On Architects, Cruise Ships and Psychiatric Hospitals

I found myself starting from the end, with the only text written in Spanish, dedicated to Félix Madrazo: ‘Te fuiste un poco temprano’. The editors chose not to translate it, and I, too, will leave it as it is. Some thoughts are best expressed in one’s native language, not in the one we must adopt to navigate life away from home. The rest of the book is in English, the language in which the Supersudacas carried out much of their work as expatriates, or ‘expats’. They met at the Berlage Institute, the renowned postgraduate school of architecture, forging bonds that went beyond the professional. They are friends and allies who found a temporary home in Rotterdam.

This was the moment of the SuperDutch, a time when many of us migrated to the Netherlands, drawn by an architecture that was bold and daring. There was an intoxicating sense of possibility, mirrored in the engineered Dutch landscape. The Berlage was the meeting point for those seeking advanced, research-based architectural training, offering the opportunity to engage not only with Rem Koolhaas and the successful generation of Dutch designers that followed but also with renowned architects such as Zaha Hadid, Kazuyo Sejima, Jean Nouvel and Toyo Ito as their interlocutors and mentors. It was an epicentre of architectural culture with vibrant lecture series, research initiatives based on study trips, and publications with international reach that set the pace for architectural debate. Founded by Dutch architect Herman Hertzberger, the institution was led by Croatian architect Vedran Mimica at the time of the Supersudacas. Mimica became its last director as governmental funding cuts in 2012 led to its dissolution.

Until then, and even after that dramatic closure, the Berlage was the place to be, an inspiring and perhaps self-congratulatory environment. The Supersudacas felt the excitement and benefited from this atmosphere of endless experimentation, yet after the initial enthusiasm, they soon recognized gaps in the narratives the school promoted. The architecture they were exposed to at the Berlage was audacious, but they had already seen equally audacious experiments back home. Their after-class exchanges revealed a reversal of expectations: Europe, and the Dutch, had much to learn from Latin America. It was the beginning of a collective project by 11 members, which at one point numbered 15.

In an act of defiance, they named themselves SuperSudaca. As they claimed the ‘Super’ and the heroic moment reserved for others, they embraced the derogatory term ‘Sudaca’, turning an insult into a badge of honour, humorously flipping the script. This act of appropriation set the tone for their work. If the Berlage trained them to be ‘starchitects’, they chose instead to put emphasis on the collective effort. And as the Dutch cultural landscape expected conformity, to act normal (‘doe normaal’), the Supersudacas declared an identity that resisted assimilation – a stubborn reinforcement of roots liberated from nationalism or nostalgia. They vindicated the knowledge from Latin America – so often disregarded by the West – without falling into national identities or boundaries. Despite acknowledging their particular socio-political realities, they decided to celebrate their commonalities as Latinxs and the global circulatory processes that overlapped with their lives.

What followed could only be a critical, engaged architectural practice. They operated around a common name and a flexible structure. Not all projects were developed by all the Supersudacas, and being a Supersudaca didn’t prevent any of them from also having their own parallel practices. Incompleteness, which features in the book’s title, is a sign of their interest in the long durée and generosity: their projects were process-driven, open-ended, and always ready to be appropriated and continued by others. In fact, Supersudaca became not only a collective but a movement that challenged conventional narratives of architecture and urbanism through the nuanced lenses of displacement, belonging and cultural identity. The theme of belonging – or the lack thereof – permeates this book, though it is often implicit. Belonging is not merely a lived reality for the members of the collective; it is also a theoretical concern from which to question and redefine notions of architecture and context.

The book is organized around two main sections: ‘The World of Architecture’, which refers to the tradition and state of the discipline of architecture; and ‘The Architecture of the World’, which focuses on critical urban research and socio-political spatial practices. The work of Supersudaca more clearly aligns with the latter, engaging with global questions through research and ‘direct architecture’ interventions. I also find the projects included in that second section particularly relevant, as they are one of the main contributions of this book to architectural culture. The essays and visual documentation traverse topics like circulatory regimes, global flows, tourism, migration, refugeeism and housing, and which could be grouped around three areas.

 On a socially relevant and critical practice

Consider the conversation Supersudacas had in 2002 with Mirta Demare in her art gallery in Rotterdam, now included in ‘The Architecture of the World’. Her candid reflections on designing and living in refugee camps while fleeing war or natural catastrophes starkly reveal how little the world has changed, as large parts of the population continue to suffer violence and displacement. Demare’s straightforward account of her experience in designing camps is a rarity in today’s dialogues about the role of architecture and architects in these processes. She considers decisions, such as how and where bathrooms are designed, and their impact on the safety of women against sexual violence. Choices by architects often compete with cultural preferences regarding how a proper shelter should look to people living in camps. Celebrated works, like those shelters made of cardboard tubes designed by Shigeru Ban, are not accepted by many populations, as they don’t look safe enough, Demare claims.

The interview also critically reflects on traditional architectural education, resonating with Supersudaca’s broader mission to create socially relevant and critically engaged practices. In a memorable passage, Demare laments the prominence of university studios focusing on designing ‘bizarre projects such as museums’ instead of social projects and fondly recalls the time they were assigned to design a psychiatric hospital. Mirta, thank you. I couldn’t help but count how many museums I was asked to design during my years as a student. Too many.

Demare and the Supersudacas create space for unexpected humour, even amid the heaviness of the topics at stake. One line of Mirta’s, in particular, makes me laugh and could easily become a slogan for a T-shirt or business card: ‘I am an architect, yes. I have never built a house.’ A self-effacing statement for someone who has built thousands of temporary shelters that eventually became homes.

On changing gaze and decentring Western perspectives

The Supersudacas and their allies are anything but conventional, undeterred by risk. The book is a testament to their ability to critique power dynamics with both wit and rigor, with a language that is assertive yet perpetually inquisitive. In the essay ‘China tu Madre’ written in 2016, they examine China’s influence on Latin America, contrasting it with the traditional Western-centric viewpoint. They question why Latin Americans are often pigeonholed into writing about Latin America and criticize the simplistic, often patronizing perspectives imposed on the Global South. This tendency is also found in their teachers at the Berlage Institute and celebrated architects in its orbit, who explore urbanization, architecture and cultural phenomena in different contexts, often making manifestos about world cities they visited only a few times. Supersudacas claim that the Western perspective should not be taken as the default modality of knowledge to understand world phenomena, an argument also at the core of essays such as ‘Europe, We Need to Talk’, ‘Direct Architecture’ and ‘Papel Latino’.
As Supersudaca shows in ‘China tu Madre’, it is China, not the West, that more accurately understands and shapes Latin American material culture. Thus, Supersudacas argue, Latin Americans might be better equipped to understand the extent of China’s global influence. Their journey to the city of Yiwu evoked a nostalgic understanding of their childhood belongings, revealing the complex layers often simplified by the Western-centric perspective of influence and progress:

‘Everything you have known from your childhood memories comes to the fore immediately. The calendar from your uncle’s shop, your school supplies – pencil sharpeners, rulers, pens –, your current cup, your spoon, the lamp hanging above you, the carpet on your floor, the floor beneath it, the video equipment that secures your house, the toys of your children, your sunglasses, your computer mouse, your Barcelona Messi shirt, your flip flops, your daughter’s Barbie doll or your sex toys (although these are in another complex). Anything. Everything. An enormous no-logo flood of useful junk. And while you might think that all this junk is generic or useless, there is an endless array of products that are indeed needed in our everyday life; some products are similar to those produced in different parts of the world, yet China is a lesser advocate of standardization, respecting local customs and winning the hearts of its clients.’

In Yiwu, design practices cater to the local preferences of the populations where the products are sold while maintaining low prices, making China ‘an irresistible foreign trade partner’.

On critical futures and learning from the past

In the book, as in the territories it describes, people, materials, objects and ideas circulate fluidly, mirroring the movement of the authors themselves. It captures a fascination with urbanization under globalization and the ebb and flow of finance – topics that have long defined Dutch architectural discourse through the influential work of offices like OMA/AMO published in SMLXL (1995), Mutations (2001) or Content (2004). Yet, Supersudaca offers a unique South-South perspective that is perhaps best represented by their research ‘Al Caribe’.

‘Al Caribe’ stands as one of the book’s most significant contributions. The research from 2005 for the second International Architecture Biennale Rotterdam blends situated, data-driven analysis with a vivid narrative. Its energetic, rhythmic writing, which alternates between facts, bold arguments and engaging anecdotes, keeps readers on their toes. The project makes a compelling case for rethinking tourism’s role in urban and regional development. While much discussion on migrants focuses on their integration into affluent areas, little attention is given to the impact of wealthy travellers on so-called developing countries. In this context, Supersudaca examines mass tourism in the Caribbean, highlighting how the all-inclusive resorts and cruise ship industry affect local communities. Never has a description of the architecture of a boat been so terrifying and entertaining as in the words of Supersudaca.

‘Al Caribe’ reveals that the increasing scale of cruise ships, now resembling floating cities, undermines the economic and cultural benefits for host destinations. It questions the future role of these destinations as cruise lines create artificial islands and ports, diminishing local advantages, and proposes contextually sensitive architectural approaches that have the capacity to improve the quality of life for local inhabitants. Supersudaca also describes how larger vessels and shorter periods in port mean lower cycle times for repairs and inspections, bringing the example of Carnival’s Triumph, a 102,000-ton cruise ship that was stranded at sea for nearly five days due to a loss of power and propulsion: ‘The ship floated in the Gulf of Mexico with no running water, no air conditioning, and limited food and fresh water. Carnival’s inability to provide solutions for proper waste disposal for passengers and crew led news media to dub it the “poop cruise”. Carnival offered passengers a full refund in cash, $500,000, and credit towards another Carnival cruise.’

‘Al Caribe’, with its emphasis on social and ecological impacts, is a testament to how the profession continues to struggle with some of the most pressing issues both then and now. Yet, in general, the book reflects the era in which most of the essays were written – a time when global dynamics were mostly perceived as sources of possibilities rather than threats, and where, regrettably, the climate catastrophe was not the backdrop of every conversation. Far from being outdated, the book depicts the realities we helped shape but are ashamed to fully claim as our own.

On architecture as a discipline

One such topic is housing. There are many pieces devoted to housing. Yet ‘From Slum to Slim’ best encapsulates Supersudaca’s fascination with the mutations of modernity, as well as its emphasis on context-specific practice, social engagement and a critical approach to conventional architectural and urban practices. The essay explores the transformation of informal settlements into now investment-prone cities, with an unprejudiced view that prioritizes improving the living conditions of marginalized communities over fulfilling the dogmas of mainstream architectural practices. In doing so, Supersudaca’s work stands out for its ability to celebrate the iterative and often incomplete nature of architectural work, and the absurdity of trying to impose disciplinary boundaries on human ingenuity and desire.

That’s why the only essay that gets me annoyed, yet still engaged, is a debate over whether Supersudaca’s work can be defined as architecture. I find these conversations between architects pondering whether something qualifies as architecture or not tiresome and regret they have space in this book. How can one not see architectural practice in the work of Supersudaca? Architecture might take different forms here in addition to buildings, from arrangements of bodies, objects and their logistics to territorial configurations and emergent systems of organization. These architectures might not be iconic or heroic, and they might indeed be incomplete, yet I would argue they are more relevant to what is at stake in the world.

Supersudacas, os quiero.