Although the wider public knows you primarily as an architect, how do you see yourself today? 

I'm simply Villu. To myself, and to my family as well. I still do everything, but above all I'm an artist. These days I paint more, but I'm also a lecturer — professor of architecture at Tallinn University of Applied Sciences. I combine that with visual art and bring in a bit of cosmic matter too: metaphysics and those kinds of themes. I come to this studio almost every day. Here I paint and think up new themes, make architectural sketches as well, and students come by too.

That big firm we once had with Ain Padrik no longer exists. Back then we had a lot of employees — we built Viru Keskus, the Radisson hotel, everything. Architecture really took over. But for me it's always been the same thing: I wouldn't do architecture if it weren't art. Architecture only interests me when it is art. If it turns into some kind of business, or whatever else, it stops being interesting.

As we're sitting here in your studio and looking out the window, wherever your gaze goes you can see buildings you designed. What feelings does that create for you? Is it special to look at your own buildings?

Of course. It's just like being here in the studio among your own paintings, looking at them. They're like diaries, tied to all kinds of memories. They're like children. Artists often don't have children, or have very few, but in reality their children are their works, their creations. These buildings are children too — especially the ones that turned out particularly well. I look at my work with a good feeling.

Paintings, though, usually aren't out in the city where hundreds of thousands — or even millions — of people pass by them every day.

That's really people's problem, whether they see your work or not. From my perspective it's the same thing. I don't look at my work in terms of what anyone thinks. How would I know? There are so many people: one thinks one thing, another thinks something else. One likes it, another doesn't. I try to make sure I like it. That's the only truly objective thing. I do my work so that I like it myself. I've understood that if I really like it, then others will like it too — at least some of them. 

I feel good looking at my old works, my old buildings. I draw strength from them. I think of them as having a magical dimension. Geometry is tied to cosmic or universal themes. You look and think, and your thoughts can expand. When you look at your church or the Three Towers building, some kind of cosmic information comes through, and if you want, you can also send something out through them yourself. I imagine that humans are extensions of the cosmos  —not that I sit in my little cocoon, and nothing affects me. In reality, we're all connected to each other—some influence more, some less.

I'm an optimist, probably from my family, from my father. I believe that with good thoughts we can change the world. We'll win all the wars. That's how evolution works. I'm strong myself when I do my positive things — build houses, paint pictures. I feel good, I'm healthy, strong, happy, I laugh — that's how I've lived.

I've had all kinds of periods in my life — who hasn't — but essentially creativity is connected to cosmic force, cosmic energy. Creativity is a subtle thing, and all the great spiritual teachers and gurus value it.

They say God creates. We create too. That's something very close to the Creator. Creativity is a very powerful thing — for yourself and for others. I imagine that in the future we'll raise our vibration through creativity and move higher, and eventually end up close to the Creator. When you're already there, there's nothing bad anymore — no wars, no conflicts. This is also all said half-jokingly. Even Christ is often depicted as very serious and angry, but some people who claim to see have said he was actually quite a joker, which is unexpected. And all these holy men, Indian gurus, whoever they are — they all joke. These things really should be a little playful and joyful.

If we return to architecture, what has attracted you to it all these decades?

Geometry — that's the magic word. All moods exist in geometry, and through geometry we translate cosmic things into human language. Geometry has immense meaning and power. Look at Rome, for example: everyone feels good there because the geometry is so ordered. Toompea works the same way here.

A feeling arises, and you start drawing geometry. In teaching, there are different views — some say students shouldn't start drawing right away, that they need to analyze, read articles for months, make notes, statistics, and only then draw. I tell my students: start drawing immediately, start scribbling right away. Then something begins to emerge from the subconscious, or from the cosmos, or God knows where. Then you look at it, decide what it is, and start analyzing it.

The same thing fascinates me in painting. I look for themes — I might want to do something related to Paris or Burano — and then geometric visions start appearing.

And where does the human being fit into all of this?

It's all for humans. I imagine that behind everything is the human being. This world we talk about, what's around us, what we do and dream of — it exists in our heads. Without us it wouldn't exist. Some think that if we weren't here, everything would still go on. I think everything happens in our heads — it's a collective vision. So humans are at the center of everything. Buildings are made to human scale, to human proportions. Windows must be at a height where you can look outside.

Is architecture treated more sensitively when something new appears in the cityscape because we see buildings as something eternal? Sculptor and lecturer Kirke Kangro has said that we treat public art as too permanent, and that it's actually normal for an artwork to exist in the city for a few decades and then disappear. Maybe we shouldn't see everything as final?

That's how it is. At the same time, it's nice when something in architecture is a bit more lasting and doesn't age so quickly. Some buildings are already being talked about demolishing after just 20 years. But if something has real power — like Linnahall — you can't just tear it down. Nobody is going to demolish my buildings easily either. I also have collective farm centers, and even though rural life has changed and shrunk, those buildings are still standing.

You've often said that you treat architecture as art, and that your buildings are your artworks. They're very bold and stand out in the cityscape, which brings criticism. Are we too conservative — do we get scared as soon as something new appears?

I don't think so. People generally like new and interesting things. Criticism is more complicated. It often comes from colleagues — maybe there's a bit of envy. Ordinary people don't react that way. Reactions vary a lot.

Maybe the overall mentality is too rational. Everything is measured in cost, and so on. But people increasingly need interesting things. New things are unfamiliar at first. People say it ruins the view. Even I'll soon have a building in front of my studio, and I won't be able to see my Three Towers anymore. But if you don't see them, you don't see them. A city is a process — something else comes.

I like people, I treat them well. People are different — one way, another way. I still start from myself, and then others will like it too. Often it's like this: at first people don't like it, but later they get used to it and start liking it. Kadrioru Plaza was criticized at first, but now more and more people like it. I don't worry about it. I only worry if I don't like it. If I'm satisfied, everything is fine.

Nobody likes criticism, but the main thing is to have ideas, commissions, and the chance to do interesting things. There's always too little interesting work — there should be more.

Are our architects too restrained?

We're doing okay. Take this City area we're in — it's quite nice. Everywhere else there are tall downtowns; ours is pretty pleasant. Our average level is quite high. Maybe we could have more top-level architecture — something bolder and better.

You once said in an interview that there's always been noise around your work. How do you stay yourself in all that noise?

Lately I see criticism more as fuel. Sometimes it makes you angry, and that gets energy moving. The worst thing is silence — when something is finished and nobody praises or criticizes it. When there's noise, energy moves. Then there's something there. The more time passes, the more I feel the cards are in my hands. I know I'm doing the right thing, and people who understand are appearing more and more.

In the US, big stars want attention around them — even staged attention. For me it happens naturally. I don't have to do anything. Even negative criticism is advertising. For an artist, it's necessary.

How much freedom are you given today as an architect? How much arguing is there with clients?

You generally listen to the client, but you also have to protect your own idea. If you let everything get changed, the value disappears. I have a client right now, otherwise a great guy — the house design is approved, the building permit is imminent, and then he says he wants to change something. But the time for changes is over. Either we don't change anything, or we make a new project. There were financial issues — I said I'd help solve those, but the core idea must not be ruined. Sometimes you have to argue and stand your ground. 

Looking back now, which two or three works are closest to your heart, that you're truly proud of?

You can see the former EVEA Bank building from here — that's a nice one.

There was a lot of noise around it at one point.

Yes, a plan was made with the neighboring plot, and there was an option that it would be built into it. People don't realize that in architecture projects and fantasies are constantly created — it doesn't mean everything gets built. That one was just singled out.

The Methodist Church, done with Ain Padrik, is a very cool project. The Three Towers building is good. Viru Keskus is also very good — it's extremely powerful. I really like that it's strong.

Viru Keskus is one of those buildings that provokes very divided opinions. It's been called the ugliest building in Estonia.

Beautiful or ugly — it's a powerful city heart. Is a heart beautiful? Take a heart out and look at it — it's a sack of something, but it's essential.

When it was finished, the bus terminal came there and everything suddenly started changing. Tallinn had been neglected and in poor shape. The 1980s were especially bad — it was a military city. Russian officers walked around with their nets, everything was dusty, a bit run-down. And suddenly this modern center appeared— it was a big deal. The city took a strong step forward. But the criticism was insane — mostly from colleagues, from critics married to colleagues. It was so massive that its effects are still felt.

I didn't even know people talked about it that way.

You're young — you wouldn't know. Foreigners certainly don't know it's supposed to be ugly. Inside there are all kinds of streets, glass elevators, escalators. It's powerful on the outside too.

In Tartu we have Tigutorn and the AHHAA Science Center—great works. From older projects, the collective farm centers are fun — Põlva, Peetri, Valgu. In Pärnu, the Tervis sanatorium, especially the newer part with pipes and structures — it's very exciting and fits well with the futuristic world of Viru Keskus. And of course my own home, made with my wife Liivi. The Elephant House — that's where new themes started coming from, and afterward I've done even more radical work. Art, architecture, and life are intertwined. These things really are dear to me.

And finally, life itself! It's great to simply exist. You don't have to be an architect or an artist — you're just yourself. You're the one standing in front of this great mysterious universe and communicating with it. That's what matters. What we feel, who we are, what comes next, where we come from and where we're going — these questions matter. There's no need to overemphasize creation. Creativity is very good for life — like fuel for a car — but it's not the only thing, or the most important thing.

When you look at buildings that have been added to Tallinn over the past 15–20 years, what feelings does the overall picture create?

Some things are good, some are maybe too boring, too commercial. Reconstructions of old blocks are quite nice; there are several good areas by the sea, and Rotermann Quarter as well. In North Tallinn near the port there are interesting things. In the city center there's less — it's a bit too restrained, a bit dull.

I see the city as an organism, in the middle of certain processes. Capitalism has taken a particular direction again, and there are many more directives. Maybe we've gone too far in bowing to Europe too. We're capable ourselves and should do our own thing more. That's what's exciting. My phenomenon is that I've always done my own thing. At times it's not fashionable, but now it's being spoken about positively again. There was a time when some people crossed the street when they saw me coming.

These days, the city architect also looks at street design. How are we doing with street space? The Methodist Church is striking, but has Narva Road, where it's located, reached its full potential?

Unfortunately, I'm not a believer in cycling in our climate. Not everything from Central or Western Europe works here. Okay, you build bike lanes, eliminate parking, and then restaurants go bankrupt because no one can get there — taxis can't pull up. What works in Kalamaja or along the waterfront doesn't work everywhere. Pärnu Road or Narva Road should be like Helsinki's Mannerheim Road. Cars and parking must exist too. People sit in cars — cars aren't for gorillas.

Especially in Nordic countries, where summer lasts three months and the rest of the year is bad or good skiing weather, cars are important. But ideologies get imported automatically, even when they don't fit. I like the traditional city like Paris — cars park here, cars drive here. We don't even have that many cars; there should be room for everyone.

They build bike lanes and the result is restaurants going bankrupt. Our office was on Pärnu Road — everything around went bankrupt because people couldn't drive there anymore. Even a 24-hour shop went under. I drove there once, got fined for flashing my lights. No one went there anymore. Across the street there was a Russian restaurant — same fate.

When you showed me your sketches and paintings earlier, Tallinn seemed important in your work. What is your dream Tallinn? Is Tallinn finished?

It's not. I do projects with students and on my own — we choose a place and start creating dream architecture. You need courage and will, not just a rational approach. I recently visited the new Swedbank building and asked a teller to show me around. I looked at how people work there, at the spaces. There's even a roof terrace where employees can rest and eat. We should have more things like that.

Right now there's a lot of architecture that says nothing. In the past, very exciting urban plans were created. Old Saarinen once made a very interesting plan for Tallinn. We made one in the 1990s — it was a special time. Total freedom: the old system no longer applied, the new one didn't yet exist. No European rules, no Soviet restrictions. Everyone was inventing things, founding banks, designing projects almost on their knees. It was a very creative time — the city was full of interesting people and ideas.

Let's move to painting, which is also a major part of your creative expression. You've been painting more actively for about ten years. 

More than that. I started actively exhibiting and painting on canvas in 2012. So that makes it… 

Fourteen years.

Actively. Before that I did watercolors, collages, installations. I've always been an architect-artist. But when I came to canvas painting and that specific world, I came with great intensity and enthusiasm. Enthusiasm is important — then the spirits come along too when they see that drive. Then they start cooperating.

Is painting freer than architecture?

Yes, a bit. I do everything myself from start to finish. Architecture requires collaboration — big teams, interior designers, clients, partners. There you're more like a director, if even that. With painting, I like doing everything with my own hands. Painting is something very special — there's nothing more powerful on this planet. I'm not very young anymore, but my health and mental sharpness come from there. You work and immediately feel where the energy comes from.

There are many art forms — graphics, sculpture, installations — but wealthy people buy paintings. They know what matters. I used to make small sculptures — no one wanted them. Collages sometimes sold. But painting is something else. Painting is like gold bullion — billions move through it. If there are big monetary reforms and everything loses value, I've got this stack of paintings here, and I know exactly what their future value is.

I have a Latvian friend, Aleksejs Naumovs — he paints outdoors a lot. We travel together to Italy and France. He likes watching me paint, even positions me in front of him. He once described me like this: I start by setting up the drawing — I'm an architect, everything is perfect, perspective is precise. But when I start painting, I become like a madman, like I'm sick. I've said myself that I paint like a gorilla. But that's the point — you let go, let things happen. Once you're in it, all energies arrive and you put everything into play. In the end comes the final blast, the most powerful part.

I've always been friends with artists. Artists accept me. Architects do too — but fewer of them. My son August is a very good artist. We've studied books together, visited exhibitions, traveled together all over the world.

Has August taught you too?

Of course. I learned a lot from him. For a long time I was like his assistant, helping him, going along, observing what he did. But it's mutual — I introduced him to my artist friends. We exchange energy. When you look at early Picasso, Dalí, Miró, Matisse — it's all the same. You can't even tell who's who. 

There's no problem between August and me — we're friends, we exchange impressions. No one has ever said, "You took my thing" — quite the opposite. Now there's a third one, Alberto, his son. He paints best of all. He's been here with me too, painting next to me. He creates interesting combinations. So we have our own little dynasty.

Your use of color is striking. How did you arrive at these bold colors? The same applies to your buildings — for example, Kadrioru Plaza startled some people at first because of its colors.

Color has been there from the beginning — primary colors have always been central for me. It's connected to modern painting. One secret is that I know art — modern art, art history, architectural history, cultural history. That's crucial. If you want to be a modern artist or a good architect, you have to know history. You have to be a fanatic. I've gone through all that. These days I may read less, but that stage is behind me.

As for color — those bright tones weren't even in August's work initially. I started using them, and now he does too. Then there's my Latvian friend. Before I started painting myself, I saw a painting in a Riga museum with those same red tones — that was an impulse. Now we're friends. And of course Matisse — I loved his approach to color for a period. I also had a great teacher, Raivo Korstnik. He taught drawing but had an excellent sense of color. I learned a lot there. I'm still in touch with his children — his son Jürgen Korstnik even made a short film about me for an exhibition.

I can't praise painting enough! And I don't get tired of it — I just start again. I recently had a one-month pause while traveling and immediately felt something was missing. But once you get back into it, it feels so good. 

What inspires your creative work?

Who inspires men? Women, of course. What do men sing about? Love. That's the core impulse from which all creation begins. But energy exchange is just as important — students, friends, colleagues. They inspire me, I inspire them. Travel gives a lot too — new places, especially lesser-known ones, Eastern Europe with its unique spatial and aesthetic qualities. Russian architecture and the avant-garde have influenced me deeply. In the end, inspiration comes from everywhere — art history, travel, people, chance encounters. The important thing is to be open and receive it. 

Do you still have artistic dreams you'd like to realize?

Of course! To do things even better and more powerfully. That every work would contain a strong image and energy. As my late friend Lembit Sarapuu said: every new work must be better than the previous one. That's the goal. That's how development works — you don't repeat yourself, you move forward, add more, give more. Like a young soccer player: I go and dribble past everyone. That's the attitude. Look at Picasso — his strongest works came at the end. 

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