Isay Weinfeld – Etcétera

Instituto Tomie Ohtake is pleased to present Isay Weinfeld: Etcétera [Isay Weinfeld: Et Cetera], an exhibition dedicated to an architect whose work has redefined key parameters of contemporary Brazilian architecture. Recognized in Brazil and abroad, Weinfeld has built a trajectory shaped by the interplay of architecture, cinema, visual arts, literature, and design, conceiving each project as a cultural practice that transcends disciplinary boundaries.

His work does not rely on the repetition of a style, but on precise decisions that guide each project. For Weinfeld, architecture is no longer mere formal composition; it becomes a concrete experience, organizing paths, voids, rhythms, and proportions. Light, material, and scale structure the relationship between space and use, creating environments defined by constructive clarity and rigorous control of means.

The exhibition features scale models, drawings, films, and documents that trace different stages in the development of the works. The models occupy a central role, expanding the very notion of the architectural maquette.

More than instruments of technical verification, they function as spatial syntheses, condensing entire buildings into reduced dimensions and shedding light on structural decisions, volumetric relationships, and proportional adjustments. In some cases, they reveal direct and unexpected solutions, in which the manipulation of scale demonstrates how complex volumes can be contained and reorganized with precision.

All of this work, spanning multiple languages and disciplines, is developed in close collaboration with the studio that bears his name. Grounded in the continuous discussion of proposals and the rigorous examination of each decision, this collective process broadens the range of solutions and ensures technical consistency and constructive precision across projects.

Through this selection of works, Etcétera offers the public a comprehensive reading of Weinfeld’s trajectory, integrating Instituto Tomie Ohtake’s program. Dedicated to the visual arts and their intersections with education, architecture, and design, the institution is committed to research, training, and experimentation in dialogue with contemporary issues.

This exhibition was co-organized with the Isay Weinfeld studio, whose decisive partnership in the conception and development of the project we gratefully acknowledge.

The exhibition is sponsored by Bradesco and JHSF at the Presenting level, and by MFC Construtora at the Silver level. It also receives support from Lumisystem, Liv Inc, Kopstein, Core, Hakwood, Belas Artes, Roca, Casual Móveis, Dpot, Phenicia Concept, Companhia de Iluminação, Effect Lighting, ETEL, and Stamp Painéis Arquitetônicos.
We also thank the partners, collectors, and institutions who contributed loans and support, whose collaboration was essential to the realization of this exhibition.

Instituto Tomie Ohtake

Isay Weinfeld is not exactly an architect. Let’s say he is also an architect. His extensive body of work, recognized in Brazil and abroad, draws on and extends into other disciplines. And architecture is not even his foremost interest. Cinema and music come before it. The visual arts may come alongside them. And objects, like one of those almost sculptural sneakers, coveted by athletes and sedentary people alike, or a beirute sandwich with salad.

He sees value in everything. Weinfeld’s architecture recalls a time when the multidisciplinary training of an architect was highly regarded. Today, architecture students are taught little beyond architecture. Limiting oneself to that alone is an invitation to aridity. A lesson from the arts: any practice feeds on error, on deviation, on what is not yet known.

Weinfeld creates extravagant combinations. He uses humor as method. Irony is the art of saying one thing while meaning another. Understanding it requires speed, familiarity with the structures of languages, and a breadth of repertoire. His greatest master was Jacques Tati (have you seen him in his own films? Tall, awkward, ill at ease among the houses and buildings of modern architecture?).

Modern architecture was great—Niemeyer, Lina Bo Bardi, Luís Barragán were geniuses—but they are not the end of the line. Questioning what we are given is the first step toward preserving our sanity. We should begin by questioning ourselves. Weinfeld practices architecture without knowing how to draw, defying one of the field’s most fundamental assumptions. The display of his very first drawing at the entrance to the exhibition—a little house drawn as a child—stands as a declaration to students that other paths, beyond those prescribed by the curricula of the schools, are possible.

His trajectory began from within architecture, not outside it. In Brazil, interior design is commonly dismissed as decoration. Not for him: “if you don’t know interiors, if you don’t understand how a person moves through a space, you can’t design a room.”

In his office, Weinfeld functions more like a conductor or film director—someone who knows exactly what he wants and how to bring out the best in others. He leads a team of dozens of architects working across different stages of project development, spending the day moving among the desks and keeping track of each step. Committed to a horizontal process, once or twice a week everyone stops to report and exchange ideas about what they are doing.

Since the members of each team have different personalities, this leads to novel solutions—and when someone repeats a solution, they are encouraged to look for another path. These differences never lose sight of rigor, economy of means, and the adjustments that ensure the quality of each work. All of this dilutes authorship and the praise of the “strong gesture,” guaranteeing that the work of the Isay Weinfeld office does not have a single face—what used to be called a style. Quality and coherence are conveyed in other ways.

Agnaldo Farias
Curator

Isay Weinfeld is not exactly an architect. Let’s say he is also an architect. His extensive body of work, recognized in Brazil and abroad, draws on and extends into other disciplines. And architecture is not even his foremost interest. Cinema and music come before it. The visual arts may come alongside them. Literature. Objects. Which ones? Any of them, as long as they’re well-finished, surprising, and good-humored—the criteria vary. It might be one of those almost sculptural sneakers, so far removed from functional design: lightweight, colorful, technological marvels capable of enhancing the wearer’s performance, coveted by athletes and sedentary people alike. Or it could be the beirute sandwich with salad from Frevinho (have you tried it?). It’s a pleasure to hear him praise the precision of its ingredients: the green of the lettuce, the red of the tomato, the yellow of the cheese, the cream of the mayonnaise, the way it’s assembled, the delicate bread lightly toasted on the surface, its thin circular shape. An open body of work inviting multiple points of entry. Weinfeld combines the notion of culture with the arts and with material culture, which is to say almost everything produced by humanity.

Weinfeld’s architecture recalls a time when a multidisciplinary approach to architectural training was highly regarded—as reflected in the ironic quip often directed at students: “architecture schools shape everything—even architects.” Today they hardly shape anything at all, except architects. That’s too bad for them, and for everyone. According to poet Joseph Brodsky, what distinguishes the arts—architecture among them—from life is precisely the fact that they abhor repetition. Art may be a short-range weapon, but it offers this lesson. Today’s schools value above all the repetitive transmission of routines and established notions. And although this is undoubtedly important, limiting the training exclusively to this is an invitation to aridity. Any practice feeds on error, on deviation, on what is not known. Expansion only occurs with groping in the dark. And the future, it bears remembering, is almost entirely darkness.

True to his approach as an architecture student at Universidade Presbiteriana Mackenzie, where he spent his time in conversation, attending exhibitions and concerts, Weinfeld looks to either side, generally in search of extravagant combinations he discovers or constructs (to get to know them, visit his Instagram). Like Marcel Duchamp, the French artist who opened the visual arts to the possibility of appropriating things, Weinfeld practices humor and irony as method. Irony is the art of saying one thing while meaning another. It requires an understanding of lexicons and repertoires, and a certain sidestepping of convention. Those who take themselves too seriously are outside of this game. Those who assume an air of seriousness, who exude arrogance, are serious because they have certainties. They regard any interpretation that diverges from their own as inconceivable. Weinfeld’s greatest master was Jacques Tati (have you ever seen him in his own films? Tall, awkward, ill at ease among the houses and buildings of modern architecture?). Modern architecture was great. Niemeyer, Lina Bo Bardi, Luís Barragán were geniuses, but they are not the end of the line. Questioning what we are given is the first step toward preserving our sanity. We must begin by questioning ourselves. On this subject, Jewish jokes have much to teach.

Weinfeld practiced architecture without knowing how to draw, defying one of the field’s most fundamental assumptions: that drawing is indispensable to the production of space. In fact, the display of his very first drawing at the entrance to the show—a little house he drew as a child, with whim and ruler, ornamented with the infallible set of tree, sun, curtain, and chimney—stands as a declaration to young people that other paths, beyond those prescribed by the curricula, can lead to the design and production of space. One need only look at the works of Mira Schendel and Hélio Oiticica, artists whose work Weinfeld has so often visited.

Weinfeld’s trajectory began within architecture, not outside it. He learned in practice the limits of Le Corbusier’s famous definition: “Architecture is the masterful, correct, and magnificent play of volumes brought together in light.” It reflects an external vision of architecture, one that excludes interior space. Perhaps this interpretation is one of the reasons for the neglect, in Brazil, of interior design, commonly dismissed as decoration and, as such, carried forward by a strain of thinking born of fear—a prerogative of genders other than the masculine.

Weinfeld’s first and only apprenticeship was with the Swiss architect and artist Jacob Ruchti, a refined man with whom he began to see and learn interior architecture. In 1974, following Ruchti’s death, Lélio Machado Reiner—then a professor at Mackenzie—invited Weinfeld to work as his partner, and they founded a practice together that remained active until 1978. He later created Interdesign Arquitetura with Mexican architect Aurelio Martinez Flores, which strengthened his attention to interiors. From that period of learning he reached this conclusion: “if you don’t know interiors, if you don’t know how a person moves through a setting, you cannot design a room.”
In his office, Weinfeld functions more like a conductor or film director—he knows exactly what he wants and how to bring out the best in others.

Such cross-disciplinary relationships are common among architects. Rem Koolhaas directed films; Iannis Xenakis composed music; Constant, Zaha Hadid, and Burle Marx all painted. Weinfeld’s experience with cinema developed through short films made in Super 8, a collaboration with Marcio Kogan that extended into a feature film, Fogo e paixão [Fire and Passion] (1988), a cult movie. Excerpts from it are shown at this exhibition, and his work with filmmaking extends in the very short films he uses to document his work. Film has more to say to architecture than photography does. The fixity of the image removes movement.

With durations ranging from one to two minutes, the framing, camera movements, long takes, lighting, editing, and soundtracks—all meticulously crafted in relation to their narratives—reveal a refined understanding of the distinct nature of spaces and architectural elements. Each film captures the latent drama of its setting and the way elements connect and influence one another. The recordings include corridors, hallways, rooms, passageways, and thresholds between exterior and interior, as well as the treatment of color, texture, and shifts in material, which vary according to the narrative dynamics of each film. The approach to the buildings follows what its specific structure calls for. Moreover, these films do not fall into general readings; instead, they highlight particular passages, specific situations, and relevant details. The dining room becomes the stage of a domestic theater; corridors and entrances enable everyday rituals, drawing people in; door handles and their corresponding doors become instruments for revealing new scenes, and so on. These cinematic exercises are precise, lessons in the perception of space—paying tribute to masters already mentioned, from Jacques Tati to Federico Fellini, Ingmar Bergman, and Stanley Kubrick.

Weinfeld leads a team of dozens of architects working across different stages of project development. He spends the day moving among the desks, keeping track of each step. Committed to maintaining a horizontal process, once or twice a week everyone gathers to report and exchange ideas about what they are doing. Everyone, including each intern, is invited to offer opinions. From some, of course, participation is explicitly requested. Since the members of each team have different personalities, this leads to novel solutions. More than that, when someone repeats a solution, they are encouraged to look for another path. These predictable differences never lose sight of rigor, economy of means, and the adjustments that ensure the quality of each work. To stimulate the team’s imagination, Weinfeld organizes courses of all kinds. One was on Machado de Assis, another on music and cinema; some time ago he was looking for someone to give an introduction to astrology. With all this, authorship is diluted, as is the praise for the “strong gesture” still so prevalent in the architecture world, thus ensuring that the work of the Isay Weinfeld office does not have a single face—what used to be called a style. Quality and coherence are conveyed in other ways.

Agnaldo Farias
Curator

1. Oblique Citations
At a time when architecture schools increasingly train students to focus on ever narrower sectors and themes, Weinfeld moves in the opposite direction. Consistent with architecture’s multidisciplinary nature—curiously underemphasized in current schools—his references reach beyond traditional boundaries. In his practice, he quietly draws on a wide range of architects: Paulo Mendes da Rocha and the fluidity of space; allusions to Lina Bo Bardi’s tradition; Barragán’s colors and materials; Mies van der Rohe’s conciseness. He also draws on artists: the façade of the B Hotel in Brasília recalls Hélio Oiticica’s Metaesquemas, while the Midrash Centro Cultural suggests a palimpsest of overlapping letters, akin to certain monotypes by Mira Schendel. At least one of his dining rooms evokes the one in Luis Buñuel’s The Phantom of Liberty; at least one of his corridors was inspired by a Radiohead song.

Weinfeld designs everything from social housing to luxury hotels, as well as jewelry, clothing, pasta, and theater sets. His architecture is an amalgam of his disconcerting curiosity.

2. The Horizon of Creation
During Weinfeld’s years as a student, his relationship with his professors was often tense; when his work strayed from the norm, they reacted with low grades and threats. This never intimidated him—quite the opposite. His stance was subversive, evident in the way he dressed and carried himself, and in his insistence on offering alternatives to what was expected. A faithful, attentive, and tireless frequenter of the arts—music, cinema, visual arts—he learned more outside school than within it. And who didn’t? The schizophrenia that runs through our educational system, from top to bottom, constantly seeks to eclipse how much learning takes place beyond its walls. When he entered professional life and established his own office, Weinfeld fostered collective work: everyone is invited to say what they think about what is being done. After all, each point of view is, or should be, unique and therefore deserving of encouragement. He likely drew this lesson from Rashomon, the film by the Japanese master Akira Kurosawa—a meditation on the fragmentation of what we call reality.

3. Authorship in a Minor Key
It is now 2026, and one can walk through the streets of São Paulo and identify authorship in houses and buildings. In the past, one likewise recognized the authorship of a literary text if it was by Guimarães Rosa, or of a painting if it was by Piet Mondrian or Iberê Camargo. When it was not discernible, the work was treated as derivative.
Although this still occurs, since the mid-twentieth century the grandiosity of our ego has waned, and we have been unsparingly reduced to our insignificance. We may still be magnificent, but—correcting excesses and outbursts—only in a minor key.
How, then, are we to situate the cinema of Eduardo Coutinho, almost without direction, script, or narrative? Or the prose of Patrick Modiano, Annie Ernaux, or Juliano Pessanha? Weinfeld’s production moves forward without nostalgia for the time when greatness was expected. There is no promise of unity, only rigor and coherence in the face of a complex world. There is authorship, but without a heavy hand; there is shared authorship, an exchange of ideas without the dominance of a single voice. This does not prevent the production of works of excellence.

4. Textures
When people design on paper or on the anonymous, plasticized screen of a computer—when they live under artificial light, behind dark glasses, or travel in cars with tinted windows—they lose the ability to perceive variations in surface quality: its colors, textures, and tonal shifts. In Brazilian architecture, the common reflex is to think in terms of white walls. Not so with Weinfeld, who learned from Tomie Ohtake, Mira Schendel, Sergio Camargo—and even from sushi rice—that there is no single white. Long ago, Rembrandt explored the chromatic temperatures of shadow. And Western music has long investigated texture, from Gregorian chant to György Ligeti and Radiohead. Add to this the transformations of a surface’s materials—smooth, coarse, roughcast, grooved, or diverging; intermixed combinations of stone, wood, and metal. In his building for the Minha Casa, Minha Vida project, the ground floor—shadowed by the Minhocão overpass—is painted a dark blue, like the sky reflected on the ground. The floors above rise toward the sky in a gradient that culminates in white.

5. Passages
Few professionals pause to reflect on the foundations of architecture. They concentrate on meeting functional requirements—important, yes, but rarely enough. Walls, as Osman Lins observed, keep us from dissolving into the vastness of the earth. And what of the door, the window, the pillar, the staircase, and so on? Weinfeld designs everything, even door handles, and they are anything but simple. One of his recurring themes is the entrance to his houses and buildings, whether they include corridors or not. Ah, the corridors, which lead from one point to another, from bedroom to living room. Who has not felt a certain apprehension when walking down a long corridor (blame it on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining)? These passages simultaneously demarcate spaces, establish rituals, and invest environments with meaning. Like transitive verbs, they require a complement in order to make sense.

Another of his passions is the staircase, the element that permits ascent and descent. In some, one senses undisguised pride—as in the red staircase at the Forum store. Others, seized by a winged impulse and indifferent to gravity, seem barely to touch the ground.

6. Humor and a Taste for the Absurd
In this exhibition, art and architecture intermingle. At moments they separate, allowing their processes to be more clearly perceived. In the first room, one encounters a disparate, almost absurd collection of objects: finds from antique shops, “everything-for-1.99” stores, and street markets; souvenirs from trips to who knows where. They hang on a long pegboard panel, like those used in workshops to hold tools. As one moves through the exhibition and returns to this room, it becomes clear that this is exactly what they are—tools. With them, Weinfeld shows that nothing is banal; what we call banal may simply be the result of our inattentive gaze. Look closely and, in the unnoticed details, unexpected aspects emerge. The effect is even more striking when the objects are arranged in pairs or trios. Humor, the absurd, and affection go hand in hand in our everyday environments—who does not keep some small relic from childhood? A sticker album, a grandmother’s cup? From the kitchen to the city streets. By entangling them, Weinfeld suggests, life becomes more bearable.

7. Correction
In work meetings, in the analysis of design approaches, in the choice of materials, in specifications of every kind, and in the grounding of arguments—in all of these, everything is governed by the idea of correction carried to the point of refinement. Weinfeld rejects gratuitous or incoherent solutions, and even more so the spectacular, the false, and the merely accessory—those driven solely by the desire to draw attention to themselves. His interest in speculation does not include empty formalism.

This exhibition was conceived as an example of the idea of adjustment. Concerned with overcoming the monotony of classical architecture exhibitions—a festival of plans, sections, and models often incomprehensible to lay audiences—the forms of representation were diversified. Models were privileged, succeeding one another along cut-out walls, in sequences of corners offering surprises at every step. More tangible than schematic drawings, the models vary in scale, and in doing so the exhibition gives rise to different choreographies for the visitor’s body.

8. Architecture and Subtlety
In a time when metropolises are flooded with light, when artificial sounds drown out natural ones and buildings have become mirrored towers separated by walls and gates—harsh signs of aggression—Weinfeld’s works refrain from imposing themselves on their users; instead, they listen, seeking to intertwine with their desires. It is common for his houses to have discreet, mysterious entrances—invitations to enter into secrets. His buildings gradually allow themselves to be interpenetrated by the streets and, as a result, are increasingly used by those who pass through them. They become stopping places for neighbors, for delivery drivers, for parents walking with their children. After his first commission, in which he imposed himself too strongly on the client, Weinfeld realized that one does not design for oneself but for the other. From that point on, he made learning from the other a premise of his practice—a learning that presupposes conversation and attentive listening to desires and aspirations. The professional architect is the one who gives form to the nebulous dreams of those who seek him out.