Since he released his first collections on the generative art platform fx(hash), Jacek Markusiewicz has reimagined how we think about the architecture of digital space. Channeling his experience of parametric design, projects such as unbuilt, reborn, and hollow have revealed the capacity of code to create uncanny environments, rewiring the language of architecture in the process. 

Kaloh has been providing in-depth analysis and ongoing coverage of developments in Web3 since the NFT explosion of 2021, spotlighting the new generation of digital artists on his podcast. In this conversation, they discuss how generative art is altering the architecture of an increasingly hybrid world.‍‍

‍Kaloh: We are not far from each other as I’m in La Coruña. But you’re originally from Poland. How did you end up in the Basque Country?‍

Jacek Markusiewicz: The reason is very simple. My husband is from San Sebastián, in fact we met when I was doing my Masters in Barcelona. Right now, I’m working full-time on my art, but my background says quite a lot about how I got here. I started studying architecture in 2003 in Warsaw. After graduating from Warsaw University of Technology, I left for Barcelona, which also changed my attitude towards architecture. I had amazing teachers, particularly one at IAAC Barcelona, Luis Fraguada. 

By that time, I already had a background in coding, but learning parametric design was the moment I made the link between architecture and my algorithmic approach. 

Parametric design is a pretty wide concept, encompassing everything from the use of custom algorithms to automate certain parts of the design process. This might involve generating complex geometries or optimizing elements of a building using algorithms and parameters, but it also extends to a philosophy of design where certain algorithmic rules shape the logic of architectural form as it is generated instead of deciding arbitrarily where to place a wall or window.

‍K: Is this way of working common among architects these days?‍

JM: I wouldn’t say so. It’s still a bit of a niche. Today, the use of computational tools by architects mainly involves a digital version of a drafting board. We still draw plans and sections, but instead of using a pencil and a ruler we are using programs like AutoCAD. Another example is Building Information Modeling (BIM), where every element of the model represents an architectural element supplemented with architectural information such as the manufacturer, physical properties, even price. 

Parametric design goes beyond that, encouraging architects to create their own personalized tools in order to be able to face unique design problems.‍‍

‍K: When did you discover generative art? ‍

JM: It depends on how we define generative art. The moment I graduated from that Masters degree in Barcelona was the moment I started calling myself a creative coder. Working in an architectural office, I helped automate both technical and aesthetic components of architectural processes via coding. I would help create programs that would generate multiple options for a facade or optimize the distribution of buildings on a site. We would create application interfaces, not only for us but also as a way of involving clients in the design process.

It was after I moved back to Warsaw, teaching programming to architects at my old university, that I started teaching technical aspects and encouraging students to implement algorithmic logic in design. While I was doing my PhD there, I was also working for a furniture designer from the Netherlands called Joris Laarman. My role was to create programs and scripts to help him generate complex geometries that would constitute the furniture they were designing.‍‍

‍K: Were you already developing your own art practice on the side?‍

JM: My personal practice started after we moved to San Sebastián. When my husband and I set up our company, the spectrum of projects was very wide: from creating applications dedicated to technological companies in the region to building interactive art installations in the city. It was when the company moved more toward urban scale analysis and design that I diverged toward my own practice, which was something I felt much more comfortable with. Then, one day, around three or four years ago, Luis Fraguada visited us in San Sebastian. Back then, I was experimenting quite a bit with artificial intelligence, trying to train my own neural networks and playing with the results. 

‍At one moment, Luis asked me what I thought  about blockchain and NFTs and I was like: “what are you talking about?” He told me about Hic Et Nunc and even helped me set up a wallet on Tezos, sending me 0.5 XTZ so I could mint something. 

That’s how it started. I published my first pieces, started interacting with people on Twitter, and absolutely fell in love with the community. I really enjoy real-life events, which might involve working with a gallery like Bright Moments or Verse, but the principal medium I use to release projects is digital.‍‍

‍K: There are a number of artists in Web3 who are also architects, aren’t there?‍

JM: There are many architects in this space, including Anna Beller, Alejandro Campos, Galo Canizares, Víctor Doval, Ismael Sanz, Luka Piskorec, Bruce from Studio Yorktown, and Anaglyphic from Anaver.se, while Olga Fradina is an interior designer. I think that Erik Swahn is also an architect. I don’t find it surprising because there is a connection between coding and the language of architectural expression that derives from the fact that buildings need to obey certain rules. We need foundations to start building: columns to support beams, etc. When you want to make an opening in a wall in order to transfer vertical forces from it, you’re creating arcs. This leads one to formulate certain grammatical rules for the elements you use as well as their scale and order. For a long time, these rules were related to function, durability, and aesthetics, and if you didn’t follow those rules, the language would be off. 

When you are working on generative art and coding, you’re basically setting up a system of grammatical rules along with elements that obey those rules. The connection with architecture is strong. I know I’m not the only one here who is familiar with parametric architecture and the concept of building an algorithm that generates formal results. Long-form generative art is very close to that.‍‍

‍K: A number of generative artists are reshaping nature through code, but two of your projects from 2021, unbuilt and reborn, reshape architectural plans quite explicitly. How did those collections come about? ‍

JM: Those works, which I released on fx(hash), are the most visible manifestations of my architectural background. In both cases, I worked with the semantic rules of existing architectural languages, which isn’t far away from mimicking nature. This involved extracting rules from something I observed and creatively reprocessing it. 

I don’t usually frame and hang my own pieces in my flat, but unbuilt is a very special piece for me that drew the attention of many collectors. 

I worked with the rules behind medieval sacral architecture, and then in reborn I changed both the period and the scale: from the Middle Ages to the Renaissance and from the scale of a building to the scale of a city. Reborn captures the Renaissance fascination with the concept of the ideal proportions of the human body as well as the ideal citizen — enclosing aesthetics in mathematical rules — and, finally, theories about ideal cities. It’s interesting to me that very few ideal cities from that period still exist. Most of them failed spectacularly when confronted with an imperfect world.‍‍

‍K: I know that you’re familiar with the architect, Zaha Hadid (1950-2016), who pioneered parametric design. How has your artistic practice been influenced by that methodology and process? ‍

JM: Zaha Hadid is one of the huge star architects of the late 20th and early 21st century. She has left an enormous legacy and was the first woman to win the Pritzker Prize. What is very interesting about her is that her first architectural works were not buildings but paintings, and she was fascinated by the Russian avant-garde, especially Suprematism. During the 1980s, she created paintings that were studies of architectural and urban forms inspired by Suprematist aesthetics and compositional rules. Later, she adapted her paintings as preliminary form studies for her architectural projects. 

Then, in the 1990s, she moved more toward what we now call “parametric design,” manifesting a different aesthetics. Since she passed away, her professional partner, Patrik Schumacher, runs her studio and is a very influential theorist of architecture and proponent of parametricism. In his opinion, when you use algorithmic methods in the design process, you have an obligation to use an architectural language appropriate to computation. This manifests in curvy forms and complex geometries without right angles or repetition, which has associations of prefabrication and mass production. I don’t agree that every element needs to be unique because the repetition of certain rhythms has been part of the history of architectural expression.

Many architects have applied generative and parametric tools not to address the geometric complexity of buildings but rather to optimize the performance of a building, improve its efficiency, and ensure the smart distribution of its functions. For me, that is the most important way of using digital tools in architecture.‍‍

‍K: Hollow (2022) is probably your most critically acclaimed generative art collection on fx(hash). How did it come about?‍

JM: Hollow is both a tribute to and a critique of the Basque sculptor Eduardo Chillida who is renowned for his works of monumental abstraction. In the 1990s, he proposed turning a whole mountain into a sculpture, wanting to create a vast cubic void inside Mount Tindaya on Fuerteventura in the Canary Islands. In his vision, a huge empty cube would open up at the corners to allow natural light to enter, forming a breathtaking space. Almost everyone was against the project, which was criticized for its potential environmental impact. Culturally, it was also highly controversial because Tindaya is sacred to the indigenous community of Fuerteventura. From an economic standpoint, it would have been forced to become a massive tourist attraction. It also poses the question: “who are you to impose your vision on a natural formation that has existed for 20 million years?” But, to me, the beauty of the concept was undeniable. The idea of Hollow was to give it a new life. Instead of excavating a sacred mountain, I created multiple randomly generated mountains to become a digital matter for sculpting Chillida’s vision. ‍‍

‍K: It feels like Hollow was the perfect way to bring that to life. But how did you code the birds?‍

JM: At a certain point, I felt that I needed something to give a sense of scale in order to show the immensity of the empty space inside the mountains. The code is a flock algorithm, which means that I don’t code the paths of every individual bird, but each bird is an agent and element of a system that is obeying very simple rules. It looks at its neighbors and tries to align with their direction of flight while keeping enough distance so that it doesn’t collide with the others or with the walls of the space.

I usually spend many months developing my work, getting lost in the code and experimenting with different iterations until I am happy with the work. Hollow might have taken me four months, but I really have a problem of knowing when to stop. 

‍‍I don’t treat my projects as products where I simply want to achieve a certain objective. They are almost like living organisms with which I coexist. 

I stop working either because I feel I’m in a different moment mentally or when I cannot contribute anything meaningful to it anymore. I always have to make a decision as to whether it is worth releasing or not. I often spend weeks or months working on something that I ultimately decide not to show to the world because I grow detached from the piece.‍‍

‍K: What can you share of your experience working on Cantera (2023) with Bright Moments?‍

JM: It was a really good experience. It’s a project that somehow continues the exploration I started with Hollow, extending my fascination with human interventions in the natural environment. It’s also inspired by the cultural landscape of the Basque Country. Cantera means “quarry”. Many mountains surrounding Bilbao are consumed by stone quarries. There is a story of a town, Gallarta, where the richest supply of iron ore was discovered directly below the town. They ended up extracting ore and simultaneously demolishing the city to get to the resources. There is nothing left of the old Gallarta, and the mine was ultimately abandoned when it was no longer economically viable, which tells us a lot about the relationship we have with nature.

My recent long-form collection, Barbarians (2024), which I released on Verse, continues this exploration through pieces that, at first glance, appear like monumental architectural structures — vaults and columns — carved into the landscape. But when you zoom in on the surrounding terrain, you encounter inhabitants of the scenery as well as roads, wooden houses, and sometimes bigger buildings resembling churches or town halls. When you compare these monumental interventions on the one hand with the other more humble civilization it’s not entirely clear who came first. 

You might be looking at the ruins of an advanced civilization where a new, less technologically advanced, “barbarian” culture has started dwelling. Or maybe these monumental structures have come after the wooden settlements, leaving a different kind of barbaric footprint and colonizing the land for its natural resources…‍‍

‍K: To finish, I always ask my guests to name three artists that inspire them, digital or otherwise. ‍

JM: It’s very difficult to narrow down my inspirations to three people. While Chillida’s art practice has affected me greatly, he is not a role model for me. I have always been fascinated by land art and, in particular, the work of Maya Lin, who is also an architect. The last artist is El Anatsui from Ghana who develops sculptural installations that look like huge textiles comprising everyday objects such as bottle tops. They are stunning.