In conversation with architect Andrew Borg Wirth

Can you tell us about how you first became interested in architecture and how that interest evolved into your wider creative practice?

I was always set on becoming an architect. I was culturally and aesthetically drawn to the field, though I knew that structurally and physically, it would be more challenging for me. That tension actually became an important foundation for my practice, as architectural education demands a great deal of thinking, theory, and writing. My practice still incorporates all of that today.

I was always inclined towards the arts and creative work, though I wasn’t sure how that would manifest. I enjoyed art school – I even did art at A Level—but I wasn’t a painter. I could draw, but it clearly wasn’t my calling. Architecture gave me grounding.

I’ve always approached things spatially, though I think I only recognised that fully towards the end of my time at San Anton. That’s when I realised, I had to make a decision. I loved the challenge of study, and I was drawn to subjects that pushed me. Maths was a favourite; physics less so. I pursued art for the passion. Those three subjects made it clear that architecture could work for me, at least as a course of study. I was also inspired by creative individuals I admired, often discovering that they had studied architecture. It reinforced the idea that architecture could serve as a broad, open-ended platform.

What’s been the greatest challenge you’ve faced in your career so far, and how did you navigate it?

The greatest challenge—though it's become a bit of a cliché to say—was undoubtedly COVID. I try not to dwell on it too much, but it truly was the biggest setback. After graduating, I decided not to seek traditional employment. I was focused on building my own practice, and just as I found my footing, everything collapsed. Culture, unfortunately, is one of the first things to suffer in times of economic or social crisis.

That period was psychologically difficult. I’d thrown myself in wholeheartedly, with a promising start, only to see it fall apart. But it gave me a strong sense of resilience. I realised that working independently would always be tough, and I needed a system—a kind of diversification—to fall back on. Multiple strands, so that if one failed, others would support me.

There were also internal struggles: Will I have work? Is my career progressing at the same rate as my peers’? What exactly is my practice about? My work is quite liminal, and I was obsessed with defining myself—something I now see as far less important.

Today, I’ve been a curator, a creative director, an architect. Sometimes, I work in communications and strategy. I collaborate with brands, NGOs, and organisations. They’ve included the church and national bodies, but also individuals and independent practitioners.. Understanding that I didn’t need to be defined by a single label was a huge shift. That realisation eventually became, ironically, a bit of a brand.

Rather than fitting into a role, I try explore how I can bring value to a wide range of contexts. From a theatre to an opera house, from corporate spaces to homes, from exhibitions to site-specific interventions—I think we have the chance to apply ourselves broadly. That understanding was a major breakthrough, and it revealed the true breadth of my practice.

How do your different roles—curator, architect, creative director—complement one another in your work?

My curatorial and architectural practices absolutely complement one another. I consider myself lucky to think spatially first—my starting point is always the experience I'm constructing. Conceptually, it’s crucial for me to build strong foundations that are creative, theoretical, and future-focused. I’m not an art historian, so I work closely with them. Alongside the conceptual framework and values of a project, I immediately begin thinking in spatial terms: how we inhabit space, how the body moves through a set design, a shop, or an exhibition.

My curatorial work is highly architectural. I’ve explored exhibition design in my own curated shows, as well as in exhibitions I’ve designed for others. Last year, for instance, I collaborated with Justine Balzan Demajo on a project for Atlas Insurance—an art historical exhibition I co-designed with Tracey Sammut. This year, I worked as associate curator on Paul Scerri’s solo exhibition ‘The Sound of You Dreaming’, which Gabriel Zammit was the curator of. There, I played a deeply curatorial role—researching, writing, interviewing. I brought in an exhibition designer, and our curatorial narrative shaped Tracey’s design.

Everything is interwoven. With artist Tina Mifsud, I’ve worked on highly architectural, site-specific exhibitions. We once transformed an abandoned showroom in Qormi into an intimate portrait space. At the Malta Chamber of Commerce, we created a contrasting environment—almost a jungle-like oasis within a highly formal setting. For the project Crux, we intervened in a domestic remissa in Birkirkara, using light to develop an immersive architectural experience. To do all of this, collaboration is essential. My work is both collaborative and interdisciplinary—those are the two strongest pillars, and greatest privileges of my practice.

I bring in different teams for each project—art historians, writers, technical experts. I’ve collaborated with engineers, coders, and light specialists. I always encourage solo artists to include responses from others in their shows—it opens up the conversation.

Because I’m an architect who curates, a set designer who’s worked in retail, theatre, dance and opera, someone who’s dabbled in music videos and television—I find it exciting to accept      all sorts of briefs. I love the variety.

What are your thoughts on the current state of Maltese architecture, particularly in relation to sustainability and cultural heritage?

When it comes to our built environment, I’m interested in a prospective politics — one that acknowledges where we are, understands what we need, and asks where we might go next.

In an exhibition I curated in 2023, Experiments in Entropy, I invited ten architects I studied with at university to create contemporary art installations that explored the current state of architecture and its role in society. Many of them had never exhibited in a contemporary art context before, and I encouraged them to reflect on entropy — the idea that systems tend to break down, to lose energy over time. It was a way to open up a conversation about architecture as something that is always in flux, always responding to decay, change, and uncertainty.

For me, this was not just an artistic inquiry, but also an environmental and political one. I’m not anti-development, but I am deeply interested in fostering a new consciousness — and caution — in how we think about space, architecture, and urbanism. That carries through into University workshops I deliver each year from October to January, where together with other staff at the faculty, we bring these questions into the design studio. It’s where my environmental and political perspectives are most present — where I try to create a space for students to think critically, prospectively.

What will the next generation do? How can we be more sensitive in our approach? What do we value, and what do we reject? What deserves preservation, and what is simply indefensible?

One of the biggest issues we repeatedly discuss  is rampant construction — real estate development that lacks architectural thought, vision, or respect for context. There’s an overwhelming absence of architecture, a void where intention and care should be. I’m especially concerned about the disregard for Malta’s modernist period. We’ve lost so much, and what remains is under constant threat from unchecked urban sprawl.

Recently, I worked on a project called ‘Silence Within Abundant Birdsong’, an exhibition by the Archbishop's Delegate for Culture investigating the significance of  the Church in Manikata by Prof. Richard England. Manikata was once a quiet, landscape-embedded village. Today, the church is increasingly surrounded by blocks of flats. That transformation says a lot about where we are — and where we’re headed, if we’re not careful.

So, whilst I am critical on the state of our built environment, I am not defeatist. This is not to be confused with toxic positivity—across all issues, and as a widespread attitude which I find dangerous—but I do retain hope.      

This is where I place myself: in a space that’s politically engaged, environmentally conscious, and always pushing toward thoughtful, forward-looking dialogue.

What kind of architectural culture do you think Malta needs to develop in order to move forward?

First, we need to have more contemporary architecture to call our own. Right now, much of what we are seeing is a culture of extrusion — generic forms with little thought, where architecture is almost entirely absent.

But the dialogue between historical architecture and the contemporary doesn’t have to be difficult. It can be natural — even exciting — when we foster a culture of architects who both understand what we’ve inherited and are eager to contribute to that lineage. That’s how a zeitgeist is formed — not by freezing heritage in time, but by engaging with it, building upon and alongside it, and keeping it alive through new work.

You don’t preserve heritage by simply framing it or treating it like a relic. You preserve it by creating something that speaks to it — something that lives in conversation with it. That’s one of the reasons I was excited to collaborate with Anthony Bonnici on URNA. Anthony is exploring a new kind of monumentality — one that acknowledges the richness of Malta’s      architectural heritage but also pushes toward a language that feels genuinely ours. That’s incredibly compelling to me. Bridging what we have with what we can create — there’s so much potential in that.

At the same time, I think we desperately need a better conversation between the economic drivers of construction in Malta and the cultural stewards of the built environment. That’s the biggest gap right now. We operate under the assumption that making money through architecture means destroying, compromising, or erasing what exists. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Profit and cultural value don’t need to be at odds — we just haven’t built the frameworks for them to coexist yet.

Is there an appetite for this kind of progressive thinking among your students? How do you approach that in your workshops?

There is definitely an appetite, but it often takes time to surface. I am excited by workshop briefs that come across as quite radical, challenging the foundational thinking around architecture. When we begin, there's often confusion about how what we are discussing      relates to architecture at all. But eventually it settles. Students take time to reflect, and they start to see that with greater consciousness, architecture can—and must—be cultural.

They begin to identify the problems of our time, to critique them, and eventually to become prospective. That shift doesn’t happen instantly, but it does happen. It's not something they arrive with—it’s something the workshop cultivates. I don't do it alone; together with other creatives we challenge the students to question the role of the architect. We ask: how can we cross over disciplines? How do we read, interpret, and also envision the future?

I like to draw a distinction between brand culture and cultured brands. Brand culture is internal—it’s about how people work together. But if it’s insular, it risks becoming disconnected from contemporary thinking. A cultured brand, on the other hand, engages with the outside world. It welcomes critique and new ideas, no matter where in the hierarchy they come from.

This is something we build into the architecture workshop as well. Every week, students create work, and every Monday they are assigned to critically review a peer’s project. And by “critical,” I don’t mean sharing what you like. I always ask them to start with what didn’t work—what failed, what could be pushed further. That’s where the learning happens.

What was the thinking behind the URNA project, and what drew you to work with cremation as a theme?

I’ve been fascinated by the introduction of cremation in Malta, and what that shift could mean culturally. I didn’t think it should      become just another economic opportunity that’s poorly executed or visually hollow. I wanted to create something meaningful—something that speaks to how we remember, how we monumentalise, and how we relate to death.

That’s how URNA was born: from the desire to create a proposal that was culturally rich, economically viable, but most importantly, conceptually grounded. I approached Anthony Bonnici     , whose architectural practice is deeply interested in monumentality. We were both excited by the idea of using Maltese stone and traditional materials in a contemporary way and were joined by Thomas Mifsud, an architect who is part of his firm.    

We collaborated with Matthew Attard Navarro in London, whose studio is known for bold art direction. Together, we built a multinational team that included architect Tanil Raif, filmmaker Stephanie Sant, and photographer Anne Immelé. The result was something that sits between radical reality and speculative fantasy.

Can you tell us why you decided to use the sphere, to represent your vision?

The shape of the sphere was central. It has no beginning or end. It’s a universal, cross-cultural symbol of perfection and continuity. Each layer of the sphere is made of reconstituted limestone —a product made by our main partners Halmann Vella—  that includes the ashes of a person. As more people are added, more layer’s form—until a complete sphere emerges. It's a memorial not to an individual, but to a community. Death becomes collective, rather than individualised by names, portraits, or personal decor.

We also created a film as part of the project, which imagined the ritual of becoming part of URNA; and have a photo essay investigating stone and funerary landscapes, faces and bodies.      It gave us space to be poetic, even surreal. The final installation will sit somewhere between the documentary and the mythical—and I think that’s what made it powerful.

When you work in large collaborative teams, how do you ensure that each contributor feels represented in the final outcome?

I’ve never had an issue with a team member saying, “this doesn’t represent me.” That’s because from the start, my process is collaborative and discursive. Everyone has their role, their moment to shape something, but there’s always a loop of feedback and reflection.

Take Stephanie, who made the URNA film. She built her script independently, but brought it to the team for review. She took on 70–80% of the feedback, and then let us know where she wanted to hold her ground. That kind of dialogue creates empowerment, not hierarchy.

My job as a curator is not to create the object—it’s to build the team and the culture that makes the object possible. If someone’s idea doesn’t make it into the final project, the fact that it shaped our thinking is still a meaningful contribution.

The best example of this was ‘Frank u Jien’a highly collaborative performed      art installation I curated investigating the archives of modernist artist Frank Portelli. Ten artists came together—none of whom had worked with each other in this way before—and we created something layered and unified. Projection mapped onto choreography, which responded to writing, which drew from art history. No one owned the outcome—but everyone helped build it. That’s the kind of environment I always try to create.

Finally, what do you hope URNA will contribute to public discourse in Malta—especially given how radical it is in both form and concept?

My hope for URNA is, first and foremost, that it shifts how we think about the landscape. Even if people don’t engage with the cremation aspect, I want them to see that public art can be more than decorative or commemorative. It can be bold, conceptual, and deeply integrated into its context.

Politically, I hope it sparks conversation. And it already has—just by saying the word “cremation,” we've had responses from ministers, commissioners, developers, and everyday people who’ve never interacted with contemporary art. That’s powerful. Our communication strategy was deliberately multi-layered. We wanted URNA to speak on many levels: conceptually, psychologically, architecturally, and aesthetically. Even if someone doesn't understand every layer, they can still be moved by the form, the idea, the ritual.

We also ran a 10-day intensive workshop at the university, where we gave students the URNA concept and asked them to adapt it for other cultures. They produced remarkable work—thoughtful, poetic responses that explored how different societies can memorialise in new ways. That’s the kind of impact we’re after.

I know I can’t change how cemeteries are built overnight. But showing people that it's possible to imagine differently—that’s a huge step forward. We need more radical projects like URNA, and we need more ambitious international platforms where these ideas can live. Malta deserves a place in those global conversations—and there is most definitely the talent here to take us there.

The URNA project will be heading to the London Design Biennale at Somerset House from 5 to 29 June 2025. URNA is commissioned by Arts Council Malta and made possible through support from Halmann Vella, Gasan Foundation, Embassy of France in Malta, Malta Enterprise, Deloitte Foundation, Visit Malta, KM Malta Airlines and all other partners.