Reality does not exist

This live interview was part of Mitte/Rand, a Berlin-based editorial initiative that explored the margins of architectural discourse. Its quarterly publication, DEAR magazine, opened with a feature on the work of Antonino Cardillo, written by Jeanette Kunsmann and Stephan Burkoff, and introduced under the title Architecture and Truth. The subsequent Berlin-based dialogue with Tim Berge unfolded as a reflection on solitude, eroticism, and the fiction of modernity. Cardillo spoke candidly about his return to Sicily, his rejection of bourgeois urban life, and his pursuit of architecture as a form of existential investigation.

Tim Berge: ‘Welcome, Antonino. It’s good to have you here with us.’

Antonino Cardillo: ‘Thank you.’

TB: ‘Let’s begin with something simple. How does your daily routine shape the way you think?’

AC: ‘That’s an interesting question. I suppose it’s about spending a lot of time doing nothing. And I believe it’s precisely in those moments that the best ideas emerge. So, in the morning, I go to the bar for coffee and simply observe. In Sicily, there’s so much to see—extraordinary anthropological objects. I’m fascinated by people, by how they interact, by their gestures and rhythms. I learn a lot just by watching. I’ve come to feel that modern life distracts us deeply. Cities, in particular, alter our behaviour in ways that disconnect us from the past. I’m interested in recognising these distortions—what I call the “impositions of evolution”. That’s why I love observing people in daylight, in Sicily. There’s something more authentic there. Or perhaps not exactly authentic, but different—less mediated.’

TB: ‘So your routine is different from that of a typical architect. You don’t have a fixed office?’

AC: ‘No, I don’t. I work without collaborators, often from my bedroom. In the early years, I tried to maintain a formal studio, but it proved expensive. I invested a lot—perhaps naively—in setting up a practice, yet I never had local clients. I spent money without return. Later, I received commissions from London and other places outside Italy. Part of my strategy was to expose my ideas to international media. But in Rome, they didn’t understand me. So I moved to London, but I didn’t like it. The bourgeois lifestyle—spending money on things that seemed ordinary to me—felt absurd. In Italy, I could travel and eat well for much less. I didn’t want to take part in that kind of social performance. When the funds ran out, I returned to Sicily. That limit—of subsistence—coincided with a deeper investigation, far from contemporary art and architecture. Since then, my research has grown.’

TB: ‘So your move to Sicily was, in a way, political—a rejection of bourgeois urban life?’

AC: ‘Yes, I think it’s important. In Italy, there’s a tragedy unfolding: young people are encouraged to leave, to seek success elsewhere. Media promotes this idea. But it’s a bourgeois notion—that success means luxury, a car, a house. To me, success is pursuing your ideas, living your truth. If you understand that, you realise that abandoning your own plan to chase a bourgeois life in a big city is a kind of fiction. It’s not the real potential of a person. The real message lies in investigating life itself.’

TB: ‘You work alone, outside the architectural hotspots. You don’t enter competitions?’

AC: ‘Only once. My short history as an architect is full of contradictions. From a sociological point of view, it’s interesting for analysing the schizophrenia of contemporary society. I’ve had over 250 international publications, but I’ve built very few works. Small ones. There’s a disconnect between media attention and physical reality. What happens in the media is a kind of afterlife—it doesn’t necessarily translate into commissions. In the past, fame often led to clients. That’s no longer the case. Today, recognition comes from public relations, not from critical engagement with the work.’

TB: ‘Do you enjoy the attention?’

AC: ‘It’s a controversial question. Five years ago, I had a strong presence on social media, but it had become an illness. I was receiving attention everywhere, yet I detested the superficiality of the interactions. In the end, in January 2014, I deleted all my accounts—Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, LinkedIn. It was liberating. I realised I was trapped in a cycle, spreading news in the hope of attracting clients. But there’s no real connection between social media and reality. It’s fiction.’

TB: ‘So now you’re back in Sicily, observing people, language, places. Is that the key to your recent work?’

AC: ‘Spending nine years in Rome had already led me towards a different approach to architecture—not one tied solely to reading books at home. I would visit places charged with emotion, often solitary. Those experiences of the heart became the substance of my “Imagined Houses”. At one point, Wallpaper* magazine commissioned me to create an installation for the postmodernism exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum. It was never realised—the sponsorships proved complicated—but that experience offered a moment of clarity. That exhibition helped clarify my intentions. I’m not seeking fame. I’m trying to investigate the distant past, anthropological materials, and what modern architecture has lost—the vitality of ancient matter, the architectural memory of previous civilisations. Returning to Sicily meant revisiting the Greek temples and the so-called “Phoenician” civilisation. Sicily is a constellation of ruins—a laboratory of cultures. For me, it’s a place to recover lost knowledge and explore how it might translate into a code attuned to our time.’

TB: ‘And how do you do that?’

AC: ‘I think it’s quite similar to the way linguists investigate language. We use words, and each word carries a history. Etymology is the science that reveals this. Yet somehow, we’ve lost interest in it. We tend to treat the past as a remote place, disconnected from reality. But architecture is a language—and the language we speak through architecture cannot be severed from the past. We are its consequence. So my investigation into grottos, arches, and vaults is an attempt to uncover latent meanings—anthropological sediments embedded in material. Sometimes, ordinary people are fascinated by arches. Often, architects ridicule this fascination, dismissing it as rubbish. But I suspect that precisely this so-called “rubbish” deserves a different kind of attention. I remember a fierce argument with my professor when I introduced arches into a domestic project. She accused me of betraying the discipline. Through that conflict, I realised how powerful the discourse around arches could be. At heart, it was a question of eroticism. We live in an age that is not erotic—despite appearances. Sex is everywhere, but it has become a form of status. In a distant past, I believe people experienced sexuality differently—with greater depth.’

TB: ‘Are you saying that eroticism plays a role in your architecture?’

AC: ‘Yes, it does. I’ve learned a lot from it. It’s more important than one might think. One of my projects was commissioned by my former partner. It’s the first time I speak about it publicly. He asked me to design a house while he was already involved with another man. The process was emotionally complex. The house was for a couple, but one of them was my ex. So yes, architecture reveals aspects of identity—sometimes ones we didn’t know we had.’

TB: ‘Is every piece of architecture you create a form of self-awareness?’

AC: ‘In a way, yes. But I must also say that what I’ve stated in the past isn’t always true. At a certain point, I realised that making declarations can be misleading. It distorts the path. Architecture is a personal investigation—not only of the “self”, but of the shared human condition. I don’t believe in a fixed identity. I find that idea inappropriate. Identity is fluid, and architecture helps us explore it.’

TB: ‘Your architecture has a very personal language. Many of your projects are small—some for your hometown, some for your former partner. Do you want to continue working this way, or do you aspire to larger commissions?’

AC: ‘It’s a very interesting question. My attempt to practise architecture today is in conflict with the society we live in. The relationship between architect and client is bound by professional norms. In the past, architecture was shaped by human feeling. Now it’s treated as a service. My decision to leave the city was a political act. It was also an attempt to seek a different kind of relationship with the client—one based on trust and participation. There was fear, but also care. And I believe that’s a vital premise for architecture. When you feel truly supported by your client, you can question everything. Human feeling cannot be excluded. I believe much of the alienation in architecture today stems from its absence.’

TB: ‘So you’ll continue with small projects?’

AC: ‘Not necessarily. I could design a city. The problem is finding the right person. And that’s a major issue. In Italy, for instance, politicians are not allowed to commission architects directly. It’s intended to prevent corruption, but it also severs the link between politics and architecture. The Renaissance would not have been possible without that connection. Today, it’s no longer permitted. The law shows no concern for authentic architecture. Politicians chase modernity, but this has led to an impoverished approach—one that ignores the poetic dimension of experience.’

TB: ‘Do you find it difficult to communicate your designs to clients?’

AC: ‘I find it difficult to find appropriate clients. That’s why I’m here. If you have a client who’s willing to take risks, then space becomes possible.’

TB: ‘Let’s talk about your architecture. For me, your work has several layers. There’s the visual layer, which photographs capture well. But there’s another, deeper layer—one that’s tactile, even spiritual. How would you describe your approach to architecture? What’s the process—from idea to form?’

AC: ‘I think the reason I “waste time” is that my psyche gathers voices, images, and signs. It’s a kind of investigation into reality. And at a certain point, in a rather mysterious way, these fragments begin to synthesise. But the synthesis isn’t arbitrary: it arises from a resonance with the world, with people, with places. And for that to happen, a human connection is essential. That’s the limitation of the modern method: it promotes a rational accumulation of information, but resists holistic architecture. It’s hard to pursue a vision when you’re tied to a desk, an office, a schedule. I tried for a year in Milan. It was strange—I felt completely disconnected from myself. I was very sad, and when I announced I was leaving, the head of the practice said: “This is how architecture is done today”.

And yet, I believe architecture is a mystery. Why do we speak about it, really? The most important aspect of architecture is when it challenges a certain way of doing things. We replicate emotions in our homes, but when we experience trauma—losing a love, for instance—we try to avoid the void. Architecture can help us investigate that void. It’s a way of exploring the darker side of our existence. I don’t know if I was driven by anything in particular. I simply imagined things—I thought about people. Most people see architecture as something concrete. But I associate it with absence, with loss. This idea of the void—of boredom, of distance, of longing—I’m interested in exploring how architecture might lift us out of everyday life. My idea seems controversial, because we’ve been taught to think of architecture in terms of programme, function, and content. But I reject all of that. I don’t want to support a system that reduces human beings to consumers. My architecture is an investigation into the black hole of existence.’

TB: ‘Do you think everyone should seek this kind of architecture? These days, we all live lives shaped by the factory clock.’

AC: ‘I don’t know. My point of view is particular. Perhaps very few people can follow my path—but that doesn’t matter. I’ve failed many times, but my only concern is to pursue my idea. I don’t expect consensus. I didn’t receive any privilege in my life. In this context, there’s very little space for architecture. It’s a terrible drama, and I don’t have a solution. My experience has been frustrating. It’s difficult to develop architecture. I’ve spoken with many people and what’s sad is how much money is wasted—for nothing. Perhaps “nothing” is the only thing they build. We’re overwhelmed by information. What will remain after decades?’

TB: ‘Your interest in Heidegger—is that connected to your interest in Greek mythology?’

AC: ‘I began studying Heidegger because I wanted to explore the etymological meaning of words. As I said earlier, architecture is a language. But I’m not exactly interested in Greek mythology. I’m more drawn to the pre-existing civilisations of the Mediterranean. Greek culture, as we know it, is an interpretation. The Greeks were colonisers—they synthesised and destroyed other cultures. What we call “Greek” isn’t the original source of the dead world. It’s obvious when we think about language. Take the word “planet”—it’s Greek. But we don’t know what the planet called itself. It’s incredible. Dominant cultures are powerful enough to erase others. So when we speak of the “soul of civilisation,” it’s a political statement. This discourse is connected to borders, to conflict, to colonisation. And living from the past isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about recovering something that might still be useful—something hard to grasp.’

TB: ‘But the past has so many layers. How do you know you’ve reached the original one?’

AC: ‘Thank you for that question. There’s no scientific method in what I do. I don’t follow a logical path. It’s irrational—a collection of visions, of experiences. It’s driven by love. By the spirit of Janus. Not in the postmodern sense, but in the romantic one. A sense of place and identity—not just a collection of morphological patterns, but a layering of meaning.’

TB: ‘Do you also have a cinematic approach to architecture? Like a film?’

AC: ‘Yes, I think so. I’m very interested in narrative. Architecture is a kind of narrative—a sequence of parts. And a good narrative is hyper-fictional. That’s why I was so surprised by the power of cinema. I studied Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey at school. It was a fantastic film. It helped me understand how fiction can shape reality. If you want to communicate the aesthetic of the 1960s, you look at 2001. It’s clearer than any interior. The film doesn’t depict reality—it creates it. Architecture is similar. Even when built, it’s a kind of theatrical stage. A fiction.’

TB: ‘Do your clients experience this narrative? Do they feel what you intended?’

AC: ‘Not always. But I hope they experience things I couldn’t foresee. That’s the sensitive part. When I completed the House of Dust, I invited a friend who works in cinema. He told me something I hadn’t realised. And that was very important to me. The more interpretations people bring to the work, the more the work multiplies. That’s perhaps the most important aspect to pursue in architecture.’

TB: ‘But architectural criticism often seems linear. The history of modern architecture is told in a very narrow way.’

AC: ‘A work exists when others interpret it. That’s its course—it needs to be received. It’s not so important whether the work is physically “there”. A film isn’t real, yet it generates intuition and emotion. Music doesn’t exist until it’s heard. I’ve seen people interpret my work in ways I hadn’t imagined. And that’s the point. The work exists because someone else gives it meaning. It lives in their mind. So what is reality? Perhaps it’s a kind of existence in the consciousness of others. Not a physical state. You can visit a building, and it might say nothing. In that case, it doesn’t really exist. That’s what I want to build—something that exists in the mind.’

TB: ‘So architecture is like writing novels?’

AC: ‘Yes, but through architecture. I don’t want to write with words. Architecture is more interesting to me—more difficult. You need clients, sites, constraints. And that makes it more human. Art doesn’t have this contradiction. You can make art without much money. That lack of limits is good in some ways, but it also removes the tension that allows you to explore the human condition.’

TB: ‘Would you be willing to compromise in order to build?’

AC: ‘I’ve received more than fifty commissions, but only six have been built. I’m not here to entertain anyone. If you want to make authentic architecture, you cannot compromise.’

TB: ‘Can you tell me about the house you built in Japan?’

AC: ‘Yes. It was my first built construction, in Takarazuka, near Osaka, for a company called Nomura Koumuten. I remember receiving the call while buying a chicken. They said, “Hello, we’re from Japan. We want to commission a house”. It was strange. Mysterious. I think it happened because of a publication in Wallpaper*, but I’m not sure. The house was built, but the final images were slightly altered. There was a construction error in the ground floor window design—a beam appeared that hadn’t been planned. People thought the images were manipulated, but the building was real. I modified the photographs for publication. In the end, what was created was a kind of fiction. The house exists, but its representation is layered. As for the interior, I didn’t want to make it white. But the distance made it difficult to manage colour, so I opted for simplicity. I received support from a local architect. To be honest, the interior doesn’t look like mine. When I published the house in the Indian magazine Inside Outside, I received harsh criticism. But it was my first project. I had reduced complexity in order to manage it.’

TB: ‘What does elegance mean to you?’

AC: ‘I’ve spoken about this in other interviews. There’s a big misunderstanding today. People often confuse luxury with elegance. But they’re completely opposite. Elegance is the ability to work with very few means and still create something refined. This is clear in vernacular architecture. In the landscape, the only thing that feels right is the house built with care. When you see a house made without heart, it feels out of place. That’s the essence of elegance. It’s about marrying scarcity with tradition. It’s a paradox: managing few means with depth. When architects try to replicate this artificially, they fail. Luxury, in that sense, is a lack of imagination. In modern contexts, elegance is often misunderstood. But if you work with very few means and still achieve something resonant—that’s elegance.’

TB: ‘Does your architecture need a cultural surrounding to work?’

AC: ‘My project in Japan was problematic. Perhaps it came too early. If I had the chance to work there now, I’d approach it differently. I now have an anthropological method to draw from. But at that time, I wasn’t ready to investigate it. It was also a matter of money—I couldn’t afford to stay there long enough to study the site. In Sicily, I spend a lot of time on location. That’s the problem with working elsewhere: you can’t establish a physical connection with the place.’

TB: ‘You’ve said that participating in a exhibition about postmodernism was important to you. Your work seems to reference postmodern geometry, but replaces irony with poetry. Do you see your architecture as a statement against contemporary architecture?’

AC: ‘Yes, I think so. Postmodernism was an anti-influence to modernism. My work is also an anti-influence—against contemporary architecture and certain prevailing beliefs. But perhaps that will change. Perhaps my architecture will become freer, less reactive. When it no longer needs to be a statement, it might become something else. The most problematic aspect of postmodernism is that its actors talked too much and built very little. I was fascinated by Robert Venturi—Complexity and Contradiction, of course. But if you compare the production to the thought, there’s a gap. The power of the ideas far exceeds the built work. Something doesn’t add up.

What I’ve learned is that we must be careful with statements. They’re dangerous. If architecture becomes a rational investigation into reality, then every statement is bound to fail—because reality does not exist as a fixed truth. It’s contradictory. You can say “this is true,” or “less is more,” or “less is a bore,” but what matters is the architecture itself. And architecture speaks quietly, tenderly. That’s what fascinates me.

I remember reading a beautiful book by Thomas Mann—Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man. He puts into the mouth of a character an incredible truth: that language is a primordial way for humans to interact, but the real truth lies in sights and embraces. And from a certain point of view, that’s architecture. It’s a silent concentration of elements, a form of presence that precedes explanation.

Postmodernism was important. It opened doors. But then it opened them to advertising. At a certain point, the postmodernist became a brand, and commercial architecture took over. That created a strange situation. The “neo-modernity” of the past twenty years has inherited the behaviour of postmodernism—especially its marketing. It doesn’t matter whether the building appears modernist or not. What matters is that it’s sold as architecture. This is the market’s attitude. Words are incredible. They record what you wanted to hear, what you hoped for. But in the end, they lead nowhere.’

TB: ‘Which architects have influenced you most?’

AC: ‘There are many. When I was younger, I was fascinated by Frank Lloyd Wright. Later, in Rome, I fell in love with Adalberto Libera, Luigi Moretti, Angelo Mazzoni, Giò Ponti. There are lesser-known Italian architects I admire—Giovanni Muzio, for instance. I also find Philip Johnson interesting—not for his buildings, but as a figure. He’s controversial. He supported the idea of architecture as a market, which is the opposite of what I believe. But in the early 1960s, he wrote some very insightful texts—almost prophetic.’

TB: ‘Sicily is a very special place. Do you see its influence in your work?’

AC: ‘Absolutely. The most important influence is the idea of syncretism—different cultures colliding and creating something new. The clearest example is the Arabic-Norman-Byzantine synthesis. You find Middle Eastern and Northern European elements coexisting in the same building. A Norman king living in an Arab palace—that’s a powerful image.’