Brutalism emerged as an “honest” reconstruction architecture in the post-World War II era. Stripped of ornamentation and expressed in raw concrete, this architecture embraced functionality and social purpose (Roby 2023). Brutalist design was “brutally honest”: forms were kept as simple as possible and materials were left exposed. This ethic of “fidelity to materials” reflected the austerity and egalitarian ideals of the mid-century. Today, many architects and theorists, faced with climate collapse and social upheaval, argue that we long for this sense of solidity and sincerity once more. Felix Torkar (2025) argues that in a hyper-digital world, “neobrutalism reflects a longing for the concrete and material,” suggesting a revival of concrete’s instinctual presence. Brutalist buildings like London’s Barbican and Boston City Hall feel like defiant antitheses to sleek luxury; their fortress-like geometries and unadorned surfaces appear as fitting symbols of an age of uncertainty. In short, architecture that rejects gloss and embraces imperfection now offers a refreshing sense of “reality.”
Brutalist Principles and Climate Imperatives
Brutalism’s massive concrete volumes offer surprising advantages in terms of sustainability. Concrete’s high thermal mass allows it to absorb and store heat and release it slowly, balancing temperature fluctuations. Architects note that well-designed concrete walls and floors can stabilize the indoor climate: For example, in hot deserts, homes built from compacted earth or concrete keep interiors comfortable throughout the day-night cycle. Eco-brutalist designers expand on this idea with features such as deep overhangs, cross-ventilated atriums, and green spaces to cool cities.
More importantly, the reuse of Brutalist structures can significantly reduce carbon emissions. New construction is a highly carbon-intensive activity, so preserving existing buildings both saves energy and reduces carbon emissions. As architect Anne Lacaton clearly states, “Demolition is a waste of energy, materials, and history.” Andreea Cutieru notes that the adaptive reuse of concrete mega-structures is now seen as an important climate strategy. By renovating aging Brutalist buildings instead of demolishing them, cities are preserving their “carbon-intensive concrete structures” and extending their lifespan. Numerous renovation projects (insulation, modern HVAC, adding solar panels) demonstrate that these massive shells can be refurbished, transforming them from “monuments” into low-carbon assets. In fact, structures once seen as “overbuilt” are becoming resilient architecture, like dense thermal batteries and shelters that can buffer storms, heat waves, and social unrest. In a warming world, concrete’s thermal inertia and durability can be leveraged rather than lamented.
Social Ideals and Failures
Brutalism stemmed from social utopianism: ambitious public housing, civic centers, and institutions designed for everyone. Architects like Alison and Peter Smithson designed Robin Hood Gardens in London with long shared “sky streets” – raw concrete walkways designed as shared courtyards for working-class families. These “streets” were built as semi-public meeting places and constructed with raw concrete brut, reflecting a belief in collective living. From the Maggie Daley Park shelters in Chicago to the Lincoln Center in New York, early Brutalist projects elsewhere shared similar goals. The socialist foundations of this style are well documented: buildings should be honest and generous, providing housing and services in a simple manner.
However, many Brutalist housing complexes have also become symbols of neglect. The demolition of Robin Hood Gardens in East London sparked a heated debate. According to its defenders, the Smithsons’ design—though worn and outdated—still had architectural value: a 2009 resident survey revealed that “80% of residents wanted it renovated, not demolished”. Opponents, however, argued that the cast concrete had “deteriorated badly” due to inadequate maintenance and that the inward-facing layout deprived residents of street life. In the United States, the demolition of the Prentice Women’s Hospital in Chicago (designed by Bertrand Goldberg in 1975) in 2013 presented a similar dilemma. Critics argued that despite the building’s unusual cloverleaf shape, it was not suitable for reuse (Northwestern needed the space for laboratories) and that too few people took action to save the building. Architect Alexandra Lange (2013) sadly noted that modernism lacks the public appeal of an older masterpiece: “The Prentice hospital wasn’t beautiful… You can tell people a building is important… but unless they feel it, they won’t mourn its demolition.” In both cases, a combination of policy decisions, maintenance failures, and changing aesthetic sensibilities destroyed examples of this style.
Today’s question is whether we can salvage Brutalism’s social vision, independent of its failures. Some new housing projects deliberately reflect Brutalist massing in an effort to be affordable and inclusive. For example, architects studying Sheffield’s Park Hill (renovated as mixed-income apartments) are drawing lessons for contemporary housing. Others argue that we must separate flawed policy from the architecture itself: raw concrete turns gray when neglected, but good design—adequate daylight, community services, maintenance funds—can fulfill the original promise. In short, while many physical structures have disappointed or fallen into decay, Brutalism’s collective spirit is worth revisiting (Lange 2013; Thoburn 2022).
Neo-Brutalism: Aesthetic or Political Act?
In recent years, Brutalist imagery has become a craze online, raising the question: Is this merely a superficial trend, or part of a genuine revival? Photogenic examples like the Boston City Hall and countless raw concrete cafes and loft conversions now flood Instagram and TikTok feeds. Livingstone (2018) observes that Brutalism has “become an aesthetic thing” – detached from its original politics, transformed into a fashionable visual theme. High-contrast photos of concrete frames are shared as mood board backgrounds, designers use rectangular block furniture, and even websites are switching to “brutalist” typography. This interest demonstrates Brutalism’s enduring appeal, but it reduces it to merely a style. As one critic puts it, 21st-century enthusiasts fetishize Brutalist minimalism “at the expense of understanding what it could actually contribute to society.”
However, some view the neo-Brutalist movement as a continuation of this style’s radical intent. Felix Torkar (2025), a contributor to Jacobin magazine, argues that neo-Brutalism is not just about Instagram-worthy buildings, but also a response to resource constraints: an aesthetic that is raw and minimalist, rejecting excess consumption due to ecological urgency. While noting that Brutalist revival projects are “photogenic and popular,” he emphasizes that they also stem from practical needs: concrete is cheap, durable, and locally sourced, making it a pragmatic counterpoint to ornate luxury. Young architects in the UK and US inspired by Brutalism are discovering it as a political act: for example, student cooperatives and community centers being built today sometimes use monolithic forms and recyclable materials to deliberately distance themselves from market-driven glass towers. These projects redirect Brutalism’s original language of monumentality and collectivity toward goals such as housing justice and public health.
Today’s Neo-Brutalism movement occupies the fine line between rebellion and revival. Social media can turn this look into a meme, but for others, it sparks a debate about simplicity and originality. When the harsh concrete aesthetic appears in an art gallery or club, it risks falling into banality; however, when used in activist architecture (e.g., DIY shelters, urban farming structures, or protest stages), this style can regain its spirit of solidarity. It remains to be seen whether our “concrete aesthetic” will remain superficial or transform into tangible change.
Design for Collapse
The enduring lesson of Brutalism may lie in its durability and simplicity. In an era on the brink of collapse, architects are prioritizing “permanent” designs over dazzling ones. The emerging concept of eco-brutalism defines Brutalism’s spirit as an ethic of longevity. As advocated by designer Shahbaz Ghafoori (2025), architecture should adapt to its context, materials, and time, embracing forms designed “to be enduring… to remain culturally and ecologically meaningful.” According to this view, beauty stems not from novelty, but from durability: concrete exposed to the elements gains character, and a building’s functionality and adaptability are more important than its fashionability.
Practically speaking, this means rethinking modernity’s cycles of destruction. Van Rijs from MVRDV (2023) wants us to view existing concrete buildings as assets. His suggestion is to always explore how we can reuse, transform, or build upon “brutalist concrete boxes” and make demolition truly a last resort. In fact, many Brutalist structures can be redesigned with infill additions, new cladding, or mixed-use rather than being demolished for “new” construction. Such strategies can significantly reduce carbon emissions: van Rijs states that reuse must be maximized to achieve ambitious climate goals (e.g., a 95% reduction in construction emissions by 2050). Every salvaged facade or floor slab is a tangible energy reserve.
Going even further, we can imagine “Brutalism 2050”: architecture built to survive collapse. These structures will be simple shells, adaptable to many purposes and resistant to decay. They could use local soil or recycled concrete, feature communal courtyards (where old sky streets could be reborn as vertical farms or gathering terraces), and prioritize self-sufficiency (rainwater harvesting, solar heat capture, shade gathering). Like wartime shelters, these buildings will dispense with ornamentation, instead encoding memories and labor into their patina. Ghafoori (2025) believes this shift has already begun: he defines it as design for survival—not survival in a cold technical sense, but cultural and ecological survival. According to him, the architecture of the future will be an intimate dialogue with entropy: “beauty… is the long-term result of durability, wear, and formal honesty”.
Brutalism offers more than just nostalgia today. With its honest materials and collective ambition, it can inspire architecture that responds pragmatically and resiliently to disasters. If today is indeed an “age of collapse,” then perhaps Brutalism—not just as a style, but as a survival guide—has returned just in time.
Referances
Berke, B. (2025, March 6). UMass Dartmouth’s $660 million problem: preserving its Brutalist campus. The Public’s Radio.
Ghafoori, S. (2025, July 25). Eco-Brutalism: A design ethic for the age of collapse. Medium.
Lange, A. (2013, October 31). Demolition of the Prentice Women’s Hospital by Bertrand Goldberg and Penn Station. Architect Magazine.
Livingstone, J. (2018, August 24). Why Brutalism and Instagram don’t mix. The New Republic.
Roby, I. (2023). Brutalist architecture: Everything you need to know. Architectural Digest.
Torkar, F. (2025, August). Brutalism is back. Jacobin.
van Rijs, J. (2023, January 6). On conservation and carbon: Why we should cherish our brutalist buildings. MVRDV.