Well, I grew up in Venezuela, which really shaped my career path and my outlook on life in general. I lived in Caracas until I was 18, and I remember in high school I either wanted to become a visual artist or a politician. And being a politician is a really high-risk sport in Venezuela — I knew that wasn’t going to work out. So I think I saw architecture as a middle point between the two, as something expressive and artistic but that can also engage social and political realities. And I’d always planned to come and study in Canada; my mom is Canadian, so the idea was that my siblings and I would live in Venezuela but then also come here and sort of experience both worlds. So then I studied at the University of Toronto.

For a while afterwards, I was kind of wandering between architecture and politics. I worked at Toronto City Hall and I worked for City Councillors, and I’d also worked at architecture offices. But neither of those things particularly satisfied me.

I grew up in suburban Kingston in a family of first-generation immigrants, and architecture actually never occurred to me as a possibility – or even a profession really. So I didn’t study architecture to begin with. I actually started out studying film. I did my undergrad at TMU and then started working in the field right out of school. I started a production company while still in undergrad with some partners, and it actually took off.  We won two Juno Awards, and a Cannes Young Lion. I don’t think we really appreciated it at the time — we were basically still just kids who were given these incredible opportunities through luck and circumstance. So it was a really amazing experience, which became especially clear in retrospect.

But it always felt like the work was temporary. The amount of effort that comes together to create a music video or TV commercial, like, the labour is incredible. The creative output is incredible. And then it lasts a moment. And then it’s over. While I was in school, I really thought I want to be a cinematographer. And when you’re looking at things as a cinematographer, you’re always framing people as subjects relative to the spaces that they’re in. But when people are watching a movie, they’re aware of the fact that they’re consuming media. Whereas in everyday life, it all feels really unexpected and subtle and almost insidious. Anyway, I guess as time went on, I became more and more interested in the spaces themselves, and I eventually went to architecture school. What’s more permanent than a building?

Even when I was still thinking about going to architecture school, everyone was like “Kurtis, don’t do it. The work is boring. The money’s bad.” And before I went back to school I actually worked for an architecture firm in their marketing department, because that was the only job I could get.

And to be honest, I only really went to Daniels [the University of Toronto architecture school, where Chen got his Masters] because I didn’t want to do another undergrad, and I wanted to stay in Toronto. So I tried not to be naive about it, even though we all tell ourselves that our experience will be different, that it’ll be better somehow. But I thought, alright, let’s give this thing a go.

I saw Venezuela go from being a very wealthy country to becoming a very poor one. And one of the things that’s stayed with me is the sense that nothing is guaranteed in life. So you have to follow what you really want in life, and do what you’re passionate about. But I also know that passion has these really terrible connotations in Canadian architecture — that passion is something that always gets exploited. Because unless you really like it, it’s not a good field to be in. But it’s a job that can have a big impact.

I think that something Kurtis picks up on as a filmmaker is that the quality of the space that we’re in can have a huge influence on our health and wellbeing. And the framing of the space helps us notice its beauty. And I don’t know if this is something that Canadians are generally aware of, but the the quality of our built environments also leads to some really bad experiences, when we treat our surroundings through the lens of what’s most cost effective.

A big part of it is rooted in how architecture intersects with the politics of wealth and social equity. To be fair, we can definitely accept that there are wealthy people who can do things that the rest of us can’t. So you can have luxurious homes within a society, but then, you’d better conserve those homes so that they can become converted to something else in the future. In many countries, you go to an opulently beautiful public building that used to be someone’s palace. So the good thing about those expensive private villas is they can eventually become public. But that isn’t the relationship we have with our buildings in North America. We build out these private houses with such an insane degree of customized luxury — and then the next buyer never wants to keep it. It all gets completely renovated or outright demolished and all of that value is lost.

It gets really hard to work on those kinds of projects. It’s basically impossible to be a good designer when you no longer have empathy for your clients. I got to that point. I remember one project in particular, I was designing someone’s closet in Rosedale. This closet was bigger than my apartment, but they were complaining that it was too small. “Where are my husband and I supposed to put our stuff?” And I’m like, “I don’t know?” I couldn’t relate to their life at all. And if I can’t relate to my client, and I can’t have empathy for them, then how can I design for them?

I think that’s why we both left our jobs.  I’ll admit to the fact that I’m a terrible employee, I never last anywhere, and it was always inevitable I’d leave whatever job to do something like this. But feeling disconnected from our clients was a big factor. Like Joël, I reached a point where I didn’t have empathy anymore. Like you have clients complaining about the size of their dog shower. I don’t care.

And architects are like that too. The reality is that if you’re the principal of an architecture firm today, more than likely your parents are loaded. And look, to be sitting here having this conversation at all, it means that all of us are really privileged and lucky, but neither of us come from that type of background. Either way, I don’t think our profession should be about serving that class of people.

It all depends on how you understand the politics of architecture. Living in a country with huge income disparities, you understand the value of housing differently. 50 per cent of Caracas is shanty towns, it’s self-built housing. People build their own homes in an earthquake region, and they’re all built on top of each other — you have up to a million people living in what is essentially one continuous building. The problems with it are obvious, and it gives rise to this idea of architecture foremost as a social service, as a way of trying to address and repair that condition. It’s the idea that serving the public is the most fundamental part of architecture. I don’t think that idea really exists yet in North America.

We take on projects that are value-aligned. As a small practice, you obviously have to balance your ideals with paying the bills, so oftentimes firms end up taking projects that aren’t a great fit. We don’t have an office and I have another job [as executive director of the TSA], which allows us to stay afloat when there’s not a lot out there. And it’s not glamorous. We work out of my home office, and it’s messy and it’s too small. But that’s how it is.

But we’re trying to stay true to our principles. With the laneway house, for example, our client wants to rent it out. And Kurtis and I are both renters, so we always try to see the project from that point of view. What would a renter want? It can be something as simple as getting an IKEA kitchen, because the first thing a renter is gonna do is buy whatever shelf or accessory and seamlessly put it in there. And we discuss every choice in detail to to specify sustainable, long-lasting materials.

For whatever project we take on, the hope is that our interdisciplinary outlook can lead to more creative, honest problem-solving. We talk to the client and try to come up with the best possible solution. Maybe you need a new building? Maybe you actually need to renovate your building, or rethink the program? Or maybe the crux of the problem is actually just wayfinding? In some cases, maybe the most effective solution is actually to design a new website.

We want people to love our buildings, and we want people to love buildings in general, because the greenest building is the building that you don’t need to build. And a big part of fostering that realization is having advocates, because we can see that when the community stands behind a building or project, it can be very, very powerful thing. So what we preach as part of the TSA is also what we try to do as a practice. To promote an honest and accessible approach.

And that goes for how we think about photography and media too. When we photograph the laneway house, will we just show it as a pristine, empty and spotless place? Do you photograph it before? Do you photograph it after? Do you rent furniture just for the photoshoot? I think we’ll also take photos with the tenant moved in, and even if the walls are a little scuffed up, it shows the reality of living in this place.

However the tenant chooses to live is part of the story of that space. I think it’s part of the storytelling that we do as communicators, but also something that we can learn from as designers. What are the qualities of the house that they enjoy and that we didn’t anticipate. I think that’s a lot more interesting than the fly through videos that every architecture firm commissions for some reason. You don’t get anything from them. It’s just a more expensive version of a photo.

And even though the laneway house budget was tight, we didn’t compromise on the fee. We pretty much stuck to the RAIC fee guide, which I know is often more aspiration than reality. But I think we can deliver real value without devaluing ourselves.