The tall, slender Wodopój building is at the centre of a debate over the city’s skyline. This quiet, history-steeped building on Kliniczna Street sparks a dialogue about memory and the sentiments embedded in architecture. Łukasz Rayss, the architect behind two high-profile developments in Gdańsk, explains why both these projects – so different in scale and character – represent, for him, the same exercise in responsibility: towards the city, its residents and time, which will ultimately judge every design decision.
What does responsible design mean to you as an architect, after so many years of practice? The concept is all the rage in the industry today, but I sometimes get the impression that everyone understands it slightly differently.
Responsible design is, above all, the realisation that an architect never designs solely for the client or solely for the future resident. They design for the city as an organism that will continue to exist long after the development’s warranty period has ended, long after we ourselves are no longer involved in the project. This means viewing a building across several time horizons simultaneously – how it will function now, in a decade, and in half a century. It also means showing humility towards what came before, regardless of whether we are designing on a site where a listed building stands, or in a place that at first glance appears empty, yet in reality is never empty – because it has its own history, its own context, and its own neighbours.
Does this responsibility differ depending on the scale of the project? Is designing a single building different from designing entire city blocks?
The thought process is similar, but the consequences of a mistake increase with scale. A single building, even if it fails, can still somehow be ‘forgiven’ by the city – it functions within a specific context, and its neighbours absorb it in some way. But when we’re designing entire urban developments, errors in thinking about scale, the relationships between buildings, and shared spaces can affect how a neighbourhood functions for decades. That is why, the larger the project, the more time I devote right at the start to understanding the context – not just the urban context, but the social one as well. Who lives here, what does this space mean to them, what are they afraid of, what do they need, and what challenges do they face?
So how does Wodopój fit into this context and Gdańsk’s identity? It is the distinctive, ten-storey apartment block you designed in the heart of Gdańsk’s historic Śródmieście district. The project stirs up a lot of emotion and has even polarised public opinion.
I think that’s a very natural reaction. Some say the building is too tall, that it will dominate the area; others praise the way it has been integrated into a relatively small plot; still others speak of contemporary architecture that engages in a dialogue with the city’s history without pretending to be a historic monument. In this debate, however, there is one thing with which I fundamentally disagree – the attempt to argue that the past was, by definition, richer, wiser and more thought-through than the present. Gdańsk has a very distinct visual identity – Gothic towers, brick façades, the low-rise, intimate buildings of the Main and Old Towns – but it has never been a stylistically uniform city. It is a mosaic of eras – Gothic stands side by side with the Renaissance, Art Nouveau with Modernism, post-war reconstruction with what existed before the war and with what came afterwards. Each era has added its own layer here. Our mission is to add another one, whilst ensuring what matters most: its quality.
But this particular layer – I’m talking about the Wodopój – is ten storeys high and is set to stand amongst the historic buildings. Does height really not matter?
It does matter. The problem with the discussion about height, however, is that it very quickly boils down to the number of storeys, and this is a measure which, in essence, says very little about how the building will actually be perceived in the surrounding space. You can erect a low, four-storey building that will nevertheless appear aggressive towards its surroundings – with poor proportions, a façade devoid of detail, a wall lacking any articulation. And one can construct a tall building which, thanks to its appropriate slenderness, the divisions in the façade, and the way it engages with the street at ground floor level, will be perceived as a tranquil element of the landscape rather than an intruder. At Wodopój, it was precisely this slenderness that we were keen to achieve – the building is relatively narrow in relation to its height, which has a completely different visual effect on the observer than a massive, squat structure. This is about designing proportions, not just height.
Dominance through meaning, through the way a building interacts with its surroundings?
Absolutely! Height, proportions, but also the line of the façade and the finishing materials. The brick façade we designed echoes the rhythm and texture of the Hanseatic buildings in this part of Gdańsk – it’s the same material language in which the architecture along the Motława and Radunia rivers has been conversing for centuries. This is not ‘costume’ architecture, as I call buildings that pretend to be old tenement houses by adding gables, dormers, ornaments or historicising details. In this design, the proportions, the rhythm of the window openings, the vertical divisions and the play of light and shadow on the façade are clearly evident. It is a very deliberate reference to Gdańsk’s historical street layout. From a pedestrian’s perspective, the building is perceived as a cluster of narrower tenement houses, and only when viewed from above does it coalesce into a single composition. And that is why, at this level, the scale must be human and welcoming, with services on the ground floor and a space that invites rather than repels.
You present logical arguments, but the perception of architecture is always highly subjective.
I agree, but the better one understands the context and the broader the perspective, the more rational the assessment becomes. I know that for some residents, the very principle of introducing high-rise buildings into the historic centre is unacceptable, regardless of how well we design the proportions or choose the materials. And this is not a dispute about architecture, but about values.
I get the impression that Wodopój is posing a question to which there is probably no obvious answer: should a historic city be reconstructed, or developed through new, high-quality architecture?
For me, the answer is obvious, and the problem is that in public debate these two approaches are often presented as mutually exclusive. Yet a historic city should protect and reconstruct what constitutes its authentic heritage, whilst developing through the best contemporary architecture. A city is alive when successive generations add their own layer to its existing history, not when they try to pretend that history has stood still. There are many examples of this.
What are they?
After the Second World War, Berlin did not rebuild everything in its historical form, but combined reconstruction with modern architecture. Rotterdam opted almost entirely for the contemporary; Warsaw rebuilt its historic centre but is developing through new architecture; and in Hamburg, the HafenCity district was created, which is contemporary yet deeply rooted in the city’s port history. One could go on listing examples for a long time, and the common thread is simply responsibility in design.
The Wodopój project has undergone a significant evolution. The original concept was met with criticism from residents and experts. What has changed, and why?
I wasn’t the architect behind the previous design, so I feel a bit awkward talking about it. The fact is that it did not gain public approval, and the fact is that the developer, Moderna Holding, decided to revise it – which, firstly, is not a common practice, and secondly, is an example of a responsible approach to design in such a sensitive location. With my team and I now on board, following consultations with the Pomeranian Provincial Conservator of Monuments, the City Architect of Gdańsk, the city authorities, campaigners and residents who had raised specific concerns about the original concept, we sat down at the table once more and redesigned some of the plans. This was not a capitulation, but rather a response to a voice that carried real substantive weight. Architecture that ignores such signals is bound to fail sooner or later.
Since we’re talking about responsible design, let’s discuss another challenge. This is the Kliniczna development, a new project by Moderna in the former maternity hospital in Gdańsk. Around 250,000 residents of the Tri-City were born in this building, so it’s no wonder it stirs up so many emotions.
A quarter of a million people. That’s not just a number; it’s a quarter of a million individual stories that began right here, where I’m standing now, thinking about the layout of the partition walls. For me, this building is more than just a historic monument in the architectural sense – it is a vessel of the collective memory of the entire city. When I’m designing, I’m constantly aware that someone who will one day come to live here might end up living in the very place where they were born. This imposes an obligation that cannot be reduced to any conservation guidelines. For it is not enough simply to revitalise the building – one must also preserve something that is harder to define: sentiment, collective memory, a sense of continuity.
How can this be done?
I shall answer metaphorically. The narrator in Adam Mickiewicz’s ‘Romanticism’ says: ‘Feeling and faith speak to me more powerfully than the sage’s microscope and eye’. And this is precisely the sort of project where one must trust one’s heart more. To be honest, I feel about this project quite differently from any previous one in my career. I remember the first time I entered this building. You walk in there with the technical documents under your arm, and ten minutes later you find yourself standing motionless in an empty corridor, feeling your heart start to beat a little differently. These walls hold memories that cannot be described in any brochure – the first cry, the first breath, mothers’ hands clenched around the bedsheet, the corridors where fathers ran, waiting for news.
You describe it beautifully, but there are people who don’t like the fact that the hospital where the children of ordinary Tri-City residents were born is now being turned into premium apartments, and that this is a kind of class shift – a public space is becoming a private business.
I understand this criticism, but I’d ask a question that’s rarely raised in this discussion: what was the alternative, really? Because this isn’t a situation where someone was choosing between a ‘hospital for the people’ and ‘apartments for the rich’. The hospital ceased to operate there in 2019. From that moment on, no one – no public institution, no local authority – had the idea, the resources or the courage to take over the complex and put it to use for the common good. It was put up for sale and passed from one owner to another, none of whom were up to the challenge. Saying that the city should take it over is easy in theory, but more difficult in the practical reality of a local authority’s budget. The prospect, therefore, is one of slow deterioration until it falls into ruin, necessitating demolition. Takeover by an entity with the capital, expertise and determination to make a genuine investment in this building was the only option for its salvation. An empty, dilapidated building serves no one – neither those who were born there, nor the town, nor future generations.
So how will the building serve future generations? Can we reveal any details of this project yet?
It’s still too early. The architectural design is being drawn up, and the formalities are being sorted out. We want to restore this place to its former form and splendour, rather than obscure it with a new function. Exactly how we will translate this respect into the language of architecture is something that is only just beginning to take shape at this stage of the project. But the direction has been clear from the very beginning. It will be a truly exceptional place to live.
Every new development brings new residents. So how do we design a place to live that does not overwhelm or restrict, but simply allows people to live comfortably?
The answer boils down to a few things. Firstly – functionality, in a very classical, almost modernist sense: clear divisions between living and private areas, maximum natural light in the interiors, and a logical layout of circulation routes. It sounds trite, but a truly huge part of the comfort of everyday life stems from well-thought-out fundamentals, rather than from eye-catching details. Secondly – the relationship with nature. Greenery serves not only an aesthetic function, but also a genuine climatic and water-retention function – it helps the building and its surroundings cope with a changing climate, heatwaves and torrential rain. Thirdly – a human scale. A building may be large; it may even dominate the skyline, like Wodopój, but if, at street level, at the entrance level, and in terms of how a resident experiences the space day after day, it maintains proportions that are people-friendly, then it ceases to be overwhelming. Buildings that ignore this scale are the ones that feel overwhelming; they treat people as mere dots on a plan, rather than as individuals who will be making their morning coffee there and returning in the evening, tired from work.
Thank you for the interview.
Interviewer: Jakub Jakubowski
See also: City | Housing Estate | Architect | Recommended | whiteMAD on Instagram
