Tenderness That Builds

 

“A developer without tenderness builds temporarily; a developer with tenderness negotiates the city’s future,” says Krzysztof Giemza, an architect by training and proxy at Echo Investment. In conversation with Marcin Szczelina, he explains why the soft category of attentiveness and empathy is increasingly becoming a hard parameter of investment. He speaks about the transformative 1990s, about how architects and investors stopped talking to each other, and about the fact that tenderness in urbanism is not a sentimental gesture but a practical tool for negotiating the city’s future.

 

 

 

Marcin Szczelina: You’re an architect, yet very early on you crossed over to the investors’ side. For many architectural purists, that’s still something “unforgivable.” Why did you decide to take that step?

Krzysztof Giemza: I started working in the early 1990s, during the time of transformation. Architecture in Poland was practically in ruins – old institutions were falling apart, and new ones had not yet been established. I wanted to design, but there was nowhere to do it. I ended up in a city office, where I learned about planning and legal mechanisms. Then I joined a large construction company, where I headed the design department. Very quickly, I realized that designing alone was not enough.

The next natural step was to collaborate with entrepreneurs who were beginning to shape the new real estate market. The word developer wasn’t even used in Poland yet. But that was precisely the moment when the industry that now shapes our cities began to emerge.

 

So it was both coincidence and consequence?

A bit of both. I saw that in order to truly influence space, one must be on the side that holds the tools and the capital. An architect can create a beautiful vision, but if there’s no investor able to carry it through, it remains in the drawer. I wanted to be where design decisions had a chance to materialize.

 

The new issue of Archisnob is devoted to tenderness in architecture. When I think of tenderness, I recall Olga Tokarczuk’s The Tender Narrator – a metaphor of attentive observation that gives the world meaning and depth. Is such a perspective close to your way of thinking about architecture and the city?

Very much so. Tokarczuk writes that the world is a fabric woven of stories, emotions, relationships, and meanings – and that metaphor resonates deeply with me. Architecture is precisely such weaving: giving meaning to spaces that shape our everyday lives. Tenderness is not weakness; it’s the ability to notice nuances, to feel empathy for people, landscapes, and history. Without it, architecture loses its soul. Tenderness turns a structure into a narrative of community rather than just a building.

 

Why, in your opinion, has the relationship between architects and investors deteriorated so much in Poland?

Architects have failed to convince investors that architecture has real value – not only aesthetic, but also social and economic. They often communicate in jargon incomprehensible to business. Investors politely nod and then do things their own way. On the other hand, many investors have come to see architecture merely as a cost. That’s not true. Good architecture can increase a project’s value and make it stand out. You can see it in the best examples – where spatial quality becomes both a marketing and economic advantage.

 

 

It’s often said that investors build “for a moment,” without thinking about long-term consequences. You speak of negotiating added value. How would you summarize that idea in one sentence?

A developer without tenderness builds temporarily; a developer with tenderness negotiates the city’s future. That sentence summarizes what my work means to me – not just Excel sheets and square meters, but the ability to hold a dialogue with the city, the architect, and its residents.

 

Can attentiveness and empathy really become parameters of investment?

Absolutely. It’s not naivety – it’s a strategy that brings long-term benefits. An investment without tenderness may pay off faster, but it rarely stands the test of time. An investment made with tenderness becomes part of the city’s fabric – and that’s the greatest capital.

 

Where does tenderness most often fall apart in practice?

At critical moments – during value engineering, when someone says: let’s give up quality glass, it’ll be cheaper. Or let’s lower the ceiling height to add more square meters. If the architect and the investor don’t share a belief that some things cannot be compromised, tenderness disappears and only spreadsheets remain. But when values are defended, what once seemed like a cost becomes a project’s strength.

 

Where do you draw the line of compromise?

Krzysztof Giemza: Where the architect loses control over the project. When decisions are made not by people responsible for space, but by calculations stripped of understanding. Negotiations are always part of the process – but if the architect ceases to be a partner and becomes merely a decorator, the discussion about quality is over.

 

Tenderness sounds beautiful, but how does it translate into everyday relations with city officials and residents?

Tenderness is dialogue. After a meeting with city officials, one can say, “They don’t understand anything – a disaster.” Or one can take the partner seriously and try to see their perspective. For instance, the city says: this spot needs a school or a park. You can ignore it and enter into conflict, or you can treat it as a challenge and integrate it into the project. That takes courage, but it’s how projects that endure – rather than merely exist – come to life.

 

You once said that talent in architecture can be corrupting. What did you mean by that?

Talent without humility and empathy becomes an instrument of ego. Then architecture produces beautiful visions that have no connection with the city’s life. I believe the most important role of the architect is to be a partner – someone who can communicate with the investor and understand that a project is not a work of art but a fragment of shared space.

 

What kind of collaboration with architects do you expect today?

Courage and partnership. I don’t expect “pretty” projects, but conscious ones. An architect should be able to negotiate – not just form, but meaning. They should understand that prefabrication or new technologies don’t have to mean giving up values. That ecological regulations are not restrictions but opportunities. I value architects who can speak the investor’s language and still defend the quality of space.

 

Can tenderness in urbanism ever “pay off”?

Yes – though often in ways we don’t expect. In the short term, investors aim to sell as quickly as possible. But in the long run, the projects built with tenderness gain the highest value. People want to live and work in them, to return to them. That translates into stability.

 

Finally – if you could leave readers with one thought about the role of investors in the city, what would it be?

I’d like us to look differently at investors – not as those who build quickly for profit, but as co-creators of the spaces we inhabit. Without tenderness, an investment is just walls and concrete, aging faster than its loans are paid off. With tenderness, a project becomes part of the city’s tissue – something people adopt, domesticate, and weave into their daily lives. A city is not an Excel sheet; it’s a community. If investors fail to listen to it, they will always build only for the moment. But if they learn to talk, negotiate, and act with empathy – then, truly, they will become co-authors of the future.