Let me start with a confession: I don't like cubes. I don't trust them. I don't trust buildings that look like they've been extruded from an Excel spreadsheet. The kind of architecture that screams efficiency, that forces buildings into right angles and your spirit into resignation.
Enter Antoni Gaudí and Friedensreich Hundertwasser.
Two wild minds. Two heretics in the Church of Straight Lines. Saints of Colour. Apostles of Curve. Proof that buildings can feel alive, and make you feel alive, too.
It's hard to overstate how much these two shaped my sense of what's possible. Gaudí's Sagrada Família - part forest, part dream, part cosmic joke - made me feel something I rarely associate with architecture: awe. Not the cold, academic kind. But that warm, childlike wonder that makes you forget time and start looking for secret doors. I don't remember the guide's words. I remember the light.
Sagrada Família, Barcelona (Started 1882 – ongoing): part cathedral, part forest, part fever dream. More than a basilica, it’s a vertical poem in stone. Gaudí’s unfinished masterpiece continues to evolve like a living organism.
Hundertwasser, on the other hand, was a visual revolution wrapped in a very opinionated Austrian. He hated the grid. He hated uniformity. He thought straight lines were the Devil's work, and I'm not sure he was wrong.
His buildings look like they sprouted from the earth after a particularly inspired thunderstorm. They have windows like eyes. Colours that shout. Roofs with trees. They laugh at our zoning laws.
When I first saw the Hundertwasserhaus in Vienna, I felt a kind of fury. Why don't we all live like this? Why is beauty considered an indulgence, rather than a birthright? Why do developers act like joy is optional?
Hundertwasserhaus, Vienna (1983–1985): An explosion of colour, trees, and architectural joy in the heart of Vienna. Hundertwasser’s answer to monotony and grid tyranny.
KunstHausWien, Vienna (1989–1991): A former factory reborn under Hundertwasser’s vision. Uneven floors, wild walls, and unapologetic whimsy, now a museum celebrating his legacy. Walls wiggle, windows wink, and colour riots across the surface. Hundertwasser’s manifesto made solid.
The Epidemic of Aesthetic Poverty
We are living in an epidemic of aesthetic poverty. No matter how advanced our technology becomes, we are still putting people into boxes. Soulless cubes. Concrete blocks. Row upon row of Bauhaus bunkers built not to inspire but to extract value.
I know, I know. Bauhaus has its defenders. Form follows function, they say. But let's be honest, most of the time, function follows finance. And the result? A cityscape designed by accountants. Rational, yes. But also ruthless. It's architecture as austerity.
Last month, I walked through a new housing development in Luxembourg. Identical units. Identical driveways. Identical lives, presumably. The only variation was the house numbers. I felt a physical sadness, not just for the residents, but for what we've accepted as normal. When did we decide that beauty was frivolous? That wonder was wasteful?
Meanwhile, Gaudí was out there bending stone like it was ribbon, turning chimneys into sculpture. Hundertwasser was preaching about window rights and tree tenants, demanding beauty with the ferocity of a prophet. They weren't just building. They were rebelling.
This undulating façade still stuns over a century later. Gaudí sculpted architecture like it was clay — with rhythm, not rules.
When faith meets funk: Hundertwasser’s take on sacred space. Holy, human, and gloriously defiant.
Sagrada Família up close: not just a structure, but a stone symphony of imagination, stubbornness, and spiritual rebellion.
What We've Done Since
And what have we done since?
Glass. Steel. Beige. We've sanitised our cities to the point of spiritual malnourishment. We've created neighbourhoods that could be anywhere, and therefore belong nowhere.
This is not a nostalgic longing for Fairy Tales. This is a call to arms. A reminder that architecture is not just about shelter.
When done right, it can elevate the mundane into the magical. It can make you pause. Breathe. Wonder.
Gaudí and Hundertwasser remind us that the rules are not fixed. That there is always another way to build. Another way to live. A wilder, softer, greener, braver way.
What This Means for Us
So what does this rebellion look like in practice? It means seeking out architects who understand that curves aren't just aesthetic choices, they're emotional ones.
It means choosing homes with character over convenience, supporting local builders who care about craftsmanship, not just completion dates.
It means refusing to accept that beauty is a luxury when it's actually a necessity.
It means asking: Does this space make me feel something? Does it honour the human need for wonder?
So here's to curves. To colour. And here's to never trusting a building that doesn't make you feel something. If it doesn't move the soul, start again with a sketch, and absolutely no ruler.
Written by Helen M. Krauss