Emre Arolat, Emre Arolat Architecture: “In the period when the phenomenon of sustainability emerged, the definition of luxury has also slightly changed”
Emre Arolat (1963, Turkey) comes from a family of architects. Surrounded by blueprints and sketches from a young age, he always knew that his path lay in combining art with technical knowledge to give shape to the ideas he created in his mind. After completing his degree and spending 17 years working at his parents’ studio, he founded Emre Arolat Architecture together with Gonca Paşolar in 2004. This firm has allowed him to become one of the most renowned names in contemporary architecture in Turkey.
His success lies in a commitment to designing buildings that speak for themselves, reflecting the history and traditions of the place where they stand. Focused on the connection between the divine and the human, one of his most outstanding works is the Sancaklar Mosque, winner in the religious buildings category of the World Architecture Festival (WAF) and nominated to the Mies Van der Rohe in 2015. In addition to his many prestigious projects, Arolat has managed to set a precedent among the young talents of his country, teaching at some of the most important universities around the world.
In addition to having taught at the prestigious Yale University and being a professor at the International Academy of Architecture, every year your studio welcomes young architects who are looking for a first experience in the sector. Do you think there is something missing in the training of new talents?
I think it’s important to emphasize that my generation of architects grew up in an analogue world. Back then, academic life was all about learning in depth, interpreting ideas thoughtfully, and using your hands to bring them to life. That connection between the hand, the heart and the mind has always felt like a kind of magic to me—a way of thinking in itself. Of course, things are different now. With the rise of digital tools that has come into our world, especially AI, the entire landscape has shifted. These will definitely be influential in the future of architecture.
In fact, there is still a problem between practice and academia that seemed to be a common problem in my time as a student and still continues to be a problem today. Both academia and teaching professionals should pay attention to this. There is quite some distance between academia and practice in the developed world, and young architects tend to struggle when starting in practice for the first time. It’s important to keep learning while defining your skills but also preparing yourself constantly for the reality of industry.
I think this is the biggest shortcoming – except for some specific universities that integrate a lot of internships within their programme. Being prepared for these changes may not be the students job anymore in this current reality.
One of your most iconic works is the Sancaklar Mosque, winner of the religious buildings category of the World Architecture Festival (WAF) awards. You have said in previous interviews that this work allowed you to distance yourself from current debates in architecture and focus on the essence of space. How was this reflected in the design?
When designing a contemporary mosque in Turkey, one of the primary challenges is confronting the classical Ottoman Mosque typology. Originally developed with a strong sense of structural logic and architectural refinement, this form is often replicated today without adapting to contemporary building technologies. As a result, it has become a hollow anachronism—stripped of its original meaning but still laden with symbolic weight.
Yet, despite these formal associations, we know that the mosque as a building typology does not have a singular, prescribed form. On the contrary, mosques have historically taken on diverse expressions shaped by different cultures, each offering a unique spatial interpretation of the essential ritual of prayer.
In the design of the Sancaklar Mosque, our priority was to pursue this essence. Rather than adopting a formal architectural language, we focused on enhancing the physical and spatial experience of prayer. The result is a space where form recedes into the background—free from cultural symbolism—allowing light and material to speak in their purest forms.
The mosque is located near a busy road and surrounded by suburbs of Istanbul. On the contrary, inside it there is a sense of tranquillity that seeks to facilitate the approach to the divine through prayer. Did you try to represent the coexistence of urban life and spiritual life with this project?
You could say this project really questions the typical, formal approach we often see in religious architecture in Turkey. One of the key points we focused on was how the building relates to its surroundings. It doesn’t immediately reveal itself as you approach from the road above—that was very intentional. What you see at first is just a garden, enclosed by low, horizontal walls, and a vertical stone structure. That vertical element is like a quiet signal—it tells you there’s something meaningful here. As you get closer, you start to notice the calligraphy on it, and that’s when it becomes clearer that this is a place of worship. From the garden above, there’s also a beautiful view of Büyükçekmece Lake, which adds to the calm, reflective atmosphere we were aiming for.
When you enter, of course, you break away from the surroundings a little more. It’s a place where you can be alone with the creator, a kind of meditation space. In fact, we think that it’s important for the interior space to give this kind of meaning – throughout the project and the design, we think that we have reached such a point.
This is a place where the user can return to his inner world, a place where they can get rid of the chaos and face such a place. In this context, instead of saying urban life and spiritual life, you could say daily experiences transition into this inner world.
We all know that factories aren’t exactly known for being the most comfortable or humane places to work. They're usually tough environments where workers spend long, exhausting hours—often in less-than-ideal conditions".
Another of your best-known projects is the Ipekyol textile factory, where you brought together workers and administrators in one building and included recreational areas for employees. Was this a way for you to humanize the workplace?
We all know that factories aren’t exactly known for being the most comfortable or humane places to work. They're usually tough environments where workers spend long, exhausting hours—often in less-than-ideal conditions. So, when I read in a magazine article that the workers at Ipekyol’s factory supposedly loved the building so much they didn’t even want to go home, I was honestly shocked. I just can’t wrap my head around that idea—no matter how well a space is designed, I don’t believe any factory should make people want to stay there instead of going home. That’s not something we should romanticize.
We live in a world shaped by capital and social issues that can't be ignored. However, I really do believe that architecture—and architects—should engage with those realities instead of pretending they don't exist. No, a building alone can’t fix every injustice. But I do think thoughtful design can still bring a little bit of light to the places it touches.
When Yalçın Ayaydın, the owner of Ipekyol, came to me about designing a new factory in Edirne, I was upfront with him. I told him I hadn’t done a factory project of that scale before—just some small renovations here and there. And to be honest, most of the factories I’d seen reminded me of prisons where people just happened to be producing things. But Yalçın Bey didn’t flinch. He didn’t say, “Okay, never mind.” Instead, he said, “Then design me the perfect factory. One that could even be a model in Europe. Not only should it not look like a prison, but it should be a place where people actually feel good working.”
That kind of trust from a client means a lot. And not just the trust itself, but the way it’s expressed—that unspoken confidence. I really believe that kind of mutual understanding is essential for a good process and a successful result. Sure, it gives you freedom, but it also puts a big responsibility on your shoulders. It’s heavy—but in the best way. And as the project moves forward and things start to come together, that weight starts to lift and gets replaced with joy. That’s exactly what happened with the Ipekyol Factory, which eventually won one of the world’s most respected architecture awards. We went to receive the award together, Yalçın and I.
You asked about humanizing the workplace. Employees of the Ipekyol Factory feel, at least to some degree, better than workers in most other factories. They’re not trapped in stuffy, airless boxes. Instead, they’re in bright, high-ceiling spaces filled with natural light and fresh circulating air. They’re not divided by closed doors or invisible class boundaries. The design just doesn’t allow for that kind of separation—it’s open, it’s transparent. In a way this allows for us to see everyone at an equal level, or should I say – a human level. There’s no room for bureaucracy, not there anyway.
Emre Arolat Architecture has also designed residential projects such as Kempinski Residences Nef Reserve Gölköy, in which you used some of Cortizo’s architectural systems. How do you manage to connect the inside of the home with the surrounding space? What role did our systems play in this project?
The design process of the Gölköy Houses was guided primarily by the distinctive features of their setting and the intention to establish a sensitive relationship with the land—particularly by preserving mature trees, rich rock formations, and the site's unique topography.
Each structure was conceived to blend harmoniously into the natural environment rather than stand out when viewed from the sea. The lower levels were designed as platforms carefully nestled into the natural voids of the terrain, precisely following the contours of the land. Often housing the living areas, these levels were meant to integrate organically with the landscape, eventually becoming almost indistinguishable from the surrounding natural fabric.
In contrast, the upper levels were envisioned as a composition of distinct, prismatic volumes inspired by Mediterranean vernacular architecture. Though more defined in form, these masses maintain a fragmented language that continues the feeling of immersing yourself in nature blurring the division between indoor and outdoor.
Here, in fact, in these geographies, these climates, the subject is not only internal and external but both at the same time. The relationship between these two areas that is, the relationship between the external use area and the internal use area is more tense than in other climates. From time to time all of these systems, especially the sliding door systems that we use in this project have a special function.
Thanks to these designs, a large number of glasses have been shifted and brought on top of each other and therefore sometimes the whole corner, not just one surface, but even two surfaces have been made into a system in which the corner is completely opened. This is also beneficial for the relationship that this structure should establish, this was achieved with Cortizo’s sliding glass systems. We can say that these systems can be opened easily, the user of the house whether it be a child or adult, can easily handle it. But at the same time, having large openings is actually a paradox. What happens is that you have to slide those large panels. This can only be done with technical skills. For it to be both large in size and easy to slide, this technique needs to be solved well. The systems preferred in Kempinski Residences Nef Gölköy have a refined technical detail that not only can support such complexities in design but also create a user-friendly end product.
In Kempinski Residences Nef Reserve Gölköy project you managed to create a luxurious atmosphere while respecting the natural beauty of the environment. Do you think that sustainability has changed the concept of luxury housing in recent years?
In the period when the phenomenon of sustainability emerged, the definition of luxury has also slightly changed. Luxury used to be more decorative, more ornamented. There is a difference between what we call luxury around 25 years ago, and what we think of as luxury today.
The latest aspect about this is, especially in recent times, in terms of energy use, the story of a well-resolved structure in terms of passive design, can also be called luxury. In other words, there is a relationship between those definitions which is both sustainable and luxurious, as it was not many years ago.
Another of your outstanding residential projects is Yalikavak Elements, a complex of 23 homes in which Cortizo systems are also present. What keys do you use to turn a building into a home?
The building is located on a hill in Gökçebel, Yalıkavak in Bodrum – a bay on Turkey’s Aegean coast – when viewed in the late afternoon, when the sun is shining from the front and reflecting off of the glass – if you squint your eyes, it almost looks as if that space is empty. Although there are several buildings around, the area where the structure sits appears untouched, as if nothing has been built there. In that sense, the building blends perfectly into the terrain. It does exactly what it should – it becomes a part of the landscape.
There is another layer to this. The design seems to follow the natural topography, almost as if it’s being guided by the contours of the land. That’s a key aspect of the project – additionally I think one of the most important concepts here is scale. More specifically, human scale.
To achieve this, fragmentation becomes crucial. Instead of having look alike large scale structures, each unit was designed with a tailored-fit approach and each of them is broken down into smaller parts, which in turn create surprising spatial experiences. For instance, in one area there’s a rock, and the building shapes itself around it. That particular space with the rock turns into a courtyard on its own. Around this courtyard there might be a bedroom and a bathroom – together they form a kind of composition.
So, through this approach – scale and fragmentation – the architecture doesn’t produce a building, it creates a home. Nonetheless, we can say that ultimately a home is created by the user, architecture can only provide a base, a grounding for someone to call home.
Yalikavak is becoming an increasingly popular holiday destination. What does an architect have to do to add differential value to the client experience?
No matter how popular a holiday destination, a place becomes, as architects, we believe there is value in not altering its character – its genius loci, so to speak. So, Yalıkavak Elements has certain topographical and natural characteristics that distinguish it from other parts of Bodrum. Even though its not a heavily forested area – in many parts there are rocks – that specific coloration that comes from the maquis vegetation is present throughout the design.
So, as architects, no matter how much density we’re adding – and we are indeed adding density – even so, it’s important to design something that preserves the specific features of the land or the topography. That’s the role of architects — to enhance the client’s experience.
Your architecture firm has offices in London and Istanbul. Has this geographical diversification influenced your way of creating?
Every region has its own challenges. For example, in places that may seem open and cosmopolitan at first glance, you only begin to understand certain rigidities and structural issues once you're actively involved in their systems. While this may affect some aspects of our initial design process, we still very much incorporate and emphasize the EAA design philosophy of context.
I can say that every new project that comes onto our agenda involves a process of understanding, learning, and internalising for the design team within the office. It is crucial to uncover the distinguishing features of each project, evaluate the context in all its dimensions, and generate specific questions to develop tailored solutions for each new situation. I wouldn’t be wrong to say that this process is often quite demanding and arduous for us.
At EAA, the intellectual framework is shaped through extensive research, reading, and discussion, and then carefully materialised in the next phase. Especially with an emphasis on context, without analysing the context of a project and its site, you cannot create something specialised in its space.
This is how we think, and wherever we are, we approach it with the same sensibility. Therefore, whether we’re designing in London or Istanbul, it doesn’t really matter. We’re working on projects all over the world — in Dubai, Kyrgyzstan, Italy etc. —we approach all of them with a similar sensitivity to context. The only thing is, while this doesn’t change our way of creating, it does bring up the issue of working within different bureaucracies.
"Architecture was everywhere at home, too. The dining table or the coffee table in the living room was always scattered with drawings, books, or magazines"
Let's end on an emotional note. You founded your studio with Gonca Paşolar, back in 2004 after having worked with your parents since the late 80s. What did you learn from them that you still use in your daily life?
Growing up in a family where everyone is an architect is a pretty unique situation. I watched my parents work side by side for years. Architecture was everywhere at home, too. The dining table or the coffee table in the living room was always scattered with drawings, books, or magazines. There was a constant flow of architect friends coming and going, and I’d overhear their conversations without really realizing how much I was soaking in.
After studying architecture and graduating, I spent a year working in the U.S., and when I came back, I joined them at Arolat Architecture and stayed there for the next seventeen years—until we eventually founded EAA. That time definitely came with its perks, but to be honest, it was also… let’s just say intense. At the same time, it was one of the most valuable learning experiences I could have had.
I’ve always believed in the importance of the master-apprentice dynamic in architecture, and for me, Arolat Architecture was exactly that—a kind of school. To answer frankly, what I learned most from them was that — no matter what profession you're in — one should have a certain intellectual and moral backbone, and never step outside of it, no matter the circumstances. That was their core principle. Even though, under today’s conditions, this can sometimes feel outdated or even a hindrance. I think this is a principle I won’t ever change.