Ervin Nagy belongs to that small – and ever-shrinking – group within the architectural profession for whom architecture is not “merely” a trade, but far more: a lifelong vocation. Their vast erudition and admirable moral integrity are expressed almost exclusively through their public activity; as private individuals they are barely “visible”. They exist only insofar as they create architecture.

This is especially true of Ervin Nagy, whose publications and interviews deal almost exclusively with professional matters. “It is not the creator but the creation that matters.” His personal life has only appeared in brief flashes – yet, as with every genuine artist, such moments inevitably shape and influence the course of his creative career.

Nagy is the son of a typical Buda middle-class intellectual family: his father was an economist, his mother a lawyer. “We lived modestly, but piano lessons, German lessons, and tennis were compulsory,” recalls the architect, born in Budapest in 1950, of his childhood. His father could only find work as a manual labourer for years, yet in the evenings he read Homer to his children and listened to Bartók with them. For his generation, the 1956 Revolution was an unavoidable formative experience. Though he was too young to take part, the heroism of his uncles, the displaced friends who moved to them from their bombed-out flat, and the relatives who fled abroad all left a deep imprint on his life.

He explains, with matter-of-fact simplicity, that he had always wanted to become an architect. The summers spent at his maternal grandparents’ holiday house by Lake Balaton and on the lakeshore with friends were filled with the usual childhood activities – wandering, swimming, exploring – and with building. In the slowly reviving postwar Balaton atmosphere, this was entirely natural. As he puts it: some children played sports, some played instruments and found fulfilment in that; he preferred to build, construct, and draw with his friends.

In the sixth grade of his Budapest elementary school, his drawing teacher alerted his parents to the child’s above-average talent for drawing. He continued his education – following family tradition – at the Benedictine Grammar School in Pannonhalma, which was the best in the country in the 1960s. He describes what he took from those years in an intriguing way: “Our excellent teachers trained us to stand on our own two feet. We lived under harsh conditions: the building was cold, the food inedible – but they expected us to perform well.”

That was not exactly a glowing recommendation for university admission. Yet, thanks to his strong academic performance, his achievements in national competitions, and a bit of the “cleverness” necessary for survival in those days, he was admitted to the Faculty of Architecture at the Budapest University of Technology.

His university years in the early 1970s culminated in a diploma project that already contained the seeds of his later formal explorations – the design for a Nemzeti Lovarda (National Riding Hall) in Hortobágy. The floor plan’s organization, the duality of the riding hall’s main volume and the attached stable wings, reappeared in several of his later designs. The anthropomorphic appearance, the complex carpentry structure, and the distinctive spatial form and section reminiscent of Imre Makovecz’s ideas about “minimal space” hint at the indirect influence of the Master. At the same time, the intricate timber structures and their inherently poetic beauty already revealed that this was a most exceptional architectural talent.

Given this background, it was perhaps no coincidence that through mutual friends and acquaintances, Imre Makovecz noticed him and invited him to work in his studio. At that time, the Master was employed at the state development company VÁTI, working on the plans for the Sárospatak Cultural Centre, and he immediately threw his young colleague into the deep end. On the very first day, he handed him a drawing and said: “Well, my boy, carry this on!” The sketches showed the arched glass canopy above the main entrance of the Sárospatak Cultural Centre. Designing the geometry of the “arches above the two eyes” was a major challenge for the young architect – but also a tremendous honour. Without hesitation, the Master entrusted him with one of the most crucial details of what was then his magnum opus. This gesture, and of course the Master’s human and professional qualities, formed the foundation of a lifelong, unbreakable bond between the two. “In opportunistic Kádár-era Hungary, Imre Makovecz began to draw proud buildings that radiated the strength of spirit and patriotism. His dedication, worthy of Lechner, combined with an extraordinary sense of form, produced houses that exploded with elemental power into our vegetating everyday life – so much so that politics could not completely marginalise him. He achieved international recognition greater than any Hungarian architect before him,” Nagy recalls of those beginnings.

In the autumn of 1977, with the help of Professor Zoltán Szentkirályi and his Master, he travelled through Europe for two months on a study tour, producing sketches and slides for the Department of Architectural History. He has continued to travel, photograph, and draw extensively ever since.

The following years were filled with the Master’s ongoing projects – including the development of the Rákóczi Street block in Sárospatak, the exhibition hall of the Reformed Library of Sárospatak, and the design of the Cultural Centre in Jászkisér. After a few independent projects – such as the enigmatically named Turul House in Tatabánya and an apartment building in Buda – his first realized “building” was a small glass pavilion.

The location was extraordinary: the Libyan Embassy on Stefánia Road, originally built as the villa of sculptor György Zala and designed by Ödön Lechner. This steel-and-glass structure, reminiscent of a crystalline form, marked the origin point of Ervin Nagy’s interpretation of organic architecture, as later works would show. From 1982 to 1985, he completed the seventh cycle of the Master School of the Association of Hungarian Architects.

In 1983, together with Imre Makovecz and Zoltán Koppány, he became a founding member of the MaKoNa design cooperative, undertaking architectural projects as private entrepreneurs – a bold innovation in a country where design work had previously been conducted almost exclusively within state institutions. Two defining residential buildings from this period designed by Nagy are the Rohonyi House in Balatonalmádi and the so-called Patikaház (Pharmacy House) in Sárospatak.

The Balatonalmádi design is based on the duplication of an existing press house, with the space between the two identical, angled parts of the building becoming enclosed. The enclosed wings contain the living and service rooms, while the larger, higher central space serves communal life. The simple, gabled ends built from local stone and the open, wooden-pillared structure of the living space are unified under a warmly undulating thatched roof. This L-shaped family house archetype would later reappear – refined and monumental – in his villa designs around the time of the regime change.

The story of the residential block on Rákóczi Street in Sárospatak unfolded according to what might be called a “typical Makovecz dramaturgy”. Imre Makovecz did not wish to keep the direct design commission for the development entirely to himself – instead, he involved his colleagues (Ervin Nagy and Ágnes Kravár) as well as fellow architects from the region whom he held in high esteem (István Ferencz and Csaba Bodonyi). Each was invited to design one of the apartment buildings, thereby expressing their personal vision of multi-unit housing – at a time when the panel-house factories were operating at their peak. The Patikaház (Pharmacy House), designed by Ervin Nagy, occupies one of the most interesting positions within the composition: it stands at the end point of the central axis and incorporates a passageway. The symmetrical building contains shops on the ground floor (including a pharmacy), while the upper floors each hold two rows of five apartments of roughly equal size. The plans were distinctive for their open, spacious common corridors that allowed neighbours to meet and interact under humane conditions. The flats themselves avoided the then-standard “functional” – yet often unlivable – layout clichés. At their centre was a generous dining and living hall, from which the living room, bedrooms, and service areas opened.

The building’s anthropomorphic massing – articulated with towers – almost invites passersby from the main street to enter, and it vividly illustrates Nagy’s architectural language. “He designed a very beautiful and very interesting house – far better than what I was doing at that time,” Makovecz recalled of his student in a 2005 interview.

From the mid-1970s onward, Makovecz and his colleagues from the Népművelési Intézet (Institute for Popular Culture) (Pál Beke, Tamás A. Varga, and Zoltán Szentpéteri) travelled across rural Hungary, visiting the local Kultúrház buildings to breathe new life into these socially engineered yet lifeless institutions of socialism. Following the destruction of the self-organised, democratic community associations that had flourished between the two world wars, committed cultural workers sought – often against the grain of official thinking – to heal a sick society by rebuilding human communities from the peripheries upward. Makovecz and his peers provided the architectural framework for this renewal, designing buildings that enabled such processes to restart under conditions as ideal as the era would allow.

The regionalisation policy of the early 1980s effectively sentenced countless small settlements to extinction, and thus their focus naturally shifted toward these endangered villages. As strange as it may sound, the first step in their revitalising efforts was often the removal of the doormen – followed by the creation of an inviting entrance space. Over the years, as they came to understand the users’ real needs, a spatial and organisational concept gradually crystallised: one that, through the simplest use of materials, minimal funding, and an abundance of enthusiasm, led to the renewal of an ever-growing number of community houses (faluházak). All this, of course, was usually accomplished under the disapproving gaze of the communist authorities.

Nagy Ervin infused these buildings with his own ideas: the use of wood, a partly central but always clearly comprehensible spatial organization, and an insightful interpretation of his Master’s formal language. One of the best examples of this is the Ceglédpuszta Community House, whose story he recalled as follows:

“There was a very interesting experiment of ours… in a small settlement called Ceglédpuszta, in Baranya County, where there was nothing – no road, no church, only the plain. And a dilapidated pub, where you could buy milk and bread, and people were there from morning on, as they had nowhere else to go. The village was inhabited mostly by Roma families. Together with my friend, the cultural organizer Zoltán Szentpéteri, we decided to change that. We had no money at all, but at that time I had an exhibition in Vienna, which some German journeymen visited. We started talking, and they said they were traveling the world to learn their trade – they’d gladly work with me too. I said, ‘Go ahead.’ We built the community house together; the wood came from the nearby forests. It became a central space, a bit like a church. From then on, gatherings and weddings were held there; folk dancers performed, and people came to teach – farming, agriculture, how to handle crops, how to sell something. A house was built, and it still functions today. But it also shows that if someone other than the architect hadn’t wanted this house, it wouldn’t have worked. Healing is only possible if the patient also wants to heal.”

The building, designed in 1984, despite its small size, is one of Nagy Ervin’s most important works – by his own account as well – both in human and architectural terms. Because building in an organic mindset was not just about proportions, forms, or materials. Nor was it only about political defiance. It was at least as much about normality – what we would today perhaps call social commitment.

A few of the settlements where Nagy Ervin designed such buildings between 1983 and 1987: Bodajk, Kunágota, Letenye, Csurgó, Somogysámson, Zirc, Szenta, Nagypeterd, and Bóly. Unfortunately, only a few were actually built, but those that were not only fulfil their function well – they also embody significant architectural values. The Zirc Community House plan involved connecting two small-town, street-front buildings with an intermediate timber structure – a towered, columned section with an atrium. The floor plan is functionally clear and dramaturgically perfect. The realized Somogysámson Community House, with its pure white walls and dignified roof planes, reinterprets the world of vernacular architecture. The distinctive timber structures that dominate the interior already appear in the exterior space. The spatial experience created by the roof structure resting on its gnarled “forked” pillars conveys the sentiment that has often been quoted about this generation’s architecture – “it radiates the power of spirit and patriotism.” It was truly avant-garde architecture on the periphery.

The Letenye Library – now a protected building – nestled in the shade of one of the great plane trees in the park of the Andrássy Mansion, evolved as a continuation of the Ceglédpuszta Community House, slightly larger in scale but maintaining its transparent, radial, gallery-like interior organization. The helmet-shaped roof structure, a hallmark of the architect’s style, is here more open: the spaces between the wooden columns are entirely glazed. The double-dome structure is supported by twelve bare tree trunks, while above them rises a more complex timber roof structure and a gallery level with unique railing details.

In the catalogue of the 1985 Hungarian Living Architecture exhibition, Imre Makovecz posed fourteen questions to nineteen exhibiting architects – friends exploring the individual aspects of organic architecture – among them Nagy Ervin. He described organic thinking as follows:
“For me, ‘organic’ does not mean biomorphic, but ‘endowed with a soul’, something of a higher order – something more, in the way a tree is more than a stone… For me, it is not an ‘ism’, not a stylistic movement, but the expression of a deep, essential unity.”

This somewhat abstract formulation becomes entirely tangible and experiential upon entering any of the community houses listed above – each a self-contained entity, just as are the increasing number of family houses he designed from that period onward.

The surge in single-family house construction around the time of the regime change was especially evident in the practice of architects representing organic architecture. Those who had the means – and who, after decades of socialist monotony, longed for something unique or at least tailored to their own needs (instead of standardized designs) – almost inevitably found their way to Imre Makovecz. With characteristic generosity, he passed on commissions to his students and colleagues. It was, as Nagy Ervin later put it, a “select circle of clients – people you could look up to, from whom you could learn a great deal as human beings, and with whom professional relationships often turned into friendships.”

One of his important family houses, the Szemesy House in Ady-liget, differs in its spatial organization from the previously discussed community buildings. Although its floor plan is also clear, it is not central but additive – a quality likely dictated by its residential function. The entrance is placed at the center, with the adjoining foyer–hall–staircase space dividing the house into two parts: toward the street are the bedrooms and service rooms, while toward the garden stretch the living–dining–kitchen spaces. The latter are more freely formed, with open roof structures visible above the high-ceilinged rooms. The stone-clad building nestles among the large oaks deliberately preserved on the plot, blending into the forest like a woodland creature. The creature-like impression is heightened by the face-like appearance of the street façade.

At the time of the regime change, there was not only a boom in residential construction but also a wave of design commissions for larger public buildings – though few of these were ultimately realized. Among the unbuilt projects were the first version of the Csurgó Community House, the Galyatető Ski Lodge, and several design variants for a hotel complex on the Prímás Island in Esztergom. In a sense, these continued the conceptual idea of his thesis project: a central main mass flanked symmetrically by side wings, each ending in a pronounced “cocoon”-like volume. Yet in the treatment of details, an evolution, a maturation can be observed – wooden columns gave way to constructed pillars, roof structures became distilled into signature forms, and façades were composed of rhythmic vertical elements. The buildings appear complex and yet precisely organized – above all, infinitely proportional.

The most refined and realized example of this concept is the Csurgó Cultural Centre, located on the corner of a “typical” small-town square, standing as a counterpart to the historicist town hall across from it. Its distinctive floor plan is matched by a remarkable main façade that fits into the small-town milieu with such natural ease that it feels as if it had always stood there – a true representative of Csurgó’s Reformed heritage.

Between 1989 and 1990, Nagy spent a period working in an architectural office in Sweden, where he became familiar with computer-aided design programs. Upon returning home, he decided to adopt this method of drafting, but in his own way: for months, he refused to pick up a pencil, forcing himself to learn to “draw by computer.”

Undoubtedly, the defining building of his career is the Hattyúház (Swan House) in Budapest, which expresses the principles of organic architecture in a completely different, urban context. The design began in 1987, commissioned by a mysterious entrepreneur. The early plans were astonishing – even today it is difficult to grasp the motivation that inspired the vision of such a building at the foot of Buda Castle. The first sketches hinted at a romantic architectural creature, but as the design evolved, a clear architectural concept emerged. Construction began in the early 1990s, halted for a time, and then continued under new ownership.

On the steeply sloping plot – bordered by three streets and descending more than eight meters – a perimeter-style complex was built that, one can say, was entirely unprecedented in Hungarian architecture. The building has no “less important” side: every corner, every visible and invisible part was supervised by the architect with the same level of care, even under – to put it mildly – far from ideal construction conditions. The massive building speaks a consistent architectural language, yet subtle variations and modifications make it lively and richly diverse. The emphasized corners articulate the structure well, showing one face to the urban lower side along Hattyú Street and another to the upper side facing the Castle. The building’s architectural vocabulary divided professional opinion and compelled even laypeople to take sides. At the time, there was simply no conceptual framework for people to place such a structure within their post-regime-change worldview. Time, however, has proven the architect right in every respect. As the Kossuth Prize-winning architect Péter Reimholz wrote in 2006, eight years after its completion: “All in all, the building stands victorious after all these years – not because it shouts louder than others, but because its stubborn, masculine integrity has kept it from blending into the mass.” It resisted the dictates of money and, against speculative capital, achieved an architectural quality that has since remained rare. At the opening of a 1998 exhibition, Imre Makovecz praised the building in these words: “I claim that it is one of the architectural wonders of Europe. It follows no contemporary trend – it arises solely from an uncompromising search for truth. And any of my Western European or American colleagues who see it will rightly say: this is impossible!”

Even if Nagy Ervin’s architectural career had ended with the realization of the Hattyúház (Swan House), one could still say that he played a defining role in late 20th-century Hungarian architecture. Yet, with his 2001 appointment as chief architect of Budapest’s 12th District, he proved his distinctive thinking and principled integrity in an entirely different field. He understood well that this was not an “ordinary” municipal architect’s position – it would demand a different approach than his earlier work in Balatonakarattya since 1989. Setting aside his private practice, he threw himself wholeheartedly into developing the district’s regulatory plan.

“When we were working on the urban plan,” he recalled, “we spoke with thousands of residents, held consultations in gymnasiums and schools. What matters is not what the architect wants, but whether society itself wants it.” In this respect, the residents of Budapest’s Hegyvidék district proved exceptional – as did the sensitivity of the submitted designs, shaped largely by discerning and influential clients. Almost without exception, they encountered open-minded, educated, and inquisitive conservative intellectuals. Nagy established a design council composed exclusively of Kossuth and Széchenyi Prize-winning academic architects, supported by his office’s impressive (geo)informational infrastructure. Though the council’s work, due the prominence of the district, occasionally drew criticism, it became clear that this was the only meaningful way to talk about architecture. He also benefited greatly from the support of his mentor, the Academy, and the broader architectural community.

As chief architect of the district, Nagy fought to ensure that Imre Makovecz could build a major work there, as the architect had been unjustly marginalized in Budapest for political reasons. The result was the Church of St Michael, the grand Upper Krisztinaváros Parish Church – a project that would later play a major role in Nagy’s own life.

Another lasting achievement of his years in the 12th District was the team of young architects he mentored – a group that amplified his influence and carried forward his architectural philosophy. This was crucial, for after serving as district chief architect from 2001 to 2008, he went on to take an even greater responsibility in 2011: that of Chief Architect of Hungary. The years between these two appointments were marked by extensive travels, smaller yet significant commissions, and, notably, the Alternative Kossuth Prize, awarded to him in 2006. It was not his first major distinction – he had received the Award for Hungarian Art in 2003 and the Gold Medal of the Hungarian Academy of Arts in 2004 – but the prestige of the Alternative Kossuth Prize was heightened by its awarding committee, which included Tibor Gyurkovics, Marcell Jankovics, Imre Makovecz, Miklós Melocco, and Imre Schrammel. In 2005, he was elected a full member of the Hungarian Academy of Arts.

The 2010 change of government brought a turning point in Nagy Ervin’s life as well – it led to his appointment as Chief Architect of Hungary, under the guiding motto: “Healthy modernity grounded in tradition.”

In his application, he argued for reducing the bureaucracy burdening the architectural profession, involving respected experts in decision-making, and improving the country’s general culture of environment and design in the long term. As he wrote:
“I see from my own practice that good examples are far more effective than prohibitions. It is shameful that society treats architecture, drawing, and material culture as subjects from which one can be ‘exempted,’ as if they were unnecessary. We see where this has led – to distorted personalities and a run-down country. Our universities produce endless graduates in construction-related fields, but most are merely technicians skilled in ArchiCAD. Only one or two universities still produce truly responsible, capable architects. We must rely on them – on the Hungarian Academy of Arts, the Master School, the Itinerant School, the Association of Hungarian Architects, and the Chamber. We must finally understand that we have only one country, one built environment – and it must be managed together. The era of ‘limited company’-style leadership must end.”

He emphasized that every architect must have a “native fluency” in their craft, while also being given the practical opportunity to create quality architecture. For this, he argued, Hungary needed design competitions, architectural councils, and above all – a nationwide network of chief architects.

He traveled throughout the country, holding ongoing consultations with architects and professional organizations, and these open, good-humored conversations led him to an important realization: the problems were everywhere strikingly similar. He found a closed yet cohesive community where nearly everyone knew everyone else – there were no unbridgeable divides between architects. He sought to articulate fundamental values upon which long-term professional cooperation could be built. Drawing from Vitruvius, he identified durability, utility, and harmony as the essential virtues of good architecture.

Technically, he did not consider Hungarian architects inferior to those of any other nation – but he felt that too few regarded their own culture as a source of value. Yet Hungarian vernacular and classical architecture, he argued, were every bit as refined as their Western counterparts. For him, the Hungarian architectural language was a real, living thing – something that should become world-renowned, following the example of Bartók. “Every architect,” he said, “must be excellent in their craft, which requires traveling the world – but then one must return home, with a heart that remains Hungarian.” His great role models were Ödön Lechner – whom he considered, alongside Imre Makovecz, the most original Hungarian architect of international standing – and the organic tradition they both embodied.

During his five years as Chief Architect, Nagy Ervin prepared the National Architectural Policy document, a comprehensive concept for simplifying building regulations, and the framework for a national network of chief architects. The National Architectural Policy has since been officially adopted; his other initiatives have only been partially realized so far, evolving continually amid the shifting nature of day-to-day politics.

On March 15, 2016, he received the Kossuth Prize, “in recognition of his architectural achievements that have cultivated the organic tradition by carrying forward the forms and motifs of Hungarian vernacular architecture, and for his work in preserving values within national architectural policy and professional advocacy.”

Living with his wife, the ceramic artist Mónika Mokk, in an old villa on Svábhegy, together with their two grown children – Domonkos, an IT specialist, and Anna, an interior designer – and their grandchildren, Nagy Ervin continues to work with relentless devotion on his master’s last unbuilt magnum opus: the Church of St Michael. He spends ten hours a day creating CAD models, determined to see the building finally realized.

[2016]