with
little material, which means fewer resources are consumed overall. And
thicker insulating concrete dispenses with highly specialized wall
layers, contributing to a reduction in hazardous waste.

Neobrutalist projects make up only an extremely small fraction of
global concrete consumption, which lessens the overall impact. But
because they are photogenic and popular they have a prominent
influence on our collective visual memory. This means they unavoidably
serve as models of taste, which doesn’t make the question of whether
to admire or condemn them any easier.

Why Now?

AFF Architekten: Spore Initiative, Berlin, 2018–2021 (Courtesy of
Felix Torkar)

An architecture style is always a mirror of the time in which it
arose. Its aesthetic results from a certain ethical stance toward
design and construction. Architecture firms not only react to
conditions and challenges but are also dependent on clients approving
and financing their designs. And since the brutalist aesthetic is
still struggling with its image, financing is not a given. But in our
increasingly virtual, dematerialized, and hypercomplex living
environments, there is a longing for distinctly physical, haptic,
seemingly tangible phenomena — a longing that (neo)brutalism can
satisfy.

Anyone interested in where and under what conditions their breakfast
eggs were laid might also be interested in how a building is planned,
what materials it consists of, and how it is constructed. The roughly
cast concrete wall with its marks of construction not only shows how
it was created, but also reveals (and sometimes exaggerates) the
physical nature of the building. Where a load-bearing structure props
up a heavy beam, and where cables and pipes are laid openly, the
system appears comprehensible. Unfortunately, where the electricity
actually comes from is still a mystery when the power line from the
socket disappears into the wall just a few meters further on.

At the same time, the massive, rough surfaces offer a physical
experience. Brick or concrete walls seem less abstract than glass and
white-painted surfaces. Along these lines, neobrutalist approaches
strike the same chord as the collective fascination with
craftsmanship. Just as 150 years ago, when the Arts and Crafts
movement put forward nature and craftsmanship as an antidote to a
rapid industrialization that was perceived as threatening, today the
regional, handmade, non-factory-produced once again offers an image of
longing.

Who Is Building and Why?

The north face of the Ningbo Museum (Siyuwj / Wikimedia Commons)

The fact that brutalism and neobrutalism differ greatly in terms of
who commissions the work also fits into this picture. For brutalism,
the public sector was central. Universities, cultural centers, town
halls, infrastructure, and government projects were well funded, and
postwar administrations were surprisingly open to experimentation. In
contrast, neobrutalism is largely a project of the private sector.
Education buildings such as the UTEC are being constructed for private
universities, and the single-family house, while no longer sustainable
in terms of resources, has become a central preoccupation of
neobrutalist planners.

 

Priorities have changed under neoliberalism. When asked about the
recent heritage listing of the brutalist building for Berlin’s
Hygiene Institute, the institute’s parent organization — the
state-owned hospital Charité — pondered whether buildings today
were still being designed in such a way that they would merit heritage
listing protection sixty years down the line. The same question should
be asked of the often utilitarian, faceless,
price-above-everything-else projects of recent years – because
sustainable construction includes a long lifespan.

A fundamental principle of brutalism is its “memorability as an
image.” When a building project goes beyond the bare minimum, the
building might then more likely be appreciated. It might develop an
identity, making it possible to keep it in good condition for thirty,
seventy, or a hundred years, thus continuing to make use of the
resources used for its construction.

The fact that neobrutalism must be described as predominantly upscale,
privatized architecture does not mean that there are no exceptions to
the rule. In China, a new generation of architecture firms is
benefiting from a construction boom of cultural centers and
development projects in rural regions. With large budgets, they are
creating designs that combine sculptural forms with local building
craftsmanship and materials.

Using those approaches, Wang Shu won the highest international
architecture award, the Pritzker Prize, in 2012. Liu Jiakun followed
in 2025. Wang Shu’s monumental Ningbo Museum is shaped by concrete
that bears the traces of bamboo formwork. Other parts of the façade
are made of reused bricks from houses that were demolished to build
the museum. It may not be a direct criticism of the massive waves of
demolition that occurred during China’s rapid growth, but it
cleverly approaches and probes the issue. The museum’s surfaces
anchor it in its surroundings.

Meanwhile, in Southeast Asia and in Latin America, more and more
approaches to social-minded brick architecture are appearing. Tropical
Space in Vietnam and Mínimo Común in Paraguay, for example, create
ingenious brickwork structures that promote passive ventilation and
find exciting solutions to cost-effective residential buildings.
Further development is welcomed: Mínimo Común’s openly visible
materials and constructions are intended to encourage people to copy
them and build their own structures. They would be happy if they could
reach more people with their approach. Here, architecture theory’s
brainchild “legibility” suddenly becomes a practical tool for
social advancement.

The Beginning of the End?

Despite all the raw beauty, the core criticism of a lack of climate
efficiency and high resource consumption remains. And so there is a
growing number of voices saying that the end of the line could soon be
reached. Switzerland, for example, has a long history of high-end
concrete architecture. But in recent years, the majority of public
competitions have been won with wood-based designs, some of them
featuring somewhat greenwashed cladding, some genuine timber
constructions. One possible way forward is to switch to other
materials. Even the inventor of the term “brutalism”, Reyner
Banham, made it clear in 1955 that it was less about the concrete
itself.

 
While the term was derived from the French _béton brut_, i.e., raw
concrete, it is more about the basic concept, regardless of whether it
is exposed concrete, brick, or rammed earth. Neobrutalist approaches
are increasingly found in projects that place particular emphasis on
ecological sustainability. The Colegio Reggio in Madrid, for example,
is a quirky patchwork of glass components, masonry screens, exposed
concrete arches, clay walls, and portholes, all radically raw and
exposed. These exposed parts are intended to provide children with a
playful approach to understanding architecture. At the same time, 48
percent less material was needed by eliminating cladding and wall
layers. Cork was used for insulation, which has halved energy
consumption.

Perhaps we will soon see a second end to the concrete monsters, while
the style is once again renewed from within in a kind of ecobrutalism.
Either way, these forms of raw architecture will continue to accompany
us in our built environment for the foreseeable future.

But so far we have not seen a true revival of experimental Brutalism
in the spirit of the public building commissions of the postwar
period. Neobrutalism today has its roots primarily in the private
sector — in well-financed residential buildings, private
universities, or cultural projects by individual patrons. What is
missing is the political will to once again understand public
architecture as a field for creative and social experimentation,
Neobrutalist or otherwise.

The public sector needs the courage to develop distinct and memorable
buildings – buildings that have an identity, and that can be used
over the long term. This would require not only greater scope for
design ideas in public construction projects, but also a cultural
shift: away from short-term efficiency thinking and toward
architecture that is understood as a collective heritage – raw,
open, and accessible.

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Felix Torkar is an architectural historian and works as Acquisitions
Editor at JOVIS Publishers in Berlin.

Oscar Davies is a writer and translator based in London.

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