How Majestic Landscapes and Ingenious Inventions Shape Tom Kundig’s Striking Homes
The Seattle-based principal of Olson Kundig reflects on his robust residential portfolio, the joys of kinetic design, and the moment his architectural approach truly came into focus
The adventurous homes conceived by Tom Kundig often draw their power from the land they inhabit. Working within a modernist lineage, the award-winning architect pares back each structure and introduces moments of invention that register through the subtlest of gestures that end up reverberating widely. A residence in the San Juan Islands cuts directly into a rocky outcrop, its stone surfaces continuing indoors. In Malibu, a house lifts above the shoreline on a pier, holding its ground against shifting tides. Many projects incorporate kinetic elements, too. One of his best-known works, a cabin in northern Idaho, features a 20-foot-by-30-foot hand-cranked window wall that opens the living room above a majestic lake. On the North Fork of Long Island, one of his most ingenious residences enfolds a rare Jean Prouvé prefabricated structure.
That interest in mechanics and landscape traces back to Kundig’s early years in the Pacific Northwest. He grew up among architects and artists who treated the surrounding terrain as sacrosanct and a constant reference point. His father, a modernist architect, introduced him to a way of thinking that centered on how buildings stand and perform. Kundig initially pursued geophysics, drawn to machinery and the forces that govern the physical world. He later returned to architecture with a deeper understanding of how those systems operate. After joining Olson Kundig, the Seattle practice founded by Jim Olson, he became a partner in 1996 and helped expand its reach across continents. Today, the firm numbers more than 350 people and Tom has realized over 462 residential projects, all gathered in Tom Kundig: Complete Houses (Phaidon) alongside conversations with editor Dung Ngo.
Though the title may suggest a culmination, Kundig continues to push ahead. He has several residential projects underway and remains committed to experimentation within the discipline. “Residential work is where my architecture practice began and continues to evolve,” he says. “Each home is a chance to test an idea, refine a detail, or take a risk. This book is a moment of reflection in my practice, an attempt to capture something that is always in motion.” That sense of ongoing inquiry also extends across his broader portfolio. A second volume, Tom Kundig: Complete Works (Phaidon), will follow in 2027. In the below interview, which has been edited and condensed for clarity, he reflects on reading the landscape, his upbringing in the Pacific Northwest, and the turning point that defined his career.
“I grew up in the Pacific Northwest surrounded by artists, architects, and an incredible range of landscapes, and that has everything to do with how I think about architecture today. The environment was always there in the background. You had high desert, rainforest, mountains, and shoreline. That kind of diversity stays with you. The artists I knew talked about the landscape constantly and how it informed their work. The architects did too, especially at that midcentury moment when ideas about transparency and continuity between inside and outside were central. I was lucky to grow up in a place where people didn’t treat the landscape as a backdrop. They treated it as something to interpret.
Before architecture, I thought I might go into geophysics, which probably came from a fascination with the physical world. I grew up around large-scale industry, mining operations, lumber mills, all of this heavy machinery that was both intimidating and compelling. I worked on cars, spent time in the mountains climbing and skiing, and I became interested in how things move, how forces work, how large systems break down into smaller parts. I also worked for an artist who fabricated large sculptures, so I watched how material and mechanics came together in a hands-on way. That curiosity never left, even when I realized I wasn’t suited to pursue engineering in a strict sense.
What carried over into architecture was the understanding that the physical world isn’t separate from us. It’s part of how we exist. Architecture already engages structure, gravity, and material, but I became interested in how those forces could do more than just hold a building up. I started to think about how to repurpose them, how to use simple mechanical principles like levers or pulleys in ways that might surprise people. A lot of the ideas that later became kinetic elements came from that line of thinking.
At the same time, I grew up with a father who was a modernist architect, even though I resisted that path for a long time. Looking back, I absorbed more than I realized. Modernism, at its core, strips away ornament and asks how a building works. That aligned naturally with my interest in materials and mechanics. I didn’t have the language for it then, but I understood it intuitively. Even now, I find myself returning to early references from my childhood, including a small cabin my father designed that my wife and I are restoring. It still holds ideas that resonate with me.
Residential work has always been central to how I develop ideas. It’s where you learn what architecture actually means for people. When you design a house, you’re dealing with how someone lives, how they move, and how they experience scale. The timeline is shorter, so you can go from concept to completion more quickly and repeat that process many times. You learn from clients, from climate, from materials. You can test ideas that might be too risky at a larger scale. A lot of what we later bring into institutional work begins there. It’s a kind of ongoing research, similar to how a musician practices scales or how a climber trains on smaller routes before attempting something bigger.
When I walk a site, I’m observing everything at once. Topography, wind, light, what the client is saying, what they’re not saying. Over time, that builds into a kind of intuition. I tend to look for ways to embed a building into its surroundings rather than assert it against them. That instinct comes from wanting the house to belong to the landscape. You can study a site on paper, but you have to stand there to really understand it. I often return after the layout is marked and adjust the orientation by a few degrees. It sounds minor, but it can change everything. You sense it physically, not just visually. You feel the environment around you, almost beyond your immediate field of vision. That sense of experience matters because architecture isn’t abstract. It has to be built; it has to be encountered. You feel it with your whole body. That’s why I think of architecture as something closer to live music than a recording. There’s a direct, physical presence that you can’t replicate any other way.
The kinetic elements in my work come from that same desire to engage people more directly. A door that moves, a wall that opens—these aren’t just technical exercises. They create a moment where someone interacts with the building in a tangible way. But beyond that, I’m interested in how buildings change over time. A project often becomes more meaningful after years of use, after it’s been adjusted, worn in, lived with. You understand its success only after that passage of time.
I remember a turning point in my own work when I was in my early thirties. I had completed projects before, but I always felt I hadn’t fully expressed what I was trying to do. Then I walked through the Studio House, and it clicked. It felt resolved in a way the others hadn’t. That was the moment when I felt my ideas had come together.
Working on this book gave me a chance to step back and see that evolution more clearly. What stood out most was how much I love doing this. I never set out to be an architect, but over time the abstract act of making became something real, something people inhabit and use every day. That realization still feels extraordinary.
Across all the projects, the constant is an effort to understand context. That means everything, not just the physical site. It includes the client, their needs, and their aspirations, the cultural and environmental conditions. If you understand that fully, the direction of the project reveals itself. The work is in translating that understanding into architecture. And despite the title of the book, I’m not finished. I’m working on new projects now that I’m excited about, and there’s another volume coming that will focus on larger-scale work. I don’t see any reason to slow down.”
