Archi.ru:
First things first: how did Wowhaus come into being?
Oleg Shapiro:
In quite a peculiar way. I was around forty-seven when we organized the company. Usually, at that age, people don’t exactly start new architectural practices.
I hold a PhD in architecture, completed postgraduate studies, and had a fairly academic trajectory. At a certain point, though, I stepped away from architecture of my own free will – quite a long time ago, around the age of thirty. Before that, there was a studio affiliated with the Union of Architects; we worked, for example, on the reconstruction project for the Nikolaev House and were involved with the Preobrazhenskaya Sloboda district. But then I more or less left the profession and spent eighteen years working in design together with Dmitry Likin – stage sets, film work, and similar projects.
Oleg Shapiro and Dmitry Likin, founders of Wowhaus
Then at some point people started telling us: come on, you really should start an architectural practice already. So we did. I remember us sitting there trying to come up with a name, because we decided it was finally time to register officially – and if not then, probably never. We were thinking about the Bauhaus... and that’s how Wowhaus emerged, with the added “WOW” prefix. Which, incidentally, gives clients a reason, whenever we present a project, to ask: “…so where exactly is the wow?” But never mind that.
At first there was just one architect, then three. The very first thing we did was the reconstruction of the Praktika Theater.
Praktika Theatre, Moscow – the first project of Wowhaus
Then came the Pioner Cinema. So from the very beginning these were not residential complexes or office towers, but cultural projects.
I think many people perceive Wowhaus as one of the key companies specializing in urban improvement and the urban environment. How did that specialization take shape?
Those were the Luzhkov years. People treated us like respectable grown-up gentlemen and, for some reason, assumed we had to be expensive. Which, to be fair, was not entirely untrue...
In any case, when we finally decided to establish the practice, we came up with the idea that we would focus on temporary architecture.
If you had asked us back then what exactly that meant, honestly, we probably wouldn’t have answered very confidently. The important thing was that we wanted to distance ourselves from the large-scale official architecture of that period. Under Yuri Luzhkov, there were no particular prospects for us, so we moved in another direction – toward culture, non-capital structures, and the urban environment.
Was Strelka the turning point?
Yes, absolutely. That was precisely the zero point. Strelka Institute was originally conceived as a temporary project for three years: afterward, a hotel was supposed to be built on the site. But as you can see, temporary architecture sometimes survives longer than permanent buildings.
It was there that we first invented many of the things we would continue doing for years afterward. We took garages and turned them into non-garages. We took a ruined building and turned it into a bar. We created an amphitheater, the so-called “inhabited fence”, spaces for artists. But most importantly, we invented not so much forms as scenarios. We imagined what people would do there, how they would inhabit the space. That was what really mattered.
That was also when the conversation about public space emerged. We traveled to Rotterdam to meet Rem Koolhaas – myself, Dima Likin, Alexander Mamut, Ilya Oskolkov-Tsentsiper, and Varvara Melnikova. We understood that we wanted to create some kind of educational institution, but we did not yet understand what exactly it should be.
At the time, Koolhaas himself was interested in doing something in Moscow – not necessarily building something; Russia itself interested him. And it was in Rotterdam that all of this was essentially discussed. He formulated rather quickly what the project could become: he said we would work with public spaces. At that moment, hardly anyone in Moscow was really using those words or fully understood what they meant.
Later, already serving as curator of the Venice Architecture Biennale, he brought us onto the stage and effectively presented the launch of a new educational project in Moscow.
After that, the curriculum for this whole initiative began to take shape: lecturers appeared – Winy Maas, Stefano Boeri, Carlo Ratti, among others. Rem Koolhaas himself was actively involved and also taught at Strelka Institute. Admission was incredibly competitive – around thirty applicants per place – and many people specifically wanted to study with Koolhaas.
Then the whole idea was articulated publicly as well: the magazine Bolshoy Gorod published a major interview with Koolhaas about public spaces, where he essentially explained what they were and why they mattered.
And then came Gorky Park.
Yes, and at that moment everything fell into place. The mayor changed, and Sergey Kapkov arrived as director of Gorky Park. That was already a major challenge. A huge space in the center of the city. Neglected. But with funding, expectations, and political will behind it. A rare stroke of luck.
I remember walking through the park with Kapkov – he was wearing enormous rubber boots, while I had none and was completely soaked – and he said: the first project will open in June. I thought he was crazy. It was impossible even to walk through the place, let alone open anything there. You couldn’t even see the water, it was impossible to approach the river, there was some kind of private serpentarium in the park, random kiosks everywhere; it was a complete dump.
But in June we really did build the Olive Beach, with showers suspended over the water. Swimming in the river, of course, was forbidden. Incidentally, that became quite an important theme for us: rethinking typologies. Not simply a beach, but a new urban ritual.
And what is interesting is that this story never really ended for us. Right now, for the third time, we are once again working with Gorky Park. The first time it was almost a social program; the second was the Krymskaya Embankment, which was already architecture proper, though still experimental in spirit. Now everything is being unified: Gorky Park stretches all the way from the Sparrow Hills to the Krymskaya Embankment, becoming one enormous territory encompassing some unimaginable number of hectares.
And this is no longer a quick intervention, but a carefully phased process – involving utilities, infrastructure, and serious architectural supervision. At the same time, elsewhere in Moscow – not by us, but by other architects – several other major parks are currently underway: Kolomenskoye, Sokolniki Park. The conversation is no longer about isolated beautification projects; it has become a large-scale, systematic engagement with urban territories.
And incidentally, what I call our second phase of work with Gorky Park – the Krymskaya Embankment project – actually grew out of our own initiative. At the time we were based at Red October. Our architects would cycle to Gorky Park for site supervision – though I personally don’t like bicycles – and at some point we realized that between the city and the park there was this strange abandoned territory with enormous potential.
We developed a proposal and simply showed it to Sergey Kapkov, who by then had become Moscow’s Minister of Culture. It didn’t feel like anything particularly large-scale at the time – just an embankment project. He took it to the mayor, and we were told: we’re doing it. By September! We asked: next year? No, this year. And by September it really did open.
Was that when you became labeled as “urban improvement specialists”?
Yes. During the Gorky Park and Krymskaya Embankment projects we suddenly became the city’s main “beautification experts”. Though we ourselves never believed we were engaged in beautification in the conventional sense. Everyone already knew perfectly well what “beautification” meant back then: paving tiles, streetlights, trash bins... all the inevitable elements of a project. What we proposed instead – and it became our great heroic PR gesture – was that we were not dealing with beautification, but with the urban environment.
What interested us was what people actually do: how they move, where they sit, where they meet, how a place lives in general. Roughly what would later come to be called the “user scenario”.
At the same time, you also had other projects underway – the Electrotheatre, the Polytechnic Museum.
Yes, and for us that was extremely important. At exactly the same moment, we began working on the Stanislavsky Electrotheatre and the Polytechnic Museum. The Electrotheatre became one of our major works in the cultural sphere. And that, of course, is no longer “urban improvement”.
But on the other hand, contemporary cultural institutions now operate according to the logic of public space. Whether it is a museum, a theater, or an educational center – they can no longer function as closed boxes that open for two hours in the evening like a traditional theater, or focus solely on collecting, studying, and exhibiting artifacts like a classical museum. They must remain active throughout the day, draw people in, stay open, and sustain a diverse surrounding life.
In this sense, the Galiaskar Kamal Tatar State Academic Theater belongs to the same category. A major cultural institution today must be capable of functioning as an accessible, open public space. And I think this has become a very important direction for us.
Disorder and order: how the company functions
How is your company structured today? Wowhaus looks like a well-tuned machine...
At first there was no machine at all. There was one girl sitting in the office at Red October, and Dima and I barely even went there ourselves. We had no real understanding of how to begin. We had this rather romantic idea: we’ll gather fifteen or twenty very talented young people, educate them, they’ll listen to us, and we’ll come up with ideas together.
That logic probably could have worked if we had stopped in time at a compnya of roughly thirty people. But that never happens. Projects keep arriving one after another, the company grows, and at some point you simply have to grow up as well.
You deliberately recruited very young people, didn’t you?
Yes, and we still do. The first people who joined us came from Strelka Institute. It seemed to us that if someone had even managed to get there, gain admission, and survive the whole experience, then that already represented a certain type of person we would find interesting to work with.
Later we invented the internship program. Because an architect arrives with a portfolio listing all the great projects they supposedly participated in, but it is impossible to understand what exactly they actually did there. Not because they are lying – it’s simply not visible.
So we created a competitive internship program. Internships exist at many major firms – for example at OMA, SANAA, or in the office of Alejandro Aravena. But there, interns usually arrive with their own laptops and mostly assemble models or produce renderings. We approached it differently: out of the three-month internship, one month is devoted to a separate educational project. We assign a topic, and they develop a project under the supervision of two of our lead architects – incidentally, everyone here wants to teach. During the other two months, they work within actual ongoing projects. By the end of that period, we understand very clearly who fits us well, and we can invite them onto the team.
When did it become clear that romance was no longer enough?
Roughly after about thirty people. That happened about three years into the practice. It became clear that we needed structure. And here a key role was played by Anna Ishchenko, our director. She joined roughly a year after we decided to set up the company, and in practice she turned our wonderful creative disorganization into something that actually worked.
She is not an architect, thank God – she is a philologist. And a philologist, as it turned out, is almost a mathematician: someone precise, systematic. She also had experience as a publisher at Bolshoy Gorod, which meant she understood how business processes actually function. She would ask terrifying questions like: “Do you even have an accountant?” And we had to answer: “We do now”.
How many people work in your company now?
Around 160. There are nine project groups, project managers, a separate working documentation department, landscape and master planning, lawyers, finance, PR, marketing, HR – everything a large office is supposed to have. At any given time, up to fifty projects can be running simultaneously: some dormant, some active, some at the delivery stage.
But you don’t want to turn into a Soviet-style institute?
Of course not! I once worked a bit at TsNIIPromzdaniy, and I have a fairly strong memory of what that kind of structure can look like. So we make every effort not to become that kind of classical institute. Although, of course, architecture is an eternal profession: just as there used to be chief designers and chief architects, we still have equivalents of that today.
We simply call things differently. Not a “workshop” or “studio” but a “project group”. And we also have a favorite figure – the architect-expert. This is someone who does not want to move into administrative management but is nonetheless a very strong architect. And we try to build a separate track for them – in terms of respect, responsibility, and compensation – without forcing them to become managers.
And you are comfortable with people leaving you and starting their own practices?
What can you do about it? That’s how the profession develops. We can’t exactly say: let’s die first, and only then you can evolve. In fact, many of the people who grew up inside the company have gone on to start their own practices. For example, there are teams like Megabudka and UTRO. With some of them we remain friends, we meet, and we invite each other to celebrations. I also have a house outside the city, and we once had a tradition there: after my summer birthday, everyone would come over – at first five or ten people, then fifteen. Now it’s close to a hundred, and it has become a whole event that takes quite a while to recover from afterward. But we’ve kept the tradition going.
We also have a very strong educational line – internships, MARSH School of Architecture, diploma students. People inside the company gradually become teachers themselves. And there is literally a queue of people who want to teach.
How rigid is the specialization between your departments?
We proudly call ourselves a multidisciplinary architectural company: from master planning to object design. An architect, in our view, should be able to do everything. It is a rather strange profession. For example, I personally made almost all the furniture in my own house – except upholstered pieces. Everything else I did myself, because nothing satisfied me. And in general, that’s a normal mindset. We approach our projects in a similar way whenever there is such a task – or rather, such an opportunity.
An architect is someone who composes an environment. And an environment consists of very different things.
Neo-industrialization
If we look at Wowhaus today, what is the main new theme for you right now?
Contemporary production is extremely important. Or, if you like, neo-industrialization. It is a relatively recent but very powerful shift in perception.
For a long time we lived with the idea of the post-industrial city: services, education, creative industries, coffee, dental clinics, universities. But at the same time, we all use cars and things that are produced somewhere by someone. And when a new wave of competition for manufacturing began, it became clear that production never disappeared – it was simply temporarily out of sight.
And it suddenly turns out that contemporary production – and I, by the way, originally studied transport and industrial architecture – is made up of gigantic laboratories, highly automated processes, and a very small number of extremely highly qualified specialists. And there is now fierce competition for these people. There is competition for architects, of course, but for these specialists it is even more intense.
As far as I understand, you are now doing a lot of projects for companies like OMK, SIBUR and others. But what exactly are these projects?
Yes, although much of it is under NDA, so we cannot show everything, even though a great deal has been done.
The structure is more or less the following. A company has a “city of presence”. It has an industrial territory. It has the interface between that territory and the city. Entrances, transport systems, administrative and amenity buildings, laboratories, control centers, public spaces, and cultural programs. There is a master plan for the city. There is a master plan for the industrial site itself. There is a waterfront. There are façades of administrative buildings. There is a health center. And in reality, all of this is one single process.
In Tobolsk, for example, we worked on a master plan where the interests of the city and a large SIBUR industrial site came together. In Vyksa, it is a vast territory with a waterfront and a park created on the site of former production facilities. In Kazan, the interface between the Kazanorgsintez territory and the city is particularly interesting: there are leftover “no-man’s lands”, a tram turnaround loop, laboratories, new activity – and from all this, a new specialized urban sub-center can emerge.
In all Soviet master plans there were two dreams: to make cities polycentric and to relocate industry outside them. Neither of those really worked at the time. And now something different is happening: new urban centers are forming around industrial enterprises inside the city. People come there, conferences take place, cafés appear, public spaces, laboratories, educational programs. And if cultural life emerges, people do not simply leave after work – they stay. That is how a new urban center forms, which is precisely what is needed for a polycentric city to exist.
From here another topic emerges. At one point everyone spoke about “non-core assets”: housing was distributed, everything unnecessary was sold off. Soviet health center were also considered outdated. But some of them were never sold – and stood abandoned. And suddenly it turned out they were needed again. A health center (or a “sanatorium” as they called it in the Soviet Union) was seen as a forgotten Soviet non-core asset that everyone was supposed to get rid of. But the opposite happened: they became relevant again, including as a way of retaining valuable personnel.
Are you designing sanatoriums as well?
At the moment we have four such “sanatoriums” in our portfolio. One of them is under construction in Nizhnekamsk for SIBUR. Initially, the client wanted a reconstruction, but it quickly became clear that the existing building could not be adapted to meet modern requirements. So it was demolished and is now being rebuilt from scratch.
A contemporary “sanatorium” (OK, let’s stick to this term) is no longer just a place where people come for medical procedures and rest. It includes family recreation, children’s programs, sports, leisure activities, a medical block, short wellness stays, and daily scenarios for people who live nearby. It is essentially a large socio-medical program.
And you know what struck me most? There are no luxury suites for senior management in these sanatoriums. None at all. There are no special enclaves for top executives. Everyone lives more or less the same. It is an unexpectedly strong and, I would say, deeply human approach.
New geography
You now have a branch in Kazan. Is that also a result of the shift toward industrial projects?
After the Galiaskar Kamal Tatar State Academic Theater and the accumulation of projects there in general, it became clear that without a local presence it was becoming difficult to work effectively. So now we have a team in Kazan, led by Ilyas – he used to work with us, then left, then returned, and now heads the branch.
In Kazan, beyond corporate projects, there are also purely urban lines of work. Lake Kaban, for example, is at once a stronghold of Tatar urban culture in the Old Tatar Quarter, an industrial layer from the former village of Pletni with its factories and bathhouses, and a very picturesque natural shoreline with weeping willows. It is an extremely complex context: several transformations are unfolding there simultaneously. The city in these areas is becoming denser, more intricate, more alive.
Kazan, Nizhnekamsk, Almetyevsk – this is already a fairly dense working region for us.
Yet you are also still working with parks in Moscow?
Yes, beyond the Gorky Park, which I mentioned at the beginning, we are currently working actively on Ekaterininsky Park as well. It is one of the oldest estate parks in Moscow, where the manor of Saltykov – a cultural heritage site – still preserves a clearly legible regular layout. In the 1930s, there was also a huge tennis stadium here with dozens of courts. Today it belongs to the Ministry of Social Protection, and it hosts a very dense social program: family recreation, “Moscow Longevity”, and so on. Over time, however, the space has simply fragmented into disjointed pieces and now requires renewal.
There is a pond with a boating station that was long semi-abandoned, an unused restaurant at the entrance, a concert venue, and a place where elderly residents always gathered to dance – we created a proper platform for them. There is also a family center: previously there was a military unit with a greenhouse on that site, and it was not even considered part of the park – the greenhouse was demolished, the concrete fence removed, and the territory simply incorporated into the park.
So the work there is not about “making a park” in the abstract sense, but about assembling these fragmented pieces into a functioning system: restoring the boating station, creating proper entrances, rethinking the tennis courts, integrating new functions. It is a long-term process where you are not working with a blank slate, but with an accumulated, partly accidental yet still living urban layer.
Ekaterininsky Park. Open-air stage
But you are not limited to parks?
No, of course not. We also participate in invitation-only competitions, including developer-led ones, for large residential complexes. This is a major part of contemporary practice. We take part quite often: sometimes we win, sometimes we don’t, and sometimes you win but the project still never gets built. It is a separate reality – competitions can last a long time, strong teams are involved, serious work is done, but in the end the project may simply not happen.
There are also competitions for large master plans. Unfortunately, not all projects can be shown.
And then there is another topic. After changes in legislation, individual housing construction (IHS) has become a separate field: settlements, new types of habitation, infrastructure. These are enormous territories – 200, 400 hectares.
If you put all of this together, what is Wowhaus today, in your view?
The key thing is that we are still working with environment. It’s just that “environment” has become much broader than it was when we were first labeled as urban designers focused on public space improvement. It now includes parks, theatres, museums, master plans, administrative and amenity buildings, sanatoriums, interiors, waterfronts, and industrial territories.
But essentially, what still interests us is the same question: what exactly will happen in this place, how people will live there, why they will want to come – and why they will not want to leave immediately. In a sense, we are continuing the same line of work, only expanding it. We try to design life as a whole, in all its diversity: from urban environments to housing, from master plans to very specific interiors.
The scale of tasks has changed significantly, but the logic remains the same. And it must be said – it is a very engaging pursuit.
