What Shohei Shigematsu Thinks the Future of Architecture Looks Like

Moving fluidly between continents, disciplines, and scales, Shohei Shigematsu has built a practice that resists a fixed identity in favor of constant evolution. As a partner at OMA and the force behind its New York office, he has spent more than two decades shaping a body of work that spans cultural institutions, civic landmarks, and experimental collaborations—each grounded in a deep sensitivity to context. From Milstein Hall at Cornell University and the Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec to Faena Forum in Miami Beach, the reimagining of Sotheby’s New York headquarters, the Audrey Irmas Pavilion in Los Angeles, and the transformation of the Buffalo AKG Art Museum, his projects reflect an ongoing investigation into how architecture can respond to shifting cultural behaviors.

Beyond the built environment, Shigematsu has developed a parallel practice in exhibition design and scenography for Dior, Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Coach, where space becomes a vehicle for storytelling, immersion, and brand identity. Across both architecture and fashion, his work is guided by observation and specificity rather than a singular visual language, allowing each project to emerge from its own set of conditions.

Speaking with Whitewall, Shigematsu reflects on the shifting promises of globalization, the nuances of working between cultures, and how architecture today must balance permanence with adaptability, authorship with collaboration, and local identity with an increasingly interconnected world.

Shohei Shigematsu on Growing Up Between Japan and America

WHITEWALL: Looking back, how did being born in Japan, educated in the United States, and building your career at OMA shape not only your architectural language, but also the way you perceive culture, space, authorship, and creativity?

SHOHEI SHIGEMATSU: Living abroad is not uncommon these days, but moving to the U.S. in the early ’80s as a 10-year-old, the experience of American culture and cities made a big impact on my future trajectory.

It was also during this time that I first saw architecture in a meaningful way—my father was on fellowship at MIT—and I was taken by the chapel there, by Eero Saarinen, but also by Boston. The city was quite beautiful, with the river, the old part of the city, and the newer glass skyscrapers by I.M. Pei. It was the first time I thought of architecture as a profession.

In some ways, those moments influenced me to leave Japan for postgraduate study in Holland. I chose Europe because I thought it was a better place to further study architecture, given its history, and Holland was very much up-and-coming at that point.

Through the moves, I stopped thinking of myself strictly as a Japanese architect. I often say I became a sort of “refugee of globalization.” When I decided to leave Japan around 1995–96, it was the exact moment when Windows 95 came out, the Guggenheim Bilbao was built, S,M,L,XL was published. Globalization was beginning to accelerate, and architecture became iconic, international, and mobile.

I had high hopes for the world I had imagined—coming from postwar Japan, which was focused on domestic growth, but where everyone wanted to participate in the international world. I felt I could finally do what my parents’ generation had dreamed of.

When I left Japan, I didn’t think that I carried Japanese culture with me. I had returned from the U.S. and stayed in Japan, but I had never really practiced there. I didn’t know enough to be able to articulate Japanese architecture beyond a general level. At the same time, I was exposed to the pragmatic Dutch approach to education and practice. At OMA, I wasn’t expected to promote Japanese culture.

Still, there was always an idea that being Japanese could be expressed through responsibility, patience, or social ethos. For example, during competitions, the people staying late were often Japanese or German—there was a kind of discipline.

Later, working on projects in China, Russia, the Middle East, and the U.S., I lost track of representing culture and became more focused on understanding culture. Each place had different values, religions, and languages (literally and figuratively). I became more open and believed that instead of promoting my own culture, I should absorb the cultures I was working within and reflect them in architecture.

Ironically, Japan was one of the last places where I worked. That allowed me to see it objectively, just as I did other countries, and maintain a certain distance. I didn’t feel the need to exert my “Japaneseness” in my work. I became more of a global citizen.

But over time, that idea became more complicated. I was in New York during 9/11, then moved there in 2006 to start the OMA New York office, and shortly after the 2008 financial crisis happened. Amid the chaos, I began to question my “global citizenship” and felt I needed a cultural grounding.

I could have returned to Japan, but OMA didn’t have projects there at the time. Instead, I chose to build a base in New York—to be able to say, I’m based here, I understand this place. That became a turning point in developing my own perspective on cultural identity and authorship.

The New York office began as an outpost, but Rem wasn’t very involved, so I had to quickly create an independent office culture. I had to shift the perception of OMA from being synonymous with Rem Koolhaas to something broader. At first, people didn’t take me seriously, but eventually it worked.

Now that I’ve built a home base (and matured over the years), and am working in Japan again, I feel a stronger responsibility. I’m expected to bring a Western perspective to Japan, but also to represent Japan internationally. I was hesitant to claim that identity before, but now I feel I should—and I want to.

Architecture Beyond Style

WW: How did you manage to translate what OMA had built in Europe into the U.S. context while establishing the New York office?

SS: It was a transitional moment for OMA. When I joined, there were many projects, but few were actually built. OMA was known for radical ideas, research, and representation, but not as much for completed buildings.
As more projects were realized, a recognizable “OMA style” started to emerge—certain materials, forms, and strategies. I felt that wasn’t sustainable, and it wasn’t exciting to repeat that language.

Being in New York, distant from Rotterdam, allowed me to test and “undo” OMA in a way. I would often ask the team: This is what OMA would typically do—should we try something else? We were building a new image as a young office, separate from Rem.

At the same time, I realized that OMA’s true essence was not to repeat itself. The challenge was that as the office grew, not everything could be controlled, and people began second-guessing what OMA “should” look like.
Before joining OMA, I thought architecture had to be highly philosophical—that you had to be deeply versed in theory, economics, and anthropology. But once inside, I realized it could be much more straightforward: Analyze the program, test options, choose one.

That approach liberated me. But after about ten years, I became concerned that OMA was becoming too stylized. That’s what led to the trajectory I took in New York.

Running the New York office also forced me to learn management, finance, and operations. It was difficult, but it allowed me to build something independent—another pillar within OMA that could also bring new influence to the larger organization.

“It’s not about creating a manifesto, but about observing how the world is changing,”

Shohei Shigematsu.

WW: As many of your projects are museums and cultural institutions, how do you approach designing for art and the evolving role of these spaces?

SS: I think the key word for me is observation. It’s not about creating a manifesto, but about observing how the world is changing—global conditions, human behavior, technology, and speed.

I used education, teaching at universities like Cornell, Columbia, and Harvard, as platforms to research topics I was interested in—for example, studying food culture and its impact on cities and individuals.

Observations like this that are separate from projects help you develop the ability to recognize, and hopefully create, change. Typologies like museums, libraries, or skyscrapers are not fixed—they evolve.

At the same time, I believe in specificity. Each project has a specific site, client, and program, so each should be different. I’m not interested in repeating a single language.

I believe architecture emerges from the collision between observation and specificity. Museums are a great example. In North America, over the past 10–15 years, they’ve evolved from purely art-viewing institutions into places for education, events, and social interaction. People go not just to see art, but to meet, exchange ideas, and participate.

This context creates new typologies within the museum—what I call open-ended spaces—areas that are not strictly defined, where activities can emerge spontaneously. Projects like the Buffalo AKG or the New Museum reflect this shift.

This approach also extends to fashion. I’ve always been interested in the culture surrounding fashion. I observed how fashion exhibitions were once not taken seriously by museums, but are now major attractions.

Fashion brings storytelling into space in a different way. Through years-long multi-project collaborations with brands like Dior, I realized how space can enhance narrative in a more immersive, intangible way.

Again, it’s observation meeting specificity—whether it’s a museum or a fashion house.

Fashion, Storytelling, and Space

WW: Why are you drawn to transforming existing buildings rather than starting from scratch?

SS: Existing buildings create a diversity of spaces that a new building alone cannot achieve. People enjoy that mix—it can’t be only old or only new.

History is something you cannot fabricate. Even if you recreate a building perfectly, people know it’s new. That authenticity matters.

I used to think old and new were separate, but now I see history as a foundation for innovation. Engaging existing structures adds layers and dimensions.

Today, especially in the U.S. and Europe, working with existing buildings is becoming the default condition. I’ve learned to embrace and enjoy that.

WW: How do you navigate the relationship between architecture, commerce, and cultural expression when working with luxury brands?

SS: Architecture is very tangible—you deal with safety, efficiency, and function. But in collaborations with maisons, you’re asked to realize something more intangible: identity, atmosphere, and storytelling.

It’s about building immersive, almost dreamlike environments. That uses a different part of the brain.

Fashion is fast, playful, and experimental, which I enjoy. Brands expect you not only to understand their identity but also to challenge it. That freedom to create something unexpected is rare in architecture.

I also appreciate how fashion creates platforms where different disciplines—architecture, art, design, film, music, even food—come together. That kind of collaboration is something architecture could learn from.

Observation as a Design Philosophy

WW: How do you approach working across cultures today, moving from globalization to a more “multi-local” condition?

SS: It’s difficult. We try to avoid clichés, and working with local teams helps us understand social codes and expectations.

But there’s always a gap. I’m careful not to create superficial references, but I also can’t ignore cultural context entirely. It’s a balance.

Research and observation give you information, but design requires translating that subtly—not literally.
Architecture also naturally involves collaboration with local firms, consultants, and stakeholders, so localization happens through that process.

I think the goal is not to eliminate differences, but to understand them and create something new from them.

“I hope to develop a language that is not purely Japanese or Western,”

Shohei Shigematsu.

WW: How do you situate your work within Japan’s architectural legacy?

SS: The image of Japanese architecture is often shaped by extremes—metabolism or minimalism—but everyday buildings are quite ordinary.

Metabolism was tied to government-led experimentation after the war. Minimalism, in part, emerged as a reaction to that.

Both share a deeper issue: a frustration that Japan imported Western modernism too easily, without fully developing its own approach.

Japanese architects are still searching for what comes after modernism, and what a uniquely Japanese form of modernization could be.

That tension is what makes Japanese architecture interesting. I want to contribute to that search—not through something too literal or superficial, but through a more nuanced approach.

The Future of Cities and Urban Life

WW: What kind of legacy do you hope to leave?

SS: It’s too early to say, but I hope to act as a cultural bridge—not necessarily through a specific architectural language, but through a way of thinking.

I’ve been exposed to many cultures, and I’m still forming my own perspective. I hope to develop a language that is not purely Japanese or Western, but relatable to and understood by both sides.

If there is a legacy, it would be at a more abstract level—how to think, observe, and remain open.

“I’m curious about younger generations… they might redefine what a city is,”

Shohei Shigematsu.

WW: With AI, social media, and accelerated image consumption, does architecture have a role in slowing things down?

SS: Architecture is inherently long-term. It can’t be otherwise. That’s both a strength and a limitation. I think architects need to engage with multiple speeds—fast and slow.

At the same time, the industry needs to become more efficient. Construction is still very wasteful and complex. Technologies like computational design and BIM are helping, but there’s still a long way to go.

WW: What excites you most about the future of architecture?

SS: In Japan, I think the continued search for originality in the present will remain important.

Internationally, places like the Middle East are pushing architecture into new territories—bordering on science fiction. Projects like The Line represent a different scale of ambition. I’m also interested in rethinking cities through food production—bringing it back into urban environments using new technologies. And I’m curious about younger generations. If they truly have different values, they might redefine what a city is beyond what my generation could possibly conceive. That could lead to entirely new forms of urban life.