Luigiemanuele Amabile in conversation con Nana Biamah Ofosu.
Architecture, in Nana Biamah-Ofosu’s account, can no longer be understood through form alone. Drawing on her teaching between Kingston University London and the Architectural Association, she reframes architectural knowledge as a field shaped by identity, history, and lived experience, asking insistently who architecture represents and who it is for. Formal and aesthetic languages are interrogated through questions of migration, race, ecology, and material politics, revealing how European cities and their images are deeply entangled with colonial histories and systems of extraction.Rather than reducing architecture to building production, Biamah-Ofosu expands it to include writing, speaking, narration, and critical reflection, arguing that knowledge in architecture must also account for what should not be built. Education, in this sense, becomes a slow and collective process, grounded in dialogue, interdisciplinarity, and generalist formation. Against optimisation and narrow specialisation, she defends time, shared foundations, and curiosity as essential conditions for an architectural practice capable of engaging the complexities of the twenty-second century.
LA: Do you think architecture can still be considered a discipline in which the knowledge of form – its formal and aesthetic aspects, and the representational power of buildings – is the most relevant thing to study? Or should we be focusing elsewhere?
NBO: Starting with your context – the Italian setting and its broader European outlook – that’s interesting to me, especially in terms of questioning: who is European today? Who is here? Why are they here? What does architecture mean to them? What kinds of conceptualizations of architecture and the built environment do they bring?
Personally, I consider myself British, but I’m also Ghanaian – I have African heritage. For me, European identity is complex. So the question of the knowledge of form and the spatial planning of cities should also be critiqued from the perspective of: who is the city for? In London, for instance, the population is far more diverse today than it was 50 years ago, during post-war reconstruction when the city may have been imagined for a particular kind of citizen. According to statistics from around 2020 or 2021, London had more people who were non-white or not born in the UK than white British citizens. That fact alone raises essential questions about urbanism and architectural language.
So, to me, any critique of the knowledge of form should begin by asking: who is this architecture representing? Who is it for? I understand architecture broadly – not just as building-making. In my practice, we design, write, speak about buildings. That breadth of engagement is a compelling way to consider the knowledge of form. Architecture’s form is not just what is built – it includes narratives, histories, and lived experiences. We need to connect these stories to the built environment. If we rely only on formal frameworks, we risk excluding the “why”. We create a practice focused solely on visual or image-driven outcomes, which I believe is increasingly irrelevant.
Especially when we consider identity politics, material resources, the future of our planet – the very foundations of architectural language need to be rethought. For example, the pristine language of concrete is no longer adequate when we are grappling with environmental constraints. We are at odds: the materials we idealize don’t align with the values we now claim to hold. And then there’s the question of migration, of making a home elsewhere. That affects our understanding of form. Historically in Europe, we have privileged a dominant architectural language. But we need to open ourselves to many languages – plural and diverse. We must understand that Western traditions are only one part of a much larger story. Even in European cities like London, the image of the city is indebted to histories of extraction and colonization. Post-war housing was only possible because Britain sourced labour and materials from its colonies. If we understood this better, we might read the built environment quite differently.
The knowledge of form should include these other stories. It shouldn’t be framed purely through a Western lens. And beyond form, we must rethink what we consider “knowledge” in architecture. Is knowledge only useful if it builds something? Especially in Europe, we should perhaps be building less. That may not apply everywhere, of course, but here, yes. We need to connect architecture to identity, material politics, democratic structures. Why aren’t architects more involved in public health, or city governance, or how funds are allocated? We should use our skills more broadly. Why not ecology, infrastructure, systems thinking? The discipline needs to expand beyond designing single buildings.
If we go in that direction, we must also rethink architectural education. We need to engage with other disciplines. That’s where real enrichment lies. And that brings me to a fundamental question: who is the architect of the 22nd century? What do they look like, what do they do, and how do they practice? I think they’ll be very different from their 20th- or even 21st-century counterparts.
LA: Earlier, you mentioned European heritage, and how it relates to your own background and teaching context. I’d like to ask: is there anything from the 20th-century architectural schools of thought that you believe remains relevant? Are there models or values that continue to inform your way of teaching today, especially given your experience at both Kingston and the AA?
NBO: Yes. So I studied at Kingston for both my undergraduate and postgraduate degrees – a very solid architectural education. But at the time, questions about identity, race, and how your background affects your understanding of space and architecture weren’t addressed. The education was delivered through a very Western lens, reflecting traditions tied to the European city, the architectural room, the notion of urbanity. Architecture was seen as something purely formal. The architect was the master – almost a god-like figure. But as I matured, especially by connecting more deeply with my cultural heritage, I began to question that. Many cultures understand making and living as deeply intertwined, and that, to me, has greater value.
Lesley Lokko writes in African Space Magicians about how many African languages don’t even have a word for “architect”. They may have words for building, or for a maker, but not “architect”. And the Western profession of architecture is relatively young – only a few hundred years old. After I graduated, I began to realize how much had been left out of my education – particularly in terms of how architecture relates to power, history, and economics. The built environment is not just the product of good design. It’s shaped by political and financial forces. And we should talk more honestly about that. Architecture is not apolitical, and it’s not benign.
As for influences, I started teaching immediately after I graduated. I taught at Kingston for four years and then joined the AA. That was a turning point. The AA felt like a different world – more critical, more open to other ways of thinking. I had been trained in a specific school of thought, and I realized I had never truly had my principles challenged by others. Taking the position at the AA allowed me to do that. I have come to value the unit system in design teaching, which both Kingston and the AA use. I was educated in it, and I still teach within it. I know there’s been criticism in recent years, but I think the model itself is strong. The key is that units must not be run by a single figure. Architectural education should not reproduce the master-apprentice dynamic. I believe units should always be co-taught – at least by two people. That creates dialogue, and that’s crucial.
The course at KNUST (Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Ghana) was a four-year degree. For a long time – and I think it may still be true – the first two years were shared by all built environment students: building technologists, architects, urbanists. Only in the third and fourth year did they specialize. I think there’s something valuable in that – in sharing foundational knowledge across disciplines. In a world with polycrises – where problems are not siloed – we can’t rely on closed professions to deliver solutions. We need to learn to speak to each other. What if we shared an educational foundation among planners, architects, building physicists – even public health or ecology specialists? That kind of shared education could build a more productive built environment – and stronger professional collaboration. So yes – I think both the unit system and interdisciplinary foundations are valuable pedagogical models.
LA: One of the last things you said was about broadening the base of architectural education while retaining a common ground. There’s been a long debate about the architect as a generalist – someone who knows a bit of everything but doesn’t specialize too deeply. That debate may be over now, given all the new challenges we face, but I wonder – do you think architectural education should still support a generalist approach, rather than pushing students to specialize?
NBO: I think I fall more on the generalist side – especially in the beginning, during the formative years of an architect’s education. So definitely at the bachelor’s level, I believe in a generalist education and in building competency. Those are the two things for me: undergraduate education should be about developing competency – learning the skills of your profession – and approaching it through a generalist lens. Because architecture, in a world that now leans toward specialization and breaks problems into hermetic bubbles, is one of the last spaces where generalism still thrives. And those hermetic bubbles – the gaps between disciplines – are the real danger zones. If you imagine drawing all these disciplinary boxes – the problems often lie in the spaces between them, where no one takes responsibility. We keep further siloing knowledge, and within each silo we break it down even more – so you have people who are highly specialized in one narrow thing. But who helps us talk across the silos? That used to be the architect.
By letting go of that role, I think we have devalued our own skills. As the world moved toward specialization, one of the greatest strengths – and pleasures – of architectural education remained its generalist foundation. It’s still one of the few degrees where you learn a bit of everything. And I don’t think that a bachelor’s in architecture should necessarily produce a person who becomes a building architect in the traditional sense. It’s such a valuable degree precisely because of its pluralistic approach – it teaches you about economics, social issues, culture, politics. It allows you to have real conversations – across fields. I think the generalist has been unfairly demonized – portrayed as someone who knows nothing well. There’s this English phrase – «Jack of all trades, master of none» – but the part that’s often forgotten is: «… but oftentimes better than master of one», That forgotten ending changes everything. And I think it really captures what a good generalist education offers. To me, that’s what architecture provides – or should provide. We have painted the generalist as someone weak, but they are often better positioned than someone who only knows one thing. I also think about Professor Lesley Lokko – a key figure redefining architectural education and the architect’s future role. In her RIBA Gold Medal speech in London, she talked about the idea of the “amateur” – and the root of that word meaning to love. An amateur is someone who practices because they love what they do – not because they seek perfection, but because they want to keep inquiring and growing. That kind of generalist approach values curiosity – and values the amateur. Of course, we need specialisms too. But a world of specialists without common ground is not a good one.
LA: I read an interview you gave in 2020 where you described how your students were asked to read and discuss texts – and you said students need time, that they need to slow down. Has anything changed in the last five years? Because it seems architecture, even education, is now heavily focused on optimization, results, schedules. Do you still believe in moving slowly?
NBO: I still think students need time. Everyone needs time, actually. Good things take time. And where better to invest that time than in educating people who will shape our future? I think that interview referred to a second-year student group. That level really needs time: time for conversation, time to take things in, to share, to understand. Time to think out loud, even. And that can’t be done alone. That’s why architecture education suffered so much during the pandemic. Because that kind of time also depends on being in community – in a room together, in dialogue. That conversation isn’t just verbal – it’s also communicated through physical actions, through objects. So it’s about time – and presence. During the pandemic, I felt a real sense of loss for first-year architecture students. I remember my own first year: I came from a fine art background, so I could draw – but I didn’t have the technical skills, the architectural language. It took me a while to figure things out. And I can’t imagine doing that alone, in my bedroom at home, during lockdown. That kind of learning also happens in the studio – by reading, drawing, working together. So now, I’d say: yes, it’s about time, but also about how we spend that time – what we do with it. Are we working cooperatively, in dialogue, or just optimizing? Of course, I do a lot of things remotely – like this interview – and I believe strongly in sharing ideas across borders. That’s essential. But it’s also true that everything I just said about time completely contradicts the neoliberal university model – with its timesheets, timetables, credit conversions. Design studios, for instance, are often given the highest credit load because they are time-intensive. But those numbers – while they might feel important – are also arbitrary. We need to ask: are we really educating, or are we just certifying? There’s a difference between certification and education. The time factor is tricky, and I don’t yet have a clear answer – but it’s something I want to think more about. It opens up other modes of education – ones that aren’t about certification, but about time to think and explore. And for me, thinking is doing – not just cerebral, but also physical, embodied. That’s why I loved teaching in Professor Lesley Lokko’s Biennale College. It offered time to think, to discuss, to explore – but without the pressure of certification. I’m not saying we should eliminate certification. We are a profession, and that matters. But I do think we need to explore more plural forms of education – ones that allow us to create new forms of knowledge, and new forms of form itself.
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Luigiemanuele Amabile – Architect and PhD, research fellow of the project DT2 (UdR Università degli Studi di Napoli “Federico II”).
Nana Biamah Ofosu – Professor at Kingston University London and Architectural Association.