16.02.2026

Historicism: Everything at the same time – and sometimes beautiful

Building design

Knowledge

Bird's eye view of a modern city with a river, taken by Emmanuel Appiah

Historicism: everything at the same time – and sometimes beautiful. In architecture, historicism is the chameleon of styles. It copies, quotes, mixes and recycles. Some see it as aesthetic arbitrariness, others as an opulent homage to the past. But what makes this perennial favorite so fascinating? Is historicism just an aesthetic patchwork quilt – or is there more to it than that? And why is the principle of “everything at the same time” experiencing a renaissance today when everyone is actually crying out for authenticity?

Historicism is more than just the joy of copying: it is a mirror of social identity debates.
Germany, Austria and Switzerland – three countries, three very different historicist traditions.
Digitalization and AI open up new possibilities for citation and reconstruction.
Sustainability challenges historicism: Does reconstruction make ecological sense?
Architects need technical, art-historical and social skills.
The discourse on reconstruction, stylistic freedom and the culture of remembrance is highly political – and often emotionally charged.
The global trend: neo-historicism as the answer to the crisis of modernism.
Vision or regression? Historicism is provocative – and remains relevant.

Historicism – the “copy & paste” principle and its roots

Anyone strolling through Berlin, Vienna or Zurich today will inevitably stumble across it: historicism. Façades full of columns, gables, friezes, all neatly modeled on antique or medieval buildings. A style that cannot make up its mind – and that is precisely where its strength lies. In the 19th century, when revolution and industrialization were shaking up Europe, architects reached deep into the mothballs of history. Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque – everything was sausaged, combined and reinvented. What seems like an aesthetic circus was actually an expression of an identity crisis. Society was looking for stability, roots and meaning. And architecture delivered: with borrowed forms that suggested familiarity where uncertainty prevailed. In Germany, historicism became state architecture, the Reichstag being the prime example. Austria celebrated the Ringstrasse as a stage for the monarchy, while in Switzerland the style was used to construct national myths. Historicism was never neutral. It was always political, always a statement – and never really innocent.

But even its contemporaries were divided. Critics sensed a breach of style and arbitrariness, while advocates praised the craftsmanship and the quotation as cultural memory. A closer look shows that historicism is more than just decorative wallpaper: It is about the appropriation of history, the staging of power, identity and belonging. Historicism is a mirror of social debates. And perhaps that is precisely why it is so enduring. Because the more uncertain the present, the greater the temptation to cling to the familiar – or at least to recreate it.

In technical terms, historicism was always a field of innovation. New building materials such as iron and glass were concealed behind thick façades, while industrial production enabled the serial manufacture of decorative elements. It was therefore never just a throwback, but also a leap forward – a play with the old in the service of the new. Anyone who dismisses this as mere copying is underestimating the complexity: historicism is remix culture avant la lettre. And since postmodernism and digitality at the latest, we have an inkling of how topical this principle remains.

Historicism is no longer a closed chapter. At a time when global uncertainties, identity debates and the crisis of modernity are dominating the discourse, the principle of “everything at the same time” is experiencing an astonishing renaissance. Reconstructions and citation architecture are springing up. Some are celebrating the return of beauty, others sense an aesthetic standstill. Historicism remains an irritating topic – but nobody can ignore it.

And why should they? Anyone who studies historicism learns a lot about the mechanics of memory, power and longing. About the fear of the new – and the need to stage the past. In reality, historicism is a litmus test for society: how much of the past does the present need? And how much fiction can the collective memory tolerate?

Germany, Austria, Switzerland – three variants of the same obsession

A breakdown of historicism in Germany, Austria and Switzerland reveals striking differences – with a similarly obsessive approach to the past. Germany virtually invented itself in the 19th century with historicism. Wilhelmine state architecture, the Berlin Cathedral, the Leipzig Monument to the Battle of the Nations – these are all manifestations of a striving for greatness and cultural unity. Here, historicism became the stage of the nation, a cipher for power and ambition. After 1945, this developed into a particularly complicated relationship with quotation. On the one hand, the rejection of any form of reconstruction as a vanishing point for reactionary forces; on the other, the need to restore lost identity. The debate about the Berlin Palace façade is only the most prominent example. In Germany, historicism is always a minefield of the politics of remembrance.

Austria took a more subtle approach. The Ringstrasse in Vienna is a textbook example of historicism: neo-renaissance, neo-gothic and neo-baroque are strung together like a string of pearls. But instead of national exaltation, the staging of monarchy, education and civic pride dominates. Austrian historicism is a celebration of masquerade – opulent, playful, almost ironic. In the post-war period, Vienna remained surprisingly true to the style: neo-renaissance and Wilhelminian style still characterize the cityscape today. Here, historicism is less politically charged and more part of urban identity.

Switzerland, on the other hand, used historicism to cement national coherence. The Confederation was a patchwork of languages, regions and traditions. Historicism became a stylistic staple – town halls, railroad stations, schools, all based on the principle: we are getting the history we lack. In Zurich, Bern and Lucerne, hybrid architecture was created in which local and international models were mixed. After 1945, however, disillusionment set in: Switzerland discovered its love of functionalism and alpine modernism. But the longing for the historic flares up again and again – at the latest when it comes to preserving the national heritage.

What all three countries have in common is their fundamental ambivalence towards historicism. It is an expression of pride and uncertainty, of longing and skepticism. Reconstruction projects such as the Berlin Palace, Frankfurt’s Old Town or Vienna’s Palais Schwarzenberg still polarize people today. Some see them as a way of creating identity, others see them as a capitulation to the complexity of the present. And yet the pressure is growing: the demand for reconstruction, for “lost beauty”, remains high – not least because modernism is perceived as cold and abstract in many places. Historicism is the consolation of a society that longs for home – and seeks it in the past.

At the same time, historicism is a field of experimentation for digital innovation: in all three countries, architects are now using 3D scanning, AI-based style analysis and parametric production to reinterpret historical forms. Contemporary historicism is a hybrid of craftsmanship, high-tech and narrative. Anyone building in a historicist style today must not only be able to quote, but also to construct, argue and communicate.

Digitalization and AI: the quotation construction kit 2.0

Anyone who believes that historicism only lives from copyists and traditionalists is underestimating the explosive power of digitalization. With 3D scanners, building information modeling and artificial intelligence, the citation kit is suddenly infinitely large – and infinitely precise. Architects scan façades, reconstruct destroyed ornaments and generate variants using algorithms. The difference to the past is that it is no longer the artist who decides, but the data model. What sounds like a blessing harbors risks. Because AI systems reproduce prejudices, algorithmic patterns and a certain arbitrariness. In the worst-case scenario, the new historicism could turn into an endless loop of pastiche and simulation – without any depth of content. The question is: how much authenticity can digital historicism generate at all?

Technically, developments are rapid. In Munich, the destroyed city gate was reconstructed with the help of point clouds and historical photographs. In Vienna, digital models of the Ringstrasse palaces are being created, and in Zurich, work is underway on the automated recording of historic roofs. BIM systems make it possible to run through variants, simulate structural interventions and even visualize material alternatives. The architect becomes the curator of a digital cabinet of curiosities. But with every click of the mouse, the question of responsibility arises: what is restored – and what remains lost? Who decides which story is told?

Digitalization is also opening up new horizons in the field of manufacturing. 3D printing enables the precise reproduction of façade parts, CNC milling machines produce ornaments in series. The boundary between craft and machine is becoming blurred. The paradox: the more perfect the digital copy, the more visible the difference to the original becomes. Historicism in the age of AI is a game of truth and fiction. In terms of building practice, this means that anyone who works historically must be able to do more than just copy. It is about context, analytical understanding and ethical judgment. Digital historicism demands architects who can confidently combine technology and content – and who are aware of their own role as storytellers.

The debate is highly topical: is the new historicism a step forward or a dead end? Does digital reconstruction make the past arbitrary – or does it open up new forms of remembering? One thing is clear: digitalization and AI make historicism more flexible, faster and more democratic. But they also make it more susceptible to abuse, commercialization and aesthetic monotony. Architecture is faced with a crucial question: how much history does the future need – and how much fiction can it tolerate?

Historicism has long since arrived in the global discourse. In China, Russia and the USA, entire city districts are being built in the style of the past – often as a simulation, as a backdrop, as a marketing tool. Europe is faced with the task of redefining its own historicism: less as a museum piece and more as a laboratory for identity, innovation and sustainability. Digitalization is both a curse and a blessing. It expands the toolbox – but it also increases the responsibility of architects.

Sustainability and memory: the difficult balancing act

Few topics divide experts as much as the relationship between historicism and sustainability. At first glance, reconstruction seems to make ecological sense: existing urban structures are preserved, gray energy is conserved, materials are recycled. But on closer inspection, the picture begins to falter. Reconstructions are often material-intensive, costly and questionable in terms of energy efficiency. If historical façades are combined with modern insulation, the result is technical compromises that neither meet the original nor contemporary standards. Historicism is therefore not a free pass for sustainability – but a complex playing field full of conflicting goals.

There is also the question of social sustainability. Historicist projects often cater to the need for exclusivity, for a “perfect world” behind historicizing facades. Gentrification, overuse for tourism and the displacement of local identities are real risks. Those who build for the beauty of the past must also consider the consequences for the present. The big challenge: how can memory be preserved without driving life out of the city? How can reconstructions become part of a lively, open city – and not just a backdrop for selfies?

Technically, the balancing act is demanding. Architects have to understand historical building materials, master building physics, know monument protection laws – and at the same time meet modern standards for energy, accessibility and flexibility of use. Historicism calls for all-rounders, not nostalgics. And for a clear ethical compass: What is still reconstruction, what is forgery? Where does remembrance end and kitsch begin? The answers to these questions are rarely clear – but they are crucial for the credibility of the profession.

An international comparison clearly shows that sustainability and historicism are not a contradiction in terms, but neither are they a matter of course. In Vienna, historic buildings are being renovated to achieve energy-plus standards. In Switzerland, old town roofs are fitted with solar panels without destroying the townscape. In Germany, the debate about renovating old buildings is more heated than ever before. Historicism is the touchstone here for the ability to intelligently combine the past and the future. Those who merely imitate miss the mark. Those who combine innovatively set standards.

The trend towards “green historicism” is unmistakable. Architects are experimenting with sustainable reconstructions, recyclable materials and low-tech solutions. Digital planning helps to run through variants, optimize life cycles and make ecological footprints visible. But the balancing act remains: Historicism is a balancing act between remembrance and renewal, between beauty and function, between longing and reality.

Visions, criticism and the end of questions of style?

In the end, the question remains: is historicism a dead end or the laboratory of the future? The criticism is well known: Historicism is backward-looking, kitschy, populist. It prevents innovation, blocks progress and cements clichés. But the reality is more complicated. Historicism has long been more than mere imitation. It is a field of experimentation for digital tools, for sustainable strategies, for new forms of remembrance. Those who build historicist buildings today can combine tradition and high-tech, craftsmanship and algorithms, beauty and function – if they do it wisely.

The debate is highly political. In Germany, the dispute is raging over reconstructions, the culture of remembrance and how to deal with one’s own history. In Austria, the beauty of the past is self-confidently celebrated, while in Switzerland new ways of combining tradition and innovation are being sought. Historicism is a projection surface for hopes and fears, for visions and resentments. The key question is: how much of the past does architecture need – and how much courage for the present?

Historicism is also a global issue. In the USA, new old towns are being built on the drawing board, European history is being simulated in China and the tsarist style is being revived in Russia. The danger: historicism as a backdrop, as a marketing product, as a substitute for identity. But the opportunity lies in the intelligent use of history: as a resource, as a mirror, as a tool for a sustainable, diverse, open city. Historicism can be a laboratory – or a dead end. The attitude of the planners is crucial.

In the digital age, the boundaries are blurring. AI-supported design processes, parametric façades and augmented reality make historicism more flexible, but also more difficult to control. Architecture is faced with a new freedom of style – and the task of using this freedom responsibly. Historicism is not an end in itself, but an offer: to understand the past as a resource. Those who understand this can draw from the full – without falling into arbitrariness.

Perhaps historicism is what architecture has always been: a mirror of society. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes quirky, sometimes overbearing – but never boring. The question of style is long dead. It’s about attitude, context, quality. And sometimes, yes sometimes, historicism is even beautiful.

Conclusion: historicism remains – and challenges us

Historicism is not an obsolete model. It is a chameleon, a trickster, a mirror of social diversity. Digitalization is making the citation kit infinitely large, while the sustainability debate is intensifying the technical and ethical requirements. Anyone who builds historically today must be able to do more than just copy. It’s about context, innovation and responsibility. In Germany, Austria and Switzerland, historicism remains a hot topic – but also a laboratory for the future. Architecture cannot escape the principle of “everything at the same time”. It must use it wisely. Because sometimes historicism is not only everything at the same time – but also surprisingly beautiful.

18.12.2024

Product

Wood – an urban material ?

Building design

Wood in the cities – there are a number of arguments in its favor. The material is CO2-neutral, has good insulating properties and is a renewable raw material. Architect and civil engineer Wolfgang Winter would design any new building out of wood. Sufficient material and the technology to build upwards are available.

Wood in the cities – there are a number of arguments in its favor. The material is CO2-neutral, has good insulating properties and is a renewable raw material. Architect and civil engineer Wolfgang Winter would design any new building out of wood. There is enough material and the technology to build upwards.

Baumeister: Mr. Winter, we are confused: on the one hand, we hear about a renaissance in timber construction, but on the other hand, timber construction in the city has declined. Which is true?
Wolfgang Winter: A stable market segment has emerged for single-family houses in Central Europe. In multi-storey construction, it is more complicated: in the 70s to 80s, i.e. after the war, there was a market share of zero. In Austria, Germany and Switzerland, state-subsidized campaigns were created at the time to accommodate the returnees from Russia – building was done with wood. These campaigns caused the market share to rise to five percent in the short term. The fact that this figure is now weakening again is due to the lack of funding. The question is: Can ecological measures that cost more than concrete construction be justified at all? This brings up the concept of affordable housing, because expensive construction is not socially sustainable. Then we just build in concrete again. From this perspective, social sustainability excludes ecological sustainability.

B: Does timber construction necessarily have to be more expensive?
W W: In the short term, yes. A cubic meter of concrete costs 50 euros. Wood, on the other hand, costs 400 euros per cubic meter. So if you replace concrete with wood in an equivalent construction project, it is more expensive. That is of course a disadvantage of wood.

B: Where does this big price difference come from?
W W: A cubic meter of tree, as it comes from the forest, costs 100 euros. The price is determined by the forester who cuts the wood and the forest owner who waits 100 years for the tree to grow. If the tree is sawn down, 50 percent is lost through the waste products. This means that a cubic meter costs 200 euros. The wood then has to be dried and glued, tempered and quality sorted. This is always a high cost for a natural product.

B: The solution?
W W: You have to build intelligently. For timber construction in the city, you need a well thought-out system and a quality-assured product. This is not possible in this DIY niche with a regional, “cute” timber construction culture. For large-scale industrial projects with 200 residential units that need to be completed within six months, you need prefabricated products. In terms of price, timber is competing with in-situ concrete poured on site. At the moment, it is still losing this battle.

B: So timber has a lot of competition. Until 1800, things were different – every building was made of wood, at least in part. When exactly did the turning point come?
W W: Until 1800, all construction was “self-build”. People built with the materials that were available on site. Carpenters and bricklayers built without architects. A big break came with industrialization. The crafts disappeared. The railroad, steel and cement arrived.

B: What’s more, in the 19th century there was simply no more wood…
W W: That’s when the laws for sustainable forestry were introduced. From the second half of the 19th century, they stipulated that if a tree was felled, two new ones had to be planted.

B: So we would have enough wood again today. And the “paperless office” will surely ensure even more wood…
W W: The paper thing is not so easy to conclude. In fact, the yields from forests have increased enormously. This is due to properly managed forests. Until the 18th century, yields were five cubic meters per hectare. With forest management, the figure climbed to 10-15 cubic meters per hectare. Due to climate change and the high CO2 content in the air, forests are becoming even more productive.

B: So we would have enough wood to theoretically build entire cities with?
W W: Yes. There is more wood growing than we need. If we wanted to, we could build every new construction project in wood.

B: How high could we build with wood?
W W: Wood has a compressive strength of 30-40 newtons, concrete also has 30 newtons. Of course, it has a lower tensile strength than steel. But this can be compensated for with a higher cross-section. And timber is still relatively light. Pure timber buildings of up to ten storeys are technically possible without any problems, even when fire protection requirements are taken into account. Fire protection is actually a question of escape routes and access and not the combustible material.

B: Especially when we’re talking about urban areas, isn’t there a great risk of fire spreading from one building to another?
W W: Every fire is started by mobile fire loads – the furniture, the curtains. Wooden buildings don’t burn any more than other buildings. Wood does not ignite more quickly, nor is the risk of a fire starting greater than with other building materials. The most important fire protection measure is the escape routes.

B: Timber construction seems to reach its limits at ten storeys. Why then want to build even higher? Shouldn’t we think about the material according to its use?
W W: The tensile forces are the problem. But you can use timber steel for that.

B: Wooden steel?
W W: When we talk about timber-steel construction – steel clad with wood – then it’s the same principle as with reinforced concrete: you have a large cross-section consisting of compression elements, in this case made of wood, and inserted flat bars or angles that absorb the tension. From a structural point of view, all skeleton structures that are currently made of reinforced concrete could be made of wood.

B: What are the biggest advantages of timber in the city?
W W: Wood is an excellent raw material that can be used to make various products. It is easy to process. It also has low thermal expansion due to its high porosity. With other materials, you have to leave more space during installation, or the adhesive has to compensate for the expansion. Wood also has good thermal insulation properties. The advantages in the city lie in building gaps and extensions. The material is light and can be lifted into urban structures by crane.

B: Another major advantage of timber in the city is the high degree of prefabrication. Does this impose restrictions on the design?
W W: I think you can design very freely with wood. Nowadays, wood is machined and glued together. Robots mill out holes and join the wood together. So you can produce parts industrially and individually.

B: No disadvantages?
W W: Of course, it’s clear that if an architect builds monolithically beforehand, this allows for different building forms and requires different thought structures than if you put together an additive system from rods. Prefabricated timber construction requires a certain level of awareness on the part of the architect. If the architect has this knowledge, however, there is certainly freedom of design. The prefabrication of timber and steel is equivalent in the construction process. But wood has a few additional advantages.

B: Sustainability, for example. However, the word is now used everywhere. Has it lost any of its strength as an argument for timber construction as a result?
W W: A lot has been smuggled into the term sustainability: architectural quality, beauty and ecology. Now we no longer talk about sustainability, we talk about resource efficiency. Timber construction itself is clearly resource-efficient. And since we change our building fabric in relatively short cycles, resource efficiency also means what the material makes possible in terms of later use. The monolithic cast construction cannot be dismantled and rebuilt elsewhere. Steel and wood are easier to recycle.

B: Do you think that in a world surrounded by technology, we are longing for a natural building material?
W W: Yes, that is certainly part of it. On the one hand, there is this useful timber construction, but it doesn’t claim to be a statement. Our urban buildings have many half-timbered structures that were subsequently clad. Today, of course, things are different. Since concrete was the building material of the 20th century, if you offer an alternative, you also have to work with a feeling: We now live in a material that is closer to nature. But that will certainly only remain a niche. Eco-awareness is a decisive factor for a maximum of 20 percent of the population. The others don’t care if they live in a concrete building.

B: You said that concrete was the dominant building material of the 20th century. Is wood the building material of the 21st century?
W W: Wood has everything it takes to become the building material of the 21st century. Concrete was the building material of the 20th century, especially in Europe. This has to do with our specific history, with the Second World War. You could argue that the population’s growing environmental awareness is the basis for wood becoming the material of the 21st century. But, of course, you have to see how strongly wood is being fought over by the forestry, paper and pellet industries. The competing players for this natural material must agree that it makes the most sense to build with wood.

Searching for clues on Slate Islands

Building design

The poetry collection "Schiefern" by Esther Kinsky explores the analogy between human memory and metamorphic rock. Photo: Suhrkamp — The poetry collection "Schiefern"

The poetry collection “Schiefern” by Esther Kinsky explores the analogy between human memory and metamorphic rock – a sensual search for the lifeless. On the map, they are small patches off the west coast of Scotland, so small that it is easy to overlook them. You have to seek them out specifically to find them. You don’t just come across […]

The poetry collection “Schiefern” by Esther Kinsky explores the analogy between human memory and metamorphic rock – a sensual search for the lifeless.

On the map, they are small spots off the west coast of Scotland, so small that it is easy to overlook them. You have to seek them out to find them. You don’t just stumble across them. The Inner Hebrides of Scotland, a group of islands at the top of the British Isles, are a popular travel destination. Those who come here long for the original, the wild, the rugged. For the salty wind that catches hair and clothes and makes them stiff. For the Atlantic, its waves crashing against the black rock. Gneiss. Granite. Basalt. Slate.

Esther Kinsky, translator and poet and 2018 for “Hain. Geländeroman” in the fiction category at the Leipzig Book Fair, has dedicated a volume of poetry to slate and the region where the sedimentary rock was mined for centuries with the simple yet telling title “Schiefern”.

The quarries on Slate Islands are still there, as are the remnants of a now defunct industry. Kinsky embarks on a voyage of discovery and wraps her observations of nature in words that are enigmatic to decipher and carry us away to the remoteness of the Inner Hebrides, to the black, raging sea, above which the reader floats like an invisible person in the mental space that Kinsky spins with her words.

It is precisely there, in this space of thought, that the analogies between something thoroughly lifeless and human can be found. There are only a few people in this three-part volume, but it is not lacking in humanity. In fact, it is quite astonishing how sensually it is possible to write about waves carrying spray and “plates with a / surface like petrified quiet waves” without slipping into kitschy romanticism.

“Nature Writing”

Nature has been tempting writers to write about it as the main protagonist since the 18th century. In Anglo-Saxon, “nature writing” is the name given to lavish literary descriptions of trees, meadows, flowers and cloudbursts. In German, the term “Naturpoesie” or “nature poetry” has become commonplace. Esther Kinsky has stood out in literature for years with such nature poetry.

In 2013, she weaved four cycles of poems about decay and growth in “Naturschutzgebiet” (Nature Reserve), based on a neglected city park. If Kinsky’s work is now categorized as “nature writing”, she is happy to contradict this. In an interview with Deutschlandfunk radio, she once said that she did not see herself in the tradition of nature writing. This term is too diffuse, too sprawling in terms of what it encompasses and what it does not. “Nature writing” can be anything, she says. So why not her latest work “Schiefern”, one might ask?

The layers of time

Early on in “Schiefern”, the word “memory” is used “as a space of absences, moved by the transparent hand of unpredictable synapses and imponderable shifts of deposits in the slowly emerging and deepening furrows and folds of the brain”. Kinsky is concerned with the layers of time that accumulate over memories. At first very gently, then more clearly, she draws linguistic parallels between human memory and the preserved history on the surface of the rocks, which the tides and times have passed by over millions of years.

The past is preserved in the stone, it only has to be read from its wrinkles, as if the stone were an old, cherished old man whose weathered face bears the traces of life. Kinsky writes of “signs without hand or foot / in the stone to which no one / knows how to make a rhyme / but the greatest possible past”.

“Schiefern” could be the modern sequel to Adalbert Stifter’s 1853 short story “Bunte Steine” and join the ranks of “Granit”, “Kalkstein” and “Turmalin”. But as treacherously idyllic as Stifter’s detailed, Biedermeier-like depictions of nature are, Kinsky’s description of the Slate Islands is just as uncharitable. The coolness of the surroundings snows through her words. There is a harshness in them that you don’t want to imagine without.

Information about the book

Esther Kinsky: Slates.
D: 24,00 Euro
A: 24,70 Euro
CH: 34.50 Swiss francs
Published: 23.03.2020
Hardcover, 103 pages
ISBN: 978-3-518-42921-1