New York-based architect George Ranalli and I discussed some of the key aspects that define his architecture. “I aimed to forge a connection with history,” he remarks. Early in his career, Ranalli made pilgrimages to explore buildings by Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan, Louis Kahn, and particularly Carlo Scarpa with whom he conversed in Italian during an impactful visit to his home in Vicenza in Italy. Works by these great masters continue to inspire Ranalli. In his projects—loft renovations, boutiques, restaurants, community centres and residential buildings—he tries to emulate his heroes’ “uncanny ability to bridge history, context and innovation.” Served by a broad material palette, Saratoga Avenue Community Center in Brooklyn, completed for the New York City Housing Authority in 2010, represents a prime example of Ranalli’s ethos—expressing intricate spatial sequences and transitions that he refers to as “rhythmic opportunities,” a nod to the architect’s music career in his youth.

Ranalli was born in 1946 and grew up in the Bronx, in New York City in the family of Italian immigrants from Frosinone, an hour's drive South-East of Rome. His parents came to America in the roaring 1920s. They instilled in him a rich cultural heritage that continues to influence his perspective. As a child, Ranalli was part of the Startime Kids Rare Talent Show at the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway and it seemed that music was going to be his life’s focus. However, he told me, “A chance encounter with the unfolding construction of the Guggenheim Museum facing Central Park kindled my interest in architecture.” He was 12 then. Also, visiting New York landmarks such as the Rockefeller Center and the American Radiator Building designed by Raymond Hood enchanted the youngster with their magical aura. Ranalli continued his romance with music by becoming an adept percussionist, performing into his mid-20s. Albeit, it was architecture that sent him on an entirely different professional path when his classmate’s father, a model maker freelancing for architects, advised him to apprentice at a friend’s architectural studio.

Commencing his architectural education at the New York Institute of Technology in 1967, Ranalli transferred to Pratt Institute in Brooklyn a year later. His thesis project there, a housing scheme, was published in L’Architecture d’Aujourd’hui. He then went on to Harvard’s Graduate School of Design earning his Master of Architecture in 1974. Following a three-year stint at Urbahn Architects in New York, he started his practice called George Ranalli Architect in 1977. Parallel to that he embarked on a distinguished teaching career, first at Yale, then at both of his Alma Maters. From 1999 to 2017 Ranalli served as the Dean of The City College of New York’s Bernard and Anne Spitzer School of Architecture.

Vladimir Belogolovsky (VB): A long time ago, you started one of your lectures by saying, “Architecture is very difficult.” Is it still that way?

George Ranalli (GR): Ah, that lecture feels like a lifetime ago, decades back, during a transformative period for me. I was delving into the myriad meanings of architecture. My world then was deeply shaped by the history of architecture courses at Pratt Institute, guided by Sibyl Moholy-Nagy, and later, teaching alongside luminaries like Charles Moore and James Stirling at Yale left an indelible mark. There was also the impact of Robert Venturi’s Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture—a treatise that simultaneously jolted and grounded me over its discontent with mass-produced modernism. My architectural views were coloured by my past as a rock and jazz musician from the age of 10 until my mid-20s. I had the honour of recording with legends like Richie Havens. Music is a collaborative process. All players follow a rhythm allowing for individual expression. The notion that an architect can be a solitary figure perplexed me then and continues to do so today. So much in the profession and academia at that time seemed to oppose the validation of history and context.

So, I aimed to forge a connection with history. This occurred through the lens of Frank Lloyd Wright's masterworks. Visiting many of his houses in Oak Park near Chicago was a revelation. He excelled at forging extraordinary connections with both natural and urban landscapes. Wright, alongside such masters as Louis Sullivan, Louis Kahn, and Carlo Scarpa, possessed an uncanny ability to bridge history, context and innovation. Their feats remain a monumental challenge to emulate. That's why I still see architecture as a pursuit involving and indeed requiring strenuous effort.

VB: What was your first realised project like?

GR: The genesis of my architectural journey unfolded in the confines of the renovation of my first design studio, a modest 400-square-foot space. It set the stage. A pivotal turning point came when Interior Design magazine showcased several of my interiors, sparking a chain reaction of commissions. Among these endeavours, a standout achievement was the design of the First of August Boutique." Nestled within the historical brownstone on Lexington Avenue, this retail haven encapsulated both the charm of street-level boutique allure and the functionality of entryways leading to upper-floor residential units. One of the early adaptive reuse interventions, the boutique graced the pages of esteemed publications such as Domus and many others. 

VB: You mentioned Carlo Scarpa earlier. How did you discover his work?

GR: Following my graduation, I wanted to delve into the earlier 20^th century architectural landscape by going to Europe. I won a travelling grant and set out to study the architectural gems of the continent. It was a friend's suggestion that led me to the groundbreaking works of Scarpa— an artist then relatively unknown to the wider world and unbeknownst to me. Upon reaching the destinations that initially drew me, I made a deliberate detour to Verona, where Castelvecchio awaited my exploration. I was instantly captivated. The Banca Popolare, still in the throes of construction, left an indelible mark with its extraordinary fusion of form and context within the ancient Italian cityscape. It stood as a testament to architectural innovation.

Then the same friend, aware of my burgeoning fascination with Scarpa's work, extended an invitation to meet the maestro himself. Thus, we set forth to Vicenza, where Scarpa resided. His drafting room, nestled in the crypt of an ancient building, exuded an unconventional charm, with flat drawing files sandwiched between weathered, leaning columns. I had the privilege of meeting his family, and the evening unfolded in the warm glow of a shared passion for architecture. In a moment of whimsy, Scarpa, discerning my Italian heritage, proposed a game— deducing the region in Italy from which my family hailed. With meticulous attention, he scrutinised the smallest details of my face, eventually proclaiming, "Frosinone." The precision of his insight was staggering; he revealed, "I see details that most people don't see." This encounter occurred shortly before a tragic incident during a trip to Japan, where Scarpa fell down a flight of stairs, succumbing to a coma upon his return to Italy. He died shortly after.

My architecture resists the conformity of indistinct cityscapes. I strive to create distinctive spaces that resonate with a sense of continuity and purpose—a thread woven through time and space.

VB: You have developed a distinctive language of expression, particularly focusing on such elements as stairs, balconies, apertures, niches, cabinetry, and wall panels. What was this search for your design language like?

GR: My design language finds its roots in an appreciation for history, a love for intricate connections and a fascination with spatial transitions— spaces that extend from entry points to interiors, and from the outdoors to indoors. I have always been drawn to carefully orchestrated spatial sequences, viewing them not merely as functional but as rhythmic opportunities. In my quest, I turned my gaze to architectural luminaries like Wright and Sullivan. What struck me was the seemingly casual yet meticulously thought-out connections within their formally crafted buildings.

Take Wright's Robie House in Chicago, for example—it appears as if one form is effortlessly added to another and spaces flow seamlessly into one another, creating a casual yet harmonious rhythm. There's no feigned sense of architectural purity; instead, forms and spaces are adorned in a flexible manner, allowing for easy movement and adjustment. I aimed to assimilate this exceptional capability of adding and forming within my work. The pivotal projects that set the trajectory for my subsequent work were the First of August Boutique and the Callender Schoolhouse renovation and restoration in Newport, Rhode Island where I expressed layers of drywall and plywood and played with grids, scales and reflections. The intricate interweaving of six apartments in the old Callender Schoolhouse became a canvas for playing with imagination spatially and materially. Notably, Anthony Vidler penned an essay on my projects titled The Castle in The House, emphasising the objective of seamlessly blending existing and new elements to evoke an inseparable unity.

VB: There is a suggestion of urban scale in your interiors, a sense of public piazzas and civic facades. Interiors and exteriors, domestic and urban characters perfectly intermingle. Could you touch on that?

GR: My approach is rooted in seamlessly intertwining the domestic and urban realms, fostering a symbiotic relationship between interiors and exteriors. I envision interiors not as isolated spaces but as extensions of the vibrant urban fabric. The essence lies in working with domestic rituals, employing solid materials and curating spaces that offer a harmonious blend of privacy, security, intimacy, imagination and a spectrum of experiences and possibilities. For me, architecture transcends the confines of a mere white cube; it is a dynamic canvas capable of unfolding diverse possibilities. In embracing this philosophy, I seek to craft environments rich in their characters.

For me, architecture is a perpetual voyage; with each project serving as an opportunity for exploration.

VB: Where did the idea of bringing the notion of exterior into your interiors come from?

GR: The genesis of this concept traces back to my encounter with the Teatro Olimpico by Palladio in Vicenza. The resonances of this idea also echoed in the frescoes painted by Giulio Romano in the Palazzo del Te in Mantua, depicting colossal buildings that seem to breach the confines of the walls. Also, Antonello da Messina's St. Jerome in His Study, integrates exterior elements into the interior. Louis Kahn's Exeter Library in New Hampshire is another great lesson in manipulating scales. Appearing modest from the exterior to harmonise with its surroundings, it reveals a colossal interior. The mastery lay in materials, geometry, and furniture, orchestrating an intricate dance between exterior modesty and interior grandeur. Bringing giant circular cuts into the library’s bookstacks created an awe-inspiring spatial experience. These landmarks in architecture and art became my carefully studied references, influencing my pursuit to create spaces that transcend conventional boundaries, where the dichotomy between exterior and interior dissolves into a harmonious narrative of spatial exploration.

VB: When you describe your work, you use such words and phrases as memory, invention, synthetic experience, search for authenticity, craft, poetics of living, domestic rituals, ‘void’ solid, and spatial illusion. What kind of architecture do you try to achieve?

GR: For me, architecture is a perpetual voyage; with each project serving as an opportunity for exploration. It's a dynamic process, rooted in the ability to assemble and disassemble internal archives, drawing upon accumulated references. Creativity, in this context, is the art of selective curation, forging associations, and interpreting particular moments and situations to craft a distinctive narrative. I find inspiration in the legacy of architects like Wright and Sullivan, whose early 20^th century forays into modern ornament, intricate detailing, and masterful craftsmanship gradually dissipated with the advent of the International Style.

The Guaranty Building by Sullivan in Buffalo and Wright's Price Tower in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, stand as poignant examples of where these qualities were dissociated and set aside. In response to the prevailing coldness of spaces and the homogenisation of urban landscapes, I set out to establish a sense of place, an architectural counterpoint against the monotony of generic cityscapes. My work is a conscious effort to revive and reintegrate the elements that were abandoned in the course of architectural evolution. It's a continuation of a thread left hanging. I see my architecture as a homage to the warmth of ornamentation, detailing, and a sense of history that echoes through the works of Kahn and Scarpa. My architecture resists the conformity of indistinct cityscapes. I strive to create distinctive spaces that resonate with a sense of continuity and purpose—a thread woven through time and space.