Design Minds: Marina Tabassum Connects Architecture, Climate, and Culture

On a golden June afternoon, light drifts softly through the layered translucency of the Serpentine Pavilion, filtering around the slender form of a ginkgo tree at its heart. Designed by Marina Tabassum, the Pavilion—titled A Capsule in Time—feels less like a building and more like an atmosphere. Its weightless timber structures evoke the poetic memory of Bengali wedding pavilions and ancestral courtyards, while the murmurs of Kensington Gardens dissolve into stillness. Inside, visitors linger—some deep in conversation, others reading quietly, many simply sitting. The air is contemplative yet alive, as if the space itself is breathing.

Tabassum is among South Asia’s most visionary architects, renowned for a practice that fuses ethical urgency with profound spatial sensitivity. Winner of the prestigious Aga Khan Award for Architecture for her Bait ur Rouf Mosque in Dhaka, she has continued to work at the intersection of climate, displacement, and the sacred rhythms of everyday life. Projects like the mobile Khudi Bari homes embody her belief in architecture as both refuge and response. In the lineage of Balkrishna Doshi and Geoffrey Bawa, her work emerges not from spectacle but from listening: to place, to people, to the passage of time.

Commissioned by the Serpentine’s Artistic Director Hans Ulrich Obrist and CEO Bettina Korek, A Capsule in Time marks the 23rd Pavilion in the Serpentine’s iconic series—and the first by a South Asian architect. Realised with AECOM and Stage One Creative Services, the Pavilion features a library of Bengali literature and ecological thought, anchoring the structure not only as a temporary gathering place, but as a vessel of continuity, care, and cultural memory.

Within this luminous sanctuary, Whitewall met Marina Tabassum to reflect on temporality, rootedness, and the possibility of building spaces that do not simply shelter the body—but stir the soul.

Marina Tabassum Designs the Serpentine Pavilion

WHITEWALL: Your Pavilion is titled A Capsule in Time, and that evokes both containment and continuity. How did your thinking around time, legacy, and transience shape the physical and conceptual structure of this project?

MARINA TABASSUM: I always find the relationship of time and architecture quite fascinating and intriguing. One is that, for ages, architecture has been used as a tool of continuity. It’s how you leave behind a legacy—and how do you leave behind a legacy? You generally do it through architecture. We see this from the eras of the pyramids, let’s say, from old civilizations. So much is retained by architecture in many ways. This whole notion of time and architecture goes back a long way.

But at the same time, there is also this transient nature to architecture, which also comes from Bangladesh—where our land-and-water relationship is such that the land is not fixed. It has a dynamic quality to it because it’s constantly moving, shaping, and reshaping itself. So people are constantly moving. Houses or dwellings are not static—they also move. That temporality is also something quite interesting in terms of architecture.

And then again, the Pavilion has this temporal quality. It has a time-bound existence, which is from June to October. In this time, people come here, enjoy the space, and so many events take place—and then, at one point, it’s packed up and it sort of vanishes from this location. A new Pavilion comes to this place. So this notion of time and architecture was our goal, and we looked into that.

WW: Thank you for your insights. You’ve often said that architecture should be “of place”—not just geographically, but culturally and spiritually. How did you reconcile that rootedness with creating a Pavilion in a context so far from home, in London’s Kensington Gardens?

MT: Yes, it’s a good question. Obviously, it’s a Pavilion, so in that sense, it’s not shaping people’s lives in a fundamental way. It offers a moment of enjoyment—an opportunity to be present, to take back beautiful memories. It’s essentially a celebration of architecture and of the summer months in London.

We tried to focus on the experience of summer. It can be a glorious, beautiful, sunny day—or it can just as easily be rainy and overcast. That variability is part of London’s character. How do you embrace the shifting temperament of the climate? When you create a translucent façade and ambiance, on a sunny day the interior is bright and uplifting. On a rainy day, it becomes quiet and subdued.

Playing with atmosphere was an important element of the Pavilion. That’s why translucency was essential. Contextualisation also came through the placement of the ginkgo tree, which symbolises the surrounding park. It brings the park into the Pavilion. The tree is aligned with the bell tower of the Serpentine Gallery, which strengthens that sense of place.

The intent was not to create a language derived from London, but rather something with the capacity to resonate here. Archways in gardens, often covered with vines or trees, are a familiar form. To some extent, that inspiration is present. There were many different aspects we tried to incorporate. And by opening the structure—with a central courtyard and permeable sides—we invited the park itself into the Pavilion. That was a way of responding to the climate, and to the site as a living context.

Inspired by the Ginkgo Tree

WW: The Pavilion centres around a ginkgo tree, a species known for resilience and longevity. Could you speak to the symbolism of this gesture and how it aligns with your understanding of architecture’s responsibility to ecology and climate?

MT: The ginkgo tree is representative of nature, which is why we chose it. We aimed to create a courtyard that would bring the park into the Pavilion, and the tree was central to that idea.

Why the ginkgo tree specifically? As you mentioned, it’s one of the most resilient species—and also one of the oldest still living. It holds a strong relationship to time, which felt important. When the Pavilion is dismantled in October, the tree will be turning golden. That transformation felt like a beautiful way of saying goodbye—a kind of farewell.

Afterwards, the tree will be planted elsewhere in the park. That gesture creates a sense of continuity. The tree originates in the Pavilion, but it will go on living in the park, carrying the memory of the space. In that sense, everything connects to time.

Regarding sustainability and climate awareness, our work in Bangladesh is rooted in those principles. We source materials locally, rely on local craftsmanship, and design in direct response to the local climate. Those values were important here as well.

The construction materials—like the timber—were sourced and fabricated locally. The Pavilion was entirely built here. The only exception is the translucent polycarbonate, which we used to create the specific ambiance. But even that material was selected with care: since the Pavilion will have a second life, the polycarbonate won’t go to waste—it can be reused elsewhere. That possibility of reuse was part of our thinking. In that way, the project aligns with the values that define how we practise architecture.

WW: Your past projects, like the Bait Ur Rouf Mosque, are celebrated for their contemplative spatiality. How do you create spaces that invite spiritual or emotional presence without relying on overt symbolism?

MT: I think this Pavilion is a good example of that. When you work with light, it naturally brings a sense of spirituality—it creates a connection with people. Light shapes the ambiance. In the Bait Ur Rouf Mosque, it’s the same approach: bringing in light in a way that lifts the space without revealing its source.

That kind of treatment immediately evokes a spiritual quality. The translucent nature of this Pavilion—once you’re inside and sitting quietly—has a calming effect. It fosters stillness, and that stillness becomes a spiritual experience. That’s something I deeply value in architecture: it slows people down. It creates a sense of refuge, and it encourages people to linger, to stay in the space longer.

A Library of Bengali Literature

WW: Absolutely—I couldn’t agree more. Light is something we all connect to, instinctively. Whether on a sunny day or beneath overcast skies, it has the power to transform a space—offering both shelter and a sense of presence.

The Pavilion includes a library featuring Bengali literature and writings on ecology and justice. How do you see the act of reading—or even lingering in stillness—functioning as a form of architecture in itself?

MT: The library is a way of introducing the idea that we want this structure to become a library in its afterlife. What’s here now is a kind of preview—a way of showing how that transformation might happen. That’s why the books are important.

We’ve curated works mostly from the South Asian region—history, literature, a variety of genres. My hope is that it might evolve into a kind of knowledge hub, wherever it ends up. Knowledge, for me, is absolutely essential—especially now, when book bans and threats to education are becoming alarmingly common in many parts of the world.

You read the news, and you shudder. So for me, this is a kind of temple of knowledge. Even today, a friend brought two new books to add. I love the idea of people continuing to bring meaningful books to share. That’s what I find valuable—creating a space where knowledge is nurtured and passed on.

“For me, this is a kind of temple of knowledge,”

—Marina Tabassum

WW: You’ve spoken about architecture moving from permanence to temporality, especially in response to displacement and the climate crisis. How has this shift changed your creative process or relationship to form and materiality?

MT: In our office, we do both. We design architecture that is more static, engaging with ideas of timelessness and continuity. But at the same time, in Bangladesh, we live with a kind of temporariness—many people dwell in places that shift due to environmental conditions.

We’ve been developing mobile houses that can move from one location to another, and we’ve been working on that for almost five years. Both approaches are important, but they involve very different ways of making architecture.

One involves dismantling—lightweight construction. It also relies on dry construction techniques so the structures can be moved easily. The choice of materials and how we create the joineries become crucial. In contrast, with buildings that are more static and grounded, we tend to work with brick.

So, the materials are chosen based on how the building is used and its typology. That determines the approach.

WW: You’ve worked largely in Bangladesh, often with modest means, and now your work is being celebrated on a global stage. How do you navigate that dual visibility—between local intimacy and global acclaim? And what do you hope Western institutions learn from your practice?

MT: I work in Bangladesh because, from the very beginning of my practice, that was a conscious decision. I know the place—it’s part of me. When I respond to it, it becomes a language rooted in my own land. It’s easier to engage meaningfully when you know how to respond. Anything I build carries a sense of grounding because I’m not an outsider trying to create something in a foreign context.

I truly believe that if you know the land and understand the context, your architectural response will be more meaningful and better appreciated than if you simply fly in and place a building without that connection. That’s why I choose to stay and work where I feel deeply connected.

At the same time, I’m very present on the international architecture scene—through teaching, exhibitions, installations, conferences. I speak about my work, about architecture, and how it relates to climate and place.

There are many ways to participate in architectural culture. It’s not only about constructing buildings—it’s about connection, about sharing ideas, processes, and approaches. That’s how I’ve positioned myself globally.

It’s also important to understand how architects in other parts of the world are addressing their own contexts. There’s a lot to learn from those varied approaches. That’s where I believe a true balance between local and global can be found.

“It’s not only about constructing buildings—it’s about connection, about sharing ideas, processes, and approaches,”

—Marina Tabassum

WW: The Pavilion is often described as a site of observation, but also one of reflection. If someone were to spend five quiet minutes alone in A Capsule in Time, what kind of emotional or spiritual resonance would you hope they leave with?

MT: I think it quiets them down. They’ll probably find it a bit contemplative. You sit there—it calms you. That’s what I believe this space offers—that sense and that effect. You can just sit and absorb the atmosphere. You take in the sounds around you—the breeze, the wind, the light, and the people moving nearby.

You observe. You also internalise. And I think that invites reflection. I feel that when people come in, they’ll probably just sit and spend a few quiet moments—and that, in itself, becomes part of the capsule.