Brutalism, metabolism, and modernism: in Perego’s photos, the irresistible allure of concrete

Concrete Mon Amour: The Raw Imprint of Modernism is Perego’s third photography book, following Soviet Asia and Brutalist Italy. It may also be his most ambitious: a sweeping exploration of Modernism across the Balkans, the Caucasus, Japan, Israel, and the Baltics, captured over more than ten years of travel.

“It was during a trip to the Balkans in 2015 that I discovered an architectural language speaking to me with unexpected intensity,” Perego recalls. “In Belgrade, Skopje, and Podgorica, I encountered buildings from the 1960s to the 1980s, defined by massive exposed concrete and daring, unconventional forms. These architectures didn’t ask to be admired—they demanded attention. It was like falling in love with something I had never even considered before.”

Published by Gestalten, the book documents 98 buildings across 29 countries. Brutalism, Soviet modernism, and Japanese metabolism are just some of the recurring threads: from the suspended capsules of Tokyo’s Nakagin Tower to the memorial sculptures of the former Yugoslavia, through Minsk’s “corn-cob” residential towers and sprawling university complexes in Estonia.

More than an atlas, Perego’s book is a journey into the complex reactions these structures continue to evoke. In some post-Soviet countries, they have been playfully repurposed or transformed into tourist attractions; elsewhere, they remain scars, vandalized or abandoned, tied to a difficult past. “In the former Yugoslavia,” Perego explains, “many socialist buildings are still perceived as reminders of a history people would rather forget. The conflicts of the 1990s and territorial fragmentation left behind a legacy that is difficult to manage, both economically and symbolically.”

Stefano Perego

Béatrice Grenier, curatorial director at the Fondation Cartier pour l’art contemporain, noted in Domus the global struggle to preserve modernist architecture, which—like Ontario Place in Toronto—remains vulnerable to misunderstanding and demolition. She highlighted an initiative by Uzbekistan’s Agency for Contemporary Development, which used restoration, adaptive reuse, and cultural projects to redefine the Soviet architectural heritage for Tashkent’s citizens.

Then there is the opposite, contemporary phenomenon: the celebration of these buildings within global urban marketing. From Tbilisi to Tokyo, many Modernist icons have become must-visit landmarks, widely photographed, and even gentrified. “Over more than ten years of exploration, I often returned to a city only to find a building I had documented missing or transformed, emptied of its original charm. These experiences made me realize that photography is not just an artistic tool—it is crucial for preserving memory, raising awareness, and sometimes prompting conservation efforts that might never have happened otherwise.”

For many, Modernism is “just concrete,” while for others, it is a meticulous exercise in study. For Perego, it remains above all an idea: “That sense of the future that defined the decades from the ’60s to the ’80s, when buildings were conceived as symbols of progress, novelty, and collective vision.” In a publishing landscape crowded with volumes chasing the next Soviet icon for a cover, what sets Concrete, mon amour apart is its ability to capture, in a single frame, the moment when those futuristic aspirations collided with the present.

Opening image: Peace Monument, Nugzar Manjaparashvili, Nukriani, Georgia. Photo Stefano Perego, Concrete Mon Amour, gestalten 2025