In conversation with John Pawson: A study of light and materials
Over more than 40 years, John Pawson CBE has built a legacy of architecture focused on simplicity, blending fundamental principles with understated elegance. Whether reimagining historical buildings or creating peaceful contemporary environments, Pawson’s work reflects a profound commitment to light, materiality, and proportion. His designs transcend aesthetics, fostering spaces that evoke calm, clarity, and meaningful connections.
How would you define ‘Pawsonian Minimalism’?
JOHN PAWSON: I have always been driven by the pursuit of simplicity — the quest for what I have characterised as the minimum, which is the quality an object or space has when it is no longer possible to improve it by subtraction. This act of subtraction is both an intellectual and sensory undertaking and is a practice that has defined my entire working life.
Everything I have ever done is traceable to consistent preoccupations with mass, volume, surface, proportion, junction, geometry, repetition, light and ritual. And while the scale and vocabulary have evolved, the underlying thinking remains the same. This is an unbroken thread running through all my work.
“ To me, there is no fundamental difference between designing a chair or a house: it’s all architecture. When I look at one of Klint’s chairs, I see the quality of proportion, scale, volume, junction, repetition, material and surface. I see everything I am looking to achieve when I set out to make a building. ”
John Pawson
Looking at your residence, Home Farm, how did you embody this philosophy?
JP: It was an intensely personal project. And, when the client and architect are the same person, it becomes both more straightforward and more complex. Every project I have ever made is a manifesto of the work and the thinking behind it, but with an undertaking like Home Farm, every detail becomes an obsession. The only real constraints are those of time, money, tenacity of spirit and of course, the patience of your family!
For me, a sense of ease and stillness is essential to feeling at home in a place, and when I move around my home, the changing quality of the light is a constant sensory and emotional pleasure. However, in the end, the home is defined by people — the family and friends that fill it.
How did you bridge the gap between a contemporary interior and a historical 17th-century farmhouse to suit the needs of a modern lifestyle?
JP: Initially, when we visited, my first impression was that everything looked dauntingly derelict. The place had been occupied by the large, local farming family for the past seventy years, and the only electrical outlet was a pre-war, three-pin bakelite socket. At the same time, through the curtains of cobwebs, I could see the potential for the different elements to form new connections — hence, we joined the farmhouse with the in-line stone barn, stables and hayloft to create a volume of nearly 50 metres in length. From the beginning, the idea was to insert unequivocally modern elements into this idiosyncratic accretion of structures, spaces and surfaces that would create interesting junctions between old and new while ensuring no uncomfortable historicising of the place.
How do you create a sense of atmosphere and well-being in your home while maintaining a minimal aesthetic?
JP: I’ve never seen any contradiction between architectural minimalism and making places warm and inviting. The entirety of Home Farm is configured as a series of comfortable gathering spaces that work for larger numbers of people when we have family or friends over, but also for Catherine and me when it’s just the two of us.
Your home consists of a few carefully chosen pieces of furniture. How do you decide on the final pieces and what should have a place?
JP: I like furniture that neither disappears in space nor distracts the eye, breaking the sense of seamlessness. In this space, a growing proportion of the furniture we have is pieces I have designed myself, some of them created specifically with Home Farm in mind. However, I’d never want to get to the position where I’d designed everything, as it’s important to have a mix of other hands and other sensibilities.
With your work often described as creating calm spaces, what role does emotion play in your design process?
JP: From a young age, I was fascinated by the difference between the places that make you feel something and those that don’t. This, for me, is the difference between a building and architecture — through the extraordinary spatial and atmospheric change you experience both physically and emotionally. When you walk into a space where all the conditions are right, the sense of quiet exhilaration is immediate and intense. For some people, the reaction is a literal exhalation, accompanied by lowering the shoulders as tension is released.
Which of your projects holds a special place with you, and why?
JP: I always say that designing a new Cistercian monastery — the Abbey of Novy Dvur in the Czech Republic — was the project of a lifetime. A monastery is an entire, self-contained world that brings together a church, home, workplace, school, hospital, and market garden. Even two and a half decades after I began working with the monks, I’m still designing new elements.
Can you share a recent place or experience that has inspired you?
JP: The AA (Architectural Association School of Architecture) recently invited me to participate in a Visiting School at Neuendorf House on the island of Mallorca. Neuendorf was the first project I designed from the ground up in partnership with Claudio Silvestrin. I was very moved by the experience of spending time back in the familiar architecture and landscape, as well as the seriousness and talent of the students themselves.
How can architecture and design address the challenges of sustainability without compromising aesthetics?
JP: There is no single more important issue in architecture, and no single more important requirement of architects, than the goal of social responsibility in relation to climate change. It takes real commitment to move from a narrative that begins with an idea for a building and then focuses on trying to make this notional building as sustainable as possible to a narrative that starts with sustainability principles and then asks what physical form this set of principles might take. This is what is urgently required.
How do you envision your work inspiring future generations of architects and designers?
JP: One always wants to believe that the work will inspire, and I also hope that I might serve as an example of someone who has not taken the conventional route. I was convinced you needed to be good at mathematics, so life in architecture nearly didn’t happen for me.
Are there specific architects, artists, or thinkers who have been influential in shaping your design philosophy?
JP: The impact of the time I spent with Shiro Kuramata in Tokyo, when I was in my late twenties, still resonates through my life today. He taught me important lessons about the value of discipline, hard work, and the need to find the ‘sparks’. I was also influenced by his desire to do everything, to be a sculptor and an artist.
I never met Mies van der Rohe but no other single individual has had a greater impact on my architectural thinking, with the exception perhaps of Kuramata and Donald Judd. I have the twenty volumes of Mies’s published archive in my office, and I regularly find myself taking down a book — whether searching for something specific or simply for the pleasure of browsing.
How do you believe architecture contributes to the overall interior design experience?
JP: I have never really seen a distinction between architecture and interior design. In the end, it all comes down to the quality of the space, light and atmosphere.
What is your connection to the Klint chairs you have in your kitchen and design studio, and how do you relate to his work?
JP: To me, there is no fundamental difference between designing a chair or a house: it’s all architecture. When I look at one of Klint’s chairs, I see the quality of proportion, scale, volume, junction, repetition, material and surface. I see everything I am looking to achieve when I set out to make a building. Also, everyone looks good sitting in Klint’s chairs! Hence, I have them in my own home.
When I think about the work of Klint and other Danish designers, there is a timeless modernism that interests me and that they understand so well.
Bringing a place to life
Harmonious interior design caters to a spectrum of human needs — from physical comfort to emotional and social fulfilment — creating environments that respect the varied ways people live, work, and connect. A balanced approach, integrating well-crafted furniture, transforms a space into an energising sanctuary, blending connection and solitude.
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