Life’s Work: An Interview with Renzo Piano

Born into a family of Genoan builders, Piano rebelled—but only slightly—by leaving home to study architecture in Florence and Milan. In 1971, he and Richard Rogers opened a London firm and soon won a prestigious commission: to design the Centre Pompidou in Paris. In 1981, Piano created his own “building workshop,” which has in the ensuing decades completed notable projects such as Kansai airport in Osaka, the Shard in London, and the Whitney Museum in New York. Now in his late eighties, he still works full time. HBR: Why did you choose architecture over the family construction business? Piano: There was no doubt that I wanted to be somebody who made buildings. I spent a lot of time on site with my father. He was a small builder with maybe 12 workmen—always very elegant with the jacket, the hat–and he controlled everything. When you are age eight or so and watch, you understand that there’s magic in construction. You have raw materials one day and something standing up, straight and solid, the next. But when you’re 18, you want to run away from home, so I studied architecture in Florence and Milan to be different from my family. It’s a simple story. When I told my father I wanted to be an architect, he said, “But why? The builder gets to it all, not just the design.” Still, I remained in the art of building. Did that early exposure to building influence the way you work as an architect? Very much. I never understood the difference between architect, engineer, or builder. Even my office is called Renzo Piano Building Workshop, and we have all the people you need to make a building. In this line of work, you cannot separate theory from practice. I, myself, am still very attracted to the site and the construction. But of course, when you go to architecture school, you learn very quickly that it’s about more than good, functional, solid construction. You also need to be a humanist, who makes places for people to meet and share enjoyment. Architecture is the art of answering both needs and desires. There’s a poetry to it—a magic that turns a building into a place people love to be. Who were your architectural role models? In history, Brunelleschi, the 15th century Italian architect. He was an artist but also a builder. He designed instruments and tools. He knew the soul of a building and how to make things. The famous cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence was full of invention in terms of science, organization, and the technique of putting things together without using scaffolding. Of course, my father was also a role model for me, and then Eero Saarinen, Frei Otto. I have so many. As an architect, you have to learn from all those people who not only make buildings but also create emotion. My heroes have been always architects that put together construction, ethics, and poetry. When you started, how did you win over clients? It’s such a long time ago, I don’t remember! But I do have a few rules. I never do a job without spending time in the place because places talk. They have a little voice. So, when somebody ask me, “Do you want to do this or that?” my first answer is always, “Let’s see.” Then I talk to the client but also go to the place because there will always be a little genius hidden there—in the light, in the proportions. I probably did that for my first project, too, probably something very modest–maybe a doghouse for my aunt. But even now with big projects, I take the same approach. I go there, I talk to people, I walk around with a pencil and paper in my hands, taking notes and trying to catch the inspiration. What inspired you to enter the Pompidou competition? We were very young, living in London in the late 1960s and early 1970s, which was an incredible time of freedom and rebellion. We felt like the Beatles. And we wanted to make this project for Beaubourg, or the Centre Pompidou, with that spirit: We thought that culture should be part of society and wanted to make an urban machine, putting together a library, museum, music, and cinema. The competition was open to anyone, and they got 681 entries, so winning it was completely unexpected. We weren’t trying to win. We went in totally free-minded, a bit mad, a bit extreme. For example, our design was the only one that didn’t use the total space. I am Italian, and Richard was born in Italy, so we wanted a piazza. The brief didn’t call for that. It was completely our vision. After winning such acclaim for that project, how did you think about the next steps of your career? You don’t think. You just wait and see. After Beaubourg, I was very tired. It was a big, big job. So I went back to my passions, designing funny things and working on a historical center with UNESCO. This period was, by the way, not easy. Beaubourg had been such a strong statement that many clients were hesitant to hire us. Then Richard moved back to London, and I preferred to stay in Paris, so we split. But we’ve remained good friends, like brothers, our whole lives. My first job after that was for Dominique de Menil, who asked me to design a building for her art collection in Houston. How has your creative process evolved over time? The secret to longevity is a team. My office now has about 120 people, and some have worked with me for decades. That’s very important because you have a coherence and continuity that makes relationships so easy. Sometimes we don’t even need to talk; we just watch each other. But the office is also full of young people, so we grow new talent. It has a good range of age, experience, and capacity—and yet it’s not too big because I still want to know everybody. When someone has hired you, how do you ensure it’s a Renzo Piano project while also collaborating and incorporating the ideas of others? We all play a kind of ping-pong: We have many people around the table but just one ball that should never fall. It’s a constant dialogue between different disciplines—from sound to sustainability. You say something, and somebody else adds to it. How have you adapted to technological change over the course of your career? When I started, everything was drawn by hand, and I still sketch all the time. Now we use computers, but they are just instruments, so, frankly, it doesn’t change the work that much. Even artificial intelligence I’m not that worried about. At the end of the day, you need imagination. You need that special thing called creativity. The work is a mix of craftsmanship and technology. You can be a good or bad architect with or without a computer. The problem is, if you’re a bad architect with a computer, you can make a disaster faster and more easily. How do you put yourself and the team in the right mindset for doing creative work? How do you make sure that dance is always happening? The first thing is the way the offices in Paris and Genoa are organized: They are very open. I don’t have an office. I sit where I can see everybody, and everybody can see me. Actually, people are waving me to come over right now. That sense of conviviality is the secret. When I come to the office, it’s like a dance is starting, and it lasts the full day. Also, we have 10 partners, 30 or so associates, and many others, but it’s an open hierarchy—democratic in the sense of participation, belonging, creating magic. Another element is that we mostly do public buildings. We come together to make cities better places, which creates a unique sense of pride. Where do you experiment in your work? Today, because of the fragility of the planet, we are experimenting mostly with sustainability. This is a necessity, and it’s not a negative for the architect but a field for invention and inspiration. Right now we’re working on three or four buildings that will have zero emissions, using only the sun for energy. What do you look for in the architects that you hire? Talent is very important, but it’s not the only thing. Intelligence is not enough either. You also need to be sincere, loyal, empathic. I’m convinced that creativity is better in a team, so people must have a generous attitude and want to share in the process of design. They need to accept playing ping-pong. Do you look for the same thing in clients? Yes, empathy and affinity are essential. So is curiosity and the desire to discover deep beauty. Are you a hands-on manager or a delegator? I put my nose everywhere and have my finger in everything. I start at nine o’clock in the morning with my pencil and my green pen, and I go around, around, around the office. Someone asks me a question, I answer. I make it another few meters, and someone else asks me a question. I do this not because I’m arrogant or aggressive but because it’s my job and my enjoyment. Today, it’s now 6 PM and I’ve touched probably half a dozen projects. At the same time, distance is important. It’s like working on a mosaic: You need to be close to the wall to see that every small thing is in the right place, but every 10 minutes, you need put yourself 10 feet or 20 feet away to understand the big picture. Having worked all over the world, what have you learned about how to bridge cultures? You cannot work like a tourist. In Berlin, you have to become a Berliner; in New York, a New Yorker; in Tokyo, Japanese. You need to love and catch the spirit of the place—in Latin, the genius loci. This is the way you overcome distance. Bring yourself—your knowledge, humanity, integrity, and sense of beauty—but adapt. Do you ever think about retirement? No, no, no, no, no. At my age, you have less energy, so you have to make better use of it. But retiring? Forget it. I want to die on a construction site.

Life’s Work: An Interview with Renzo Piano

Summary.

Partner Center