How Liu Jiakun Became the Envy of Chinese Architects
Awards can be a controversial topic within China’s architecture community. When Wang Shu became the first Chinese architect to win the prestigious Pritzker Architecture Prize in 2012, he was met, not with applause, but derision: His compatriots pilloried his work for overreliance on “Chinese symbols.”
Today, it’s taken for granted that Chinese architects can’t bear to see their peers succeed. So it’s notable that, when Liu Jiakun this month became the second-ever Chinese Pritzker winner, the choice was met with near universal acclaim in Chinese architectural circles. Of the dozens of architects I have spoken to since the award was announced, every single one expressed support for the choice, regardless of their previous stance on the prize.
This unusual response is likely because Liu has been able to achieve something that very few other Chinese architects can claim: He never sold out. Throughout the industry’s dramatic ups and downs over the past few decades, from the booming 2000s and ’10s to the recent slump, Liu has remained an outsider, working on what interests him rather than chasing after mega projects — and the huge budgets they promise.
Born in 1956 in the southwestern city of Chengdu, Liu Jiakun graduated from architecture school in nearby Chongqing in the 1980s. But the field failed to capture his imagination, and he soon shifted his focus to writing and painting, at one point working full-time at the Sichuan Provincial Institute of Literature.
Liu didn’t return to architecture until 1993, a decision he attributes to being inspired by a former classmate’s exhibition. His career progressed quickly, however, and Liu founded his own firm, Jiakun Architects, in 1999, right as the field was about to explode. Rapid urbanization and a booming real estate industry provided an enormous number of career opportunities for Chinese architects to pursue their personal artistic ambitions or just make a quick buck. From the central axis of Beijing to tiny cities all across China, developers everywhere wanted signature buildings and monuments.
While his peers either sought to push formal boundaries, or else found themselves stuck in an endless cycle of taking projects and chasing payment, Liu seemed content living a quiet life in his hometown. Since 1999, his firm has completed just over 30 projects in China, most of them in Chengdu.
Many are quite small, especially in a country known for its grand, ambitious architecture. For example, the Luyeyuan Stone Sculpture Art Museum, completed in 2022, covers an area of less than 1,400 square meters and is located on the edge of a bamboo forest beside a river. Liu’s best-known work, West Village, also in Chengdu, forgoes the enclosed design commonly found in commercial complexes in favor of a semi-open layout, leaving plenty of undefined sites — such as a bamboo grove — for residents to use.
In addition to his relative geographical isolation, Liu’s outsider status is also reflected in the aesthetics of his work: He does not attempt to build landmark buildings and deliberately weakens his structures’ formal impact. For example, West Village is dwarfed by the surrounding high-rise buildings, doing away with lofty associations in favor of pursuing connection with ordinary citizens. Its low-key style and emphasis on community spirit even earned it the moniker of “Chengdu’s anti-landmark.”
Another example is Liu’s memorial to Hu Huishan — a middle school student killed in the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake. Standing amid the ruins of her daughter’s school, Hu’s mother showed Liu two keepsakes: the girl’s umbilical cord and one of her baby teeth. Liu was moved by the experience and decided to build a memorial to Hu. After several months, he personally purchased a 52-square-meter plot of land in a small forest not far from a museum dedicated to the earthquake in suburban Chengdu, on which he built a small memorial space.
Liu’s design is based on the relief tents deployed during natural disasters, and the structure was built using recycled bricks. “Inside, it’s not sorrowful or noisy — it’s just about the memory of a young girl, and the struggles of a despairing family to go on living,” Liu explained. “Although it is small, the memorial is big enough to become part of the collective memory of the earthquake. It’s small, but it is the most meaningful work I have done in my whole architectural career.”
Buildings such as West Village and the Hu Huishan Memorial stand testament to another aspect of Liu’s “outsider” identity: his rejection of professional alienation. Architecture is often treated as a technical job, with many top architects feeling that they are little more than “machines” drawing plans for clients. But Liu’s work is steeped in humanistic thinking. He rejects technological trends and cutting-edge materials, instead seeking wisdom in the construction methods used by local artisans.
Liu has also utilized a series of social practices to broaden his professional identity and ground himself in his community. He came up with the idea for the Hu Huishan Memorial project and personally funded it. Likewise, his design for the West Village project emphasized the “right” of citizens to public space — a contentious issue in Chinese architectural circles.
Outside of architecture, Liu has continued to write regularly. His works include a novel titled “The Conception of Brightmoon,” which explores the conflict between utopia and human life, and “I Built in West China?” a memoir of his experiences working in western China.
“First, you need to be a person, and then an architect,” Liu told the Pritzker Prize committee.
This earnest, grounded approach is something many Chinese architects aspire to, but few achieve. The industry benefited from rapid urbanization and real estate bubbles, only to find themselves alienated from their original idealism as they gained fame and fortune. Now, they’re stuck fighting clients — if they’re lucky enough to still have work at all.
When it comes to construction, going with the flow can seem the obvious choice. But looking back, it’s Liu — who has actively resisted following the latest trends, maintaining his authenticity at the cost of his marketability — who now towers over his peers.
Translator: David Ball.
(Header image: Architect Liu Jiakun looks at an exhibition next to his office in Chengdu, Sichuan province, March 2, 2025. Ng Han Guan/AP via VCG)
