Are brutalist buildings worth saving—or should we tear them down?

When Berlin’s sci-fi-esque Institute for Hygiene and Microbiology—affectionately and fearfully known as the “Mäusebunker” (literally “the mouses’ bunker”)—was spared from the wrecking ball in May 2023, a collective sigh of relief rippled through the architectural community. For years, the asbestos-laced concrete landmark had faced imminent demolition after its original function as an animal testing laboratory became obsolete. The Mäusebunker’s last-minute rescue raised a fundamental question: if an intimidating, toxic, and highly specialized structure like this can be saved, what makes Brutalist buildings “worth” preserving—and how?

Emerging from the postwar drive for reconstruction and a new democratic monumentality, Brutalism spread globally, from the United States and Japan to Latin America. Consequently, the threats these buildings face today are as diverse and complex as the geopolitical contexts they occupy, ranging from structural aging and functional obsolescence to social stigma and political erasure.

Today, many of these structures are regarded as obsolete, costly to maintain, and socially problematic. To better understand the shifting paradigm of Brutalist heritage, Domus spoke with Javier Ors Ausín, Senior Manager of Special Programs at the World Monuments Fund (WMF), and Oliver Elser, Curator at the Deutsches Architekturmuseum (DAM) and editor of SOS Brutalism – A Global Survey (2017).

Toronto’s Ontario Science Centre (OSC), designed by Raymond Moriyama and inaugurated in 1969, serves as a chilling case study of “demolition by neglect.” Unlike many monolithic structures, the OSC is a sprawling complex descending gracefully into the Don River ravine. It exhibits masterful Brutalist qualities, combining varied textures of raw concrete with monumental, sculptural forms. Widely regarded as the world’s first interactive science museum, it holds deep cultural significance for the local community.

Javier Ors Ausín, Senior Manager of Special Programs at the World Monuments Fund (WMF)

Yet the threat it faces is profoundly political. In 2024, the provincial government abruptly closed the facility, claiming that porous roof panels faced a high risk of collapse under winter snow. Private donors even offered funding for repairs, which the government declined. Because the site sits at the intersection of a major new transit line, critics argue that structural deterioration has been weaponized to justify demolition, paving the way for a privately developed waterfront megaproject.

Perhaps the most difficult threat to confront is public disdain born from social failure. Across Europe, Brutalist design was frequently employed for large-scale social housing projects intended to embody the ideals of modernist urban planning. London’s Aylesbury Estate, designed by Hans Peter “Felix” Trenton (1963–1977), is emblematic of this struggle. Built to house socially vulnerable families, the vast concrete complex was conceived as a utopian response to urban density. Instead, chronic underinvestment and inadequate maintenance turned it into a symbol of social disadvantage.

Today, the estate is undergoing phased demolition after local authorities failed to properly assess whether refurbishment could offer a viable alternative. The situation recalls the long architectural “civil war” surrounding London’s Robin Hood Gardens, where prominent architects fought to save a landmark of New Brutalism while 75% of residents supported its demolition due to years of neglect. “When a building has failed socially, environmentally, technically, or economically, those failures must be taken seriously,” argues Ors Ausín. “The most responsible position is not to save everything or demolish everything. It is to prove the case.”

Despite these challenges, public opinion has begun to shift. Over the last decade, a renewed fascination with Brutalism has emerged. Driven by initiatives such as SOS Brutalism and amplified by social media, where Brutalist aesthetics have flourished, the movement has found a passionate audience. Oliver Elser notes that the term “Brutalism” has evolved from a negative descriptor into a badge of honour and a marketing tool. Today, Brutalist aesthetics appear in blockbuster film sets, cafés, and even high-end restaurants such as Stockholm’s Brutalisten.

The visible aging of poorly maintained concrete often makes these buildings appear harsh and forbidding. While older generations tend to associate them with postwar bureaucracy, younger audiences seem increasingly drawn to their sculptural power and material honesty. Yet aesthetics alone do not explain this renewed interest. There is also a powerful pragmatic force behind Brutalism’s resurgence: ecology. The environmental cost of demolition is immense. Brutalist megastructures contain vast quantities of embodied carbon. “Keep it, repair it, transform it,” Elser argues, “should be priority number one. Only in exceptional cases should demolition be allowed.”

Between demolition and total preservation, a third path is increasingly emerging: transformation. Boston’s Erich Lindemann Mental Health Center, designed by Paul Rudolph in the early 1970s, offers a particularly compelling example. A masterpiece of poured-in-place concrete, it was conceived as a therapeutic environment. Yet as approaches to mental healthcare evolved, Rudolph’s highly specialized design became increasingly anachronistic. Critics labelled it “intimidating” and ill-suited to contemporary models of care.

Oliver Elser, Curator at the Deutsches Architekturmuseum (DAM) and editor of SOS Brutalism – A Global Survey (2017)

Rather than pursue demolition, however, a different strategy was adopted: adaptive reuse. By retaining the existing structures while introducing new residential and social functions, the project demonstrates how architectural value can be extended through transformation rather than erasure.

“Ideally, sites of this type would integrate a conservation management plan. When that threshold has already been crossed, however, hybrid rehabilitation becomes essential,” says Ors Ausín.

The rescue of the Mäusebunker and the ambitious redevelopment of the Lindemann Center demonstrate that another path is possible. The greatest threat today is a lack of imagination: the assumption that if a building is flawed, it must necessarily be destroyed. “Preservation is not about resisting change, but about managing it with intention and care,” says Ors Ausín.

The challenge is neither to preserve everything nor to erase what is uncomfortable. It is to “prove the case”—and to embrace change without erasing memory, shaping a more thoughtful, inclusive, and sustainable built environment for future generations.

Opening image: Mäusebunker, Berlin. Photography © Felix Torkar. Courtesy of SOS Brutalism