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MESURA : operating between tensions

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Mesura is a transdisciplinary practice working across architecture, interior design, furniture design, urban development, and research. The studio focuses on transforming spatial ideas into built realities through a process guided by care, precision, and a commitment to excellence. Its approach places equal importance on process and outcome, treating each project as a space for experimentation where different ideas, disciplines, and perspectives converge to generate innovation.

Mesura in conversation with PFAALL Magazine.

Conceptual Foundations

We don’t really approach projects from a fixed conceptual foundation or a predefined theoretical framework.
If anything, we are quite cautious about that idea, because it tends to simplify situations that are, by nature, very complex and specific.

What usually guides us is a very direct reading of each context. We try to understand what is already there—materially, culturally, climatically—before bringing any external idea into it. In that sense, concepts like Genius Loci are not abstract references for us, but something very operational. In Poblenou, for example, the industrial structure is not a background but a condition that shapes the project from the beginning. In other contexts, like Casa Ter or projects in very different climates such as Riyadh, the relationship with landscape, light, or interiority becomes the main driver.

So rather than a set of conceptual ideas, what we work with is a way of operating between tensions: intuition and analysis, emotion and precision, local specificity and broader cultural awareness. These tensions never fully resolve, and we think that is what keeps the work open.

In terms of influences beyond architecture, we often look at disciplines that help us rethink how we approach space rather than providing direct answers. Anthropology is one of them, because it helps us understand how people actually inhabit environments through everyday rituals and behaviours. Ecology is another, especially in relation to cycles, limits, and systems—something that becomes very tangible in projects where reuse or passive strategies are fundamental.

These influences don’t really appear as explicit references in the projects, but more in how we frame the process: how we read a site, how we define priorities, and how we decide what is essential in each case.

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

References and Inspiration

We wouldn’t say there is a single architect, artist or thinker that we constantly refer to in a direct or explicit way. The way we work is probably less about fixed references and more about a continuous accumulation of influences that come from very different directions, depending on the project and the context we are dealing with.

That said, we often return to anonymous and vernacular architecture as a kind of underlying reference. Not in a nostalgic sense, but because it represents a very pragmatic intelligence—spaces that are shaped by climate, use, and material availability over time rather than by a predefined formal intention. In many ways, that way of building and adapting feels closer to how we understand architecture today, especially when working with constraints or existing structures.We also tend to look at certain moments in modern and contemporary architecture where space is understood more as experience than as object. Projects or works where light, proportion, and atmosphere are as important as form itself. These references are not always consistent across projects, but they appear when relevant to the specific questions we are trying to solve.

Regarding younger practitioners, what we find interesting is less about individual names and more about a general shift in attitude. There is a generation that is questioning authorship, scale, and sustainability in a more direct way, often without relying on a fixed aesthetic language. That openness, and the willingness to work across disciplines or formats, feels particularly relevant to the moment we are in.

So rather than a continuous list of references, it is more a way of staying attentive to different forms of intelligence, some historical, some contemporary, and many of them outside of architecture itself.

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Aesop Diagonal, Barcelona, Spain © Maxime Delvaux

Casa Ter, Baix Empordà, Spain © Salva Lopez

Relationship with materials

Looking back at our projects, our relationship with materials has clearly shifted over time from a more selective or compositional approach to something that is increasingly understood as cyclical and contextual. At the beginning, material choices were often driven by atmosphere and intent—how to create certain spatial qualities, warmth, or clarity. Over time, especially through working with existing structures and more complex contexts, we started to see materials less as a starting palette and more as something already embedded in the project.

This has gradually led us to think less in terms of “selection” and more in terms of continuity. The idea that materials already have a history before the project starts, and that they will continue to have one after it finishes, has become central. So the question is no longer only what we use, but what we transform, what we keep, and what we allow to remain visible.

Projects like Aesop Diagonal or Casa Ter have been key in consolidating this way of thinking. In Aesop, for example, the project literally starts from existing materials—recovered Montjuïc stones with previous lives in the city—which define the design itself. Their life cycle is not only extended through reuse, but also kept open, as the stones can be disassembled and returned, continuing their trajectory beyond the project.

In Casa Ter, this approach translates into working with KM0 materials, such as stone from the river Ter or ceramics from La Bisbal, embedding the house within a local material culture. Here, the life cycle is understood more in terms of proximity, durability, and continuity with traditional construction systems. In that sense, the full life cycle of materials is not something we approach as a separate sustainability layer, but as part of the design thinking itself. We try, whenever possible, to prioritise reuse, local sourcing, and systems that can be disassembled or adapted over time. What has evolved most is probably the awareness that materiality is not static. It is temporal. It ages, it changes, and it accumulates meaning through use.

Position regarding today’s most pressing global issues

We don’t really see these issues—climate change, ecological collapse, social inequality, geopolitical tensions —as external topics that sit alongside architecture. They are already embedded in the conditions in which we work, whether they are explicitly mentioned in a brief or not.
However, if there is one aspect that concerns us the most, it is the loss of identity of places. A condition that is often connected to these global processes, and that becomes visible through the homogenisation of environments, construction systems, and spatial experiences across different contexts. Because of that, our position is less about declaring a stance and more about how these realities translate into decisions within each project. In practice, this often means working with what is already there—existing structures, local materials, or embedded cultural logics—rather than replacing them with generic solutions.

In projects like Casa Ter or interventions within industrial contexts in Barcelona, these decisions are not added layers but part of the initial logic of the design.
This also extends to other contexts where material and environmental conditions are more extreme. In the Digital Art Museum in the Middle East, for example, the building is conceived as a large-scale structure made of around 500,000 locally produced mud bricks, using earth as the primary construction material.

The project is strongly rooted in vernacular construction systems and relies on passive architectural strategies—thick thermal mass, courtyard logics, and self-shading—allowing the building to significantly reduce its dependence on mechanical systems and, in part, operate through solar-driven energy conditions. At the same time, this material and environmental logic is not separated from its cultural dimension, but directly informs the architectural expression and identity of the project.

We tend to frame this not only in terms of sustainability, but in terms of responsibility. Responsibility towards the context, towards material resources, and towards the cultural continuity of a place. Through all these layers, each project has the potential to counteract, even if partially, this loss of identity.
We are careful with the idea of “addressing” these global issues in a direct or symbolic way, because it can easily become rhetorical. Instead, we think that responsibility operates through accumulation: through small, consistent decisions that affect material use, spatial organisation, and longevity over time.
At the same time, we are aware that architecture alone cannot resolve these systemic conditions. Its role is necessarily partial. But precisely because of that, we think the responsibility lies in being as coherent as possible within that limitation—making sure that what we build does not ignore the reality it is part of.

Casa Ter, Baix Empordà, Spain © Salva Lopez

Casa Ter, Baix Empordà, Spain © Salva Lopez

Casa Ter, Baix Empordà, Spain © Salva Lopez

Art and Activism

We don’t really position our work within the framework of activism in a direct sense, although we are fully aware that architecture always has social and environmental implications, whether it is framed that way or not.

In our case, the intersection tends to happen more indirectly, through the way we approach design decisions rather than through explicit messaging. For example, when we work with existing structures, prioritise reuse, or try to reduce material impact—as in some of our projects in Poblenou or in interventions where adaptability is key—there is an underlying environmental responsibility, but it is not communicated as a manifesto. It is simply embedded in the way the project is developed.We are also cautious about turning architecture into a purely communicative tool, because when the emphasis shifts too much toward message, there is a risk that use, function, and long-term experience become secondary.

For us, the value of a project is often measured in how it is inhabited over time, not in how it is framed at the moment of its completion. So the line between design, artistic expression, and activism is not something we actively try to define, but rather something that emerges naturally depending on the project. Sometimes there are moments where a project can open up a broader cultural or environmental conversation, especially when collaborating with other disciplines like art, but even then, we tend to see it as a consequence rather than a starting point.
In that sense, if there is any contribution, it is more about consistency in practice—making decisions that are aware of their impact—than about adopting a specific activist position.

Casa Balma Murada, Mediterranean Coast © Mesura

All photos, Casa Balma Murada, Mediterranean Coast,
in collaboration with Nora Batlle

All photos, Casa Balma Murada, Mediterranean Coast, in collaboration with Nora Batlle
© Rory Gardiner

Addressing pressing issues - in practice

We do think architects and artists can engage with these realities, but probably not through the same
frameworks or vocabulary we have historically relied on. One of the main tensions today is precisely that we continue to use stable terms like “home”, “public space” or “community”, while in many contexts those concepts have already shifted or even disappeared in their traditional form.

In situations of displacement, conflict or climate emergency, for example, “home” is no longer a fixed spatial condition. It becomes something fragmented, temporary, or infrastructural. That alone already forces a rethinking of how architecture speaks and operates, because if the language remains unchanged, it risks becoming detached from the realities it is trying to describe.

We don’t think architecture can directly resolve or represent these conditions in a meaningful way. But it can acknowledge them by adjusting its own tools—how it reads context, how it defines priorities, and how it understands use over time. In that sense, the most relevant contribution is probably not symbolic, but operational: working with existing structures, with limited resources, with adaptability and reuse, and accepting that many of these situations require architecture to be less about permanence and more about contingency. There is also a responsibility to avoid aestheticising crisis. When extreme conditions become too easily translated into form or narrative, there is a risk of simplifying something that is in reality complex and unresolved. So the challenge is not only how to respond, but how to avoid turning these realities into representations that lose their depth.

Ultimately, we think architects and artists can contribute, but only if they are willing to question the stability of the very concepts they use.

All photos, Casa Balma Murada, Mediterranean Coast, in collaboration with Nora Batlle
© Rory Gardiner

Ethical dilemmas

Ethical questions rarely appear as a single, clear “moment of conflict” in our projects; they tend to emerge gradually, through accumulated small decisions that affect budget, materials, or the way a space will eventually be used.

One recurring situation is when there is a tension between client expectations for a certain level of finish, image or immediacy, and what the context itself is already offering. In several of our projects working with existing structures, for instance in industrial buildings in Poblenou, the most responsible decision has often been to preserve much more than initially expected, or to reduce intervention even when there was pressure to “refresh” or standardise the space. That requires negotiation, because it affects not only aesthetics but also cost, timelines, and perception of value. In those moments, we usually try to bring the discussion back to what is already there—structurally, materially, historically—and whether the intervention is truly necessary or simply expected. This is where listening becomes essential, both to the client and to the site itself.

Often, when the reasoning is clear and consistent, it becomes possible to align different interests without framing it as a conflict of values, but rather as a shared understanding of priorities. We don’t see ethics as something separate from design decisions. It is embedded in them: in how much you build, what you reuse, what you decide not to change, and how you balance short-term demands with long- term impact.

The challenge is not so much to resolve a contradiction, but to keep those questions active throughout the process without letting them be reduced to a single compromise at the beginning or the end of the project.

Architecture & Ideology

We think it is difficult to separate architecture from ideology, because every project inevitably operates within systems of power—whether economic, political, or cultural. Even when the intention is not explicit, decisions about land, access, material, or program always participate in shaping certain narratives about who a space is for and how it is used.

At the same time, we are cautious about framing architecture a something that can fully “resolve” or directly oppose these frameworks from within. There is often a contradiction between working inside existing systems—clients, regulations, infrastructures—and trying to critically question them. That tension is not something that can be easily solved, but rather something that needs to remain visible throughout the process.

In our practice, the way we approach this is less through explicit narrative or ideological positioning, and more through the design attitude itself. Working with existing structures, prioritising adaptability, or avoiding unnecessary imposition can already shift the way a project participates i its context. In places like Poblenou, for example, reusing industria structures is not just a formal decision, but also a way of engaging with the history and identity of a place without erasing it.

We also think that subtlety is important here. Architecture does not always need to announce its critical position in order to be meaningful. Sometimes the most relevant work happens at the level of restraint—what is not changed, what is left open, or how a space allows different uses over time.So yes, architects inevitably operate within ideological systems, but we are not sure the goal is to resolve that contradiction. Perhaps the more relevant task is to remain aware of it, and to work in a way that keeps space for ambiguity, use, and reinterpretation rather than closing them down.

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Architecture as an open-ended form of research

We do agree with the idea that architecture can be understood as an open-ended form of research, but with an important nuance: we don’t see the initial “thesis” as something that fully determines the outcome of a project. In our experience, it is rarely possible—or even desirable—to predict the final result in a linear way.

What usually happens is that the project evolves through a continuous negotiation between intention, context, and constraints. The initial idea often serves more as a starting hypothesis than as a fixed direction. As the project develops, especially through technical resolution, material decisions, or client interaction, that hypothesis is constantly adjusted. In many cases, the most meaningful outcomes come precisely from these deviations rather than from strict continuity. Because of that, we don’t measure alignment with the initial intention in a rigid way. Instead, we try to assess coherence: whether the project maintains a consistent internal logic between its context, its use, and its material and spatial decisions. That coherence is more important to us than fidelity to an initial concept. In terms of impact—on people and the environment—we try to evaluate it at multiple moments rather than only at the end. During design, through decisions about reuse, structure, and energy logic; during construction, through material and execution choices; and after completion, by observing how spaces are actually inhabited over time. This last part is especially important, because it often reveals uses and behaviours that were not anticipated but that define the real life of the project.

So rather than seeing architecture as the execution of a predefined thesis, we understand it as a process where intention and outcome are in constant dialogue, and where adaptability is not a deviation from the project, but part of its logic from the beginning..

Casa IV, Barcelona, Spain © Teddy Iborra

Artificial Intelligence

We are using digital tools in a very pragmatic way, and AI or generative systems are part of that broader ecosystem, although not in a central or defining role in our design process. When we use them, it is usually as an exploratory instrument rather than as a decision-making authority.

In some early-stage phases, these tools can be useful to test variations, spatial logics, or material behaviours faster than traditional methods allow. They can expand the range of possibilities, especially when dealing with complex geometries or large datasets. But we still consider these outputs as raw material, not as design solutions.The main question that guides their use for us is not “what can the tool generate?”, but rather “what is still dependent on human interpretation, context, and judgement?”. In other words, where does authorship and responsibility remain necessary in the process.

At the same time, we are aware of the risks. One of the main concerns is the potential homogenisation of architectural thinking—where tools trained on existing datasets might reinforce already dominant aesthetics, logics, or ways of building. There is also a risk of disconnection from context, if design decisions become too mediated by systems that are not grounded in the specificity of a place or program. So for us, the challenge is not whether to use these tools or not, but how to ensure that they remain subordinate to a critical reading of context, rather than replacing it. Used carefully, they can expand possibilities; used uncritically, they can flatten them.

Year 2025

We are cautious about projecting architecture too far into a speculative future, especially one framed by failure, because it can easily become abstract or detached from the realities that are already unfolding today.
In many ways, the conditions you describe are not only future scenarios—they are present realities in different degrees across the world.

If we think about 2050 through that lens, architecture will probably be less about producing new objects and more about managing, adapting, and reusing what already exists. The focus will likely shift even further toward transformation rather than expansion: reconfiguring infrastructures, working with scarcity, and extending the life of buildings and materials. In that sense, the discipline may become less about construction as a starting point and more about maintenance, repair, and reprogramming.

We also think the role of practitioners will become more grounded and less iconic. Rather than shaping singular visions of the future, architects may need to operate within constraints that are increasingly non-negotiable—climate, resources, and social pressure—while still trying to preserve a degree of spatial and cultural quality. That requires a different kind of authorship, one that is more distributed and less centred on form-making as an isolated act.

At the same time, there is still space for optimism in how cities and territories can be rethought under pressure. Historically, moments of constraint have also generated new forms of intelligence in architecture— new ways of building, sharing, and inhabiting space. The challenge is to avoid nostalgia or resignation, and instead remain attentive to how those conditions can produce new forms of adaptability. So rather than a fixed image of 2050, we see a field of continuous negotiation, where architecture becomes less about projecting certainty and more about working responsibly within uncertainty.

Missing Conversations in Architecture

We are not sure there is a specific set of “missing questions”, but we do think there are certain conversations that architecture tends to avoid or simplify too quickly. One of them is less about what architecture produces and more about what it maintains over time. We often talk about design, intention or form, but less about what happens to buildings after they are completed—how they are used, adapted, or sometimes quietly transformed in ways that were never planned. That long-term life of architecture feels under-discussed compared to the moment of design or completion.Another conversation that feels increasingly relevant is the relationship between construction and reduction.

A lot of architectural discourse still assumes that making more is the default condition, even when the context might actually require less intervention, more reuse, or simply different forms of occupation. We think there is still space to question that assumption more directly.

We also notice that discussions about context are often treated as a starting point, but not always as an ongoing responsibility. Understanding a place is not something that happens only at the beginning of a project—it should continue to inform decisions throughout its entire development. So perhaps the question we would pass on is not a single one, but a shift in focus:

how do we evaluate architecture not only at the moment it is conceived or built, but through its duration, its adjustments, and its capacity to remain meaningful over time?

Mesura in conversation with PFAALL Magazine.

Independent publication on architecture, ecology, technology and contemporary culture.
2026 PFAALL MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Edited and published by Adrián Labaut
Madrid, Spain.

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Independent publication on architecture, ecology, technology and contemporary culture. Madrid, Spain. 2026 PFAALL MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Edited and published by Adrián Labaut ISSN 3127-5427

↑

Independent publication on architecture, ecology, technology and contemporary culture.
Madrid, Spain. 2026 PFAALL MAGAZINE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Edited and published by Adrián Labaut
ISSN 3127-5427