“Sometimes things are not what you thought they would be. However, it can be difficult to put your finger on why. Do I just not understand it? Am I bad at it? What exactly am I missing?”
Not everyone cares for traditional handicraft or vernacular architecture, and that is fine. But I love it. I love its beauty, its diversity, from carved wooden cups to colourful clothing, from timber houses to grass roofs. To lose these traditions would make the world poorer, more uniform. Keeping them alive ensures that knowledge, heritage, and cultural identity are passed on to the next generation.
Understanding these traditions also means understanding why things were made the way they were. They reflect both the availability of local resources and a deep knowledge of the environment. In a time when the building industry’s climate impact is critical, I believe older traditions have valuable lessons to offer.
My name is Ylva Seierstad. I’m 26 years old, and originally from a small sheep farm in the Lofoten Islands in Northern Norway. I am a recent graduate from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), where I hold a diploma in architecture.
I’ve always loved drawing and history, which is why I chose architecture; a field where I hoped to bring both interests together. Still, what I encountered was not what I had imagined. Throughout my studies, I felt I was missing something fundamental. At first, I thought I simply didn’t understand how architects were supposed to think and work, that I hadn’t cracked the “architectural code.” Later I realised that essential tools had been left out of our education, as if essential tools of the toolbox had been left out.
In recent years, Norway has seen the rise of an architectural movement reviving classical and vernacular traditions. It has sparked a lot of debate, often met with scepticism and even hostility among architects, but with genuine interest from the public. Through these debates, I realised what tools I had been missing. It was not that I was ignorant, but modern architectural education did not provide me with what I needed.
I was eager to learn more about traditional building crafts and to explore how these traditions can be applied in contemporary contexts. I have always loved the vernacular, from clothes and stories to crafts and buildings, and I thought that historical traditions would be an important part of our education. I was disappointed when they were only talked about in architectural history classes. They were not traditions to study and learn from, to further and build upon, but rather just still images in the architecture history book. Our projects could have been inspired by them, but they were rarely seen as a continuation. It was as if these techniques, facades, ornamentation, and knowledge were treated as artefacts. I was not the only one dissatisfied with the philosophies of our education. Several of my classmates felt the same way.
In my fourth year, I was lucky enough to take part in a classical studio, which introduced us to the “language” of the classical tradition, led by Professor Branko Mitrović, who had long taught the classical tradition abroad but was introducing it to Norway for the first time in decades. We studied Vognola and Palladio, learned to design façades using the five column orders, and also practised traditional techniques of the profession, like making final presentation drawings by hand and watercolouring them. The studio grew out of a small initiative when two students persuaded the professor. Mitrović to teach them about classical architecture, resulting in a library project. That ‘mini-studio’ inspired the trial studio launched in autumn 2023, with only seven of us committing before it was fully confirmed. Though I was initially skeptical, as I prefer knowing exactly what I will be doing, I am immensely glad I took part.
The way we approached both the design process and the drawings helped me understand the architecture I was creating. References were no longer just abstract inspiration; we used them to solve concrete problems in our plans and sections. If we faced a challenging junction, we studied how historic buildings had solved similar issues. This gave me a much clearer perspective on designing rooms and plans, focusing on transitions, relationships, and sightlines within the building.
The façade work was something I especially enjoyed. Previously, I had felt that ornamentation and visual beauty were discouraged. This time, it was the opposite. It mattered that the facades harmonised with one another and that their hierarchy of foundation, main body, and roof felt cohesive. There is a visual language to it, and we had to learn it. For me, this was something I had longed for.
Constructing the presentation drawings by hand was equally valuable. I enjoyed learning the watercolouring, but I also felt that the drawings communicated honestly. Unlike computer renderings, which can look too realistic and create false expectations, hand drawings make clear they are artistic portrayals. They provide just enough distance from reality, which can help discussions with non-architects.
Working out the shadows by hand was another revelation. I had always struggled to picture spaces clearly, even in 3D models. But when I had to mathematically construct the shadows, I finally understood the geometry. Because I had to calculate and draw with my own hand, I grasped depth and proportion in a way that the screen never gave me.
This studio showed me that there are other ways of approaching architecture than the one predominant in our education. And although it focused on the classical, I believe the same methods could apply to other traditions, especially the vernacular.
Making sure these traditions and this knowledge survive is important to me, and I believe the best way to do so is by continuing to use them, not only for repairing old buildings but also for creating new ones.
Some might ask why we should keep these traditions alive at all. Traditions disappear, new ones appear. That is true, and I welcome the development of new techniques. Despite this, I fear we too quickly dismiss older methods, not because they no longer work, but because they are “simple” and regarded as “old”. We treat technological complexity as superiority, but the people before us were not lesser for using other means. There is still much to learn from them.
My interest in vernacular and classical traditions can be summarised in two points. First, their aesthetic language, their beauty. I want our towns and cities to continue to be built beautifully, because our surroundings shape our well-being. This was partly the aim of my master’s thesis, where I studied the vernacular coastal architecture of northern Norway, focusing on the Lofoten Islands. I examined volumes, compositions, colours, and ornamental details, and used them as the foundation for an urban development plan for my hometown, Leknes, to preserve its character.
Second, I am drawn to the techniques themselves. Traditional log houses, common in Norway, are simple yet durable and easy to repair. Traditional insulation methods also fascinate me. For centuries Norwegians used what was at hand: sheep’s wool, moss between logs and around windows. I had the chance to try this myself in the summer of 2024, at a workshop run by the National Trust of Norway (Fortidsminneforeningen). These methods remind me that we do not always need synthetic materials; sometimes, traditional ones suffice. I grew up on a sheep farm, and I have seen how wool is undervalued, often wasted. Reviving these uses could make a difference.
Did you know?
In Norway, walls were traditionally insulated with sheep’s wool and moss packed between logs and around windows. These natural materials provided excellent insulation long before plastic and synthetic options became common.
Despite Norway’s long sheep-farming tradition, wool is often discarded as waste because of its low market value. Reviving its use in building insulation could both reduce waste and strengthen traditional practices.
Traditional Norwegian log houses are designed so that individual logs or sections can be replaced easily when damaged, making them both simple and remarkably durable.
During my studies, I sometimes felt pressured to invent something entirely new, instead of learning from established traditions. But we do not need to reinvent the wheel for every project. Innovation is important, but it should not mean discarding the old. Traditional methods and aesthetic languages are tools, and students should be taught how to use them – not just in history class or restoration, but in the design of new buildings as well.
Now that my time as a student has ended, I find myself uncertain of the path ahead. The profession is difficult, especially for someone like me, trying to stand with one foot in the modern world and one in tradition. But I know I want to help bridge that gap. A short course in window restoration this summer was one such step. In September 2025, I will join a project in Austria with European Heritage Volunteers, working on documenting historic bricks and tiles. From there, I hope to find my way forward, learning from craftsmen, honouring traditions, and helping to carry them into the future.
Ylva Seierstad
