Architect Kulapat Yantrasast doesn’t just build design-forward structures; he builds sites of empathy that lower the barriers to cultural participation. The founder of WHY Architecture begins by asking why spaces should be built, but ultimately, he asks to whom these spaces should open their doors. From the newly opened Dib Bangkok to the soon-to-rise Kontempo Center for Contemporary Art in Makati, Philippines, Yantrasast champions architecture that is open, porous, and deeply inclusive—one that blurs the boundaries between institution and community.

For Kulapat Yantrasast, architecture is about people. As the founder of WHY Architecture, which has built a global reputation designing museums, cultural institutions, and civic spaces, his work focuses on a deceptively simple question: who gets to belong? Whether in Bangkok, Los Angeles, or New York, Yantrasast is interested in architecture as a catalyst for connection.
That philosophy is evident in two of his recent cultural projects. In Bangkok, the newly opened Dib repurposes a 1980s steel warehouse into a raw architectural concept inspired by Buddhist enlightenment. In Makati, the forthcoming Kontempo Center for Contemporary Art extends a similar ambition. Set near the Pasig River within Circuit Makati, the museum is conceived as a porous institution that dissolves the boundaries between gallery, city, and landscape. Designed in collaboration with the Philippine firm Lor Calma &amp; Partners, the project draws from qualities embedded in Filipino life—openness, climatic responsiveness, and communal gathering.
For Yantrasast, such permeability is more than an architectural strategy. It is a social one. At a time when culture, politics, and technology increasingly fragment people into separate worlds, he believes museums and public spaces can serve as sites of empathy: places where strangers encounter one another, where curiosity triumphs over exclusion, and where institutions become more accessible to those historically left outside their doors.

I’d love to create places, maybe gardens, temples, museums, and communities that allow people to understand who they are and why they are on this earth.

What drew you close to museum work? 
We do other things too, but of course, I’m known for museum work. I really like art and culture, and that’s always been my interest. I spend a lot of time looking at art. A lot of my friends are artists and curators, so it became natural for me to work in that field, which is one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes you’ve got to do what you love. That’s me.
As an Asian working in the US, what responsibility do you feel as an architect and creator in today’s increasingly turbulent world?
Architecture has a role in the world to connect people. As an architect, you could really design something that allows people to like each other. One of my ultimate goals is to design something that allows people to love each other.
If you design a house, it’s very important because people live in it. If you don’t design it in a way that allows people to have their own lives together and separately, they can end up not liking each other. So, design has a big influence on life in general.
Museums have a very important role as a place. They’re what I call the “sites of empathy,” as they allow people to like each other. In a world where everything is extremely fragmented, even social media is very siloed. You’re in this echo chamber of people who think like you, or the algorithm thinks you should connect with.
A museum is a place where you go and really appreciate the life, culture, and art of other people. That’s when you can really develop love and understanding for others.
How did you arrive at this point of view about empathy? You mentioned before that Tadao Ando was all about clarity of thought. How did you develop your own philosophy?
I realized that I love culture and the culture of all places. It doesn’t have to be my own culture. Art doesn’t have a race. We’re all connected in that sense.
I remember being struck at a young age by seeing artwork from other civilizations or other cultures. I grew up with my father being Chinese and my mother being Thai. We got along well. It was integrated but very different.
Culture has a way of flowing into each other. You might see someone else as not from your culture, but you can still appreciate their food, music, art, and many other things. It has a soft way of connecting and gluing things together.

As an Asian, was it difficult for you to live and work in the US? 
I came to the US later. I was born in Thailand and lived in Japan for 15 years before moving to the US. I moved there as a professional.
America is a country of immigrants. Do I think there are people prejudiced against me? I’m sure there are. But I just don’t pay attention to them. I focus on the people I want.
The good thing is it’s such a big country. You don’t need everyone to like you. You just need to find your own community, your own tribe that allows you to exist the way you want to live. It’s refreshing because it doesn’t have the stigma of having to stick with everyone else.
In America, you can dream, you can have ambition, you can be who you want to be. The American Dream is still alive and real. Looking back, I don’t think I would’ve been able to do what I’ve done in other places, including Thailand or Japan.
What were your early influences growing up?&nbsp;How did you end up working for Tadao Ando?
I didn’t plan on being an architect or artist when I was young. I was a good student, so I was destined to become a doctor or engineer, or something like that.
My parents weren’t rich at all, just middle class, but they wanted to give me education and exposure. I remember they bought encyclopedias and books about the world. There was a book called Wonders of the World. I remember looking at the Taj Mahal, palaces, Machu Picchu, all these wonders. I was maybe five years old. I remember thinking, “Whoa, what are these places? Humans made them.”
That really stayed with me. It built my love for architecture—not just modern architecture, but ancient architecture, placemaking, gardens, things like that.
You’ve mentioned your love for Japanese gardens. Do you have favorites? 
I have many. It depends on the season. I love Katsura Detached Palace. I love the rock garden of Ryōan-ji in Kyoto. Shugakuin Rikyū is another favorite—a palace on the mountain, much bigger than Katsura. I also love temple gardens.
There’s not really a bad garden to me. Gardens are places where you contemplate life and contemplate your own stories.

Was Japan important to your understanding of identity and architecture?
When I was younger, in high school and university, I was very obsessed with identity. I wanted to know what the right architecture for Thailand was. Growing up, we didn’t really have many good examples of architecture. We had big buildings with roofs put on them and people saying, “This is modern Thai architecture.” Or office buildings that looked American. There wasn’t really a sense of Thai style or Thai living.
I wanted to find out what contemporary Thai architecture could be. When I thought about studying abroad, I realized I might not want to study in Europe or America because they have different problems.
I wanted to study in places that already had their own culture before modernization and westernization, places trying to blend modern architecture with their roots and traditions. I looked at Mexico, Brazil, and Japan.
Japan had many exciting architects at the time. I thought maybe I could learn from them how to integrate traditional design with modern architecture.
Do you think your interest in Thai identity has found a resolution?
Going to Japan exposed me to a different kind of thinking. I wasn’t following the Western way. The climate was different. It allowed me to think differently.
Eventually, I became less interested in Thai architecture specifically because I became more of a citizen of the world. When I was in Thailand, I was only thinking about building in Thailand. But once I was in Japan and elsewhere, I realized you work everywhere in the world. So, it became less about nationality and more about my own personal style and philosophy of design.
You don’t want museums to feel like white boxes anymore. Can you explain that? 
Museum work came later in my career, after I started my office in 2004. But I’ve always loved museums. Museums have a special place in today’s culture because life is so busy, things move so fast, and people are focused on technology. Museums become places of refuge, rest, and reflection. That’s why I’m very interested in museum design.

What sparked your interest in Kontempo specifically?
There was a competition and selection process. What drew me to it, first, is that I have always loved working in Asia. Maybe it’s because of my roots. I also feel Asians need cultural places because we are very commerce-driven societies.
I liked the idea of building a museum in the Philippines. I also loved the site on the river. I thought it had great potential.
I really connected with the vision of the Ayala Foundation. When I met with them, I felt excited and inspired. The country, the culture, the site, the client—all of it made me very excited about the project.
You’ve described yourself as a kind of matchmaker between art and people. What makes a good match in architecture?
Like any matchmaker, it’s not about you. It’s not about your ego. The more ego you put into practice, the less successful you’ll be because you’re the bridge between two different kinds of people. On one side, you have the art and the artists.
On the other side, you have people who might be interested in art or might&nbsp;never have understood art before. You try to connect them.
The museum has to present the art in a way that allows it to shine—through lighting, proportion, installation—so the intention of the artist comes through strongly.
At the same time, people coming in—collectors, children, people unfamiliar with art—need to feel comfortable. You should not design spaces that make people feel intimidated or unwelcome.
That’s why I’ve said we need to shift from a museum as a temple to a museum as a playground. A cultural playground. No one is intimidated in a playground. It feels inclusive. People can return to the same playground and enjoy it in different ways. There’s no hierarchy or fixed sequence. Museums should feel that way, too.

I don’t think anything is untouchable. You should contemplate everything. It’s important not to take anything for granted. But you should be inspired by history and extend it. I don’t really see anything as taboo. Maybe the way I see it is: you play with it.

How do you design architecture that acknowledges complexity without aestheticizing it too much?
A lot of architecture is a one-liner because it’s easy to make something strong and easy to understand. But architecture lasts forever. People don’t experience architecture only once. If your house is a one-liner, there’s nothing left to unfold over time. Nothing new to discover.
I try to make sure there’s clarity of design and intention, but many other elements can exist within that. Windows, walls, details—they don’t all have to agree perfectly with the same big picture.
You can have a main concept, but within it, there can be completely different compositions and details. If you’re good at it, you can do that. I talked before about Thai food. You can have salty, sweet, spicy—many flavors at once. Not everything has to be one taste. That’s what makes it worth enjoying again and again.
You once described yourself as a mix of sushi and pad thai. What did you mean by that?
I was talking partly about my Thai and Japanese background, but also about culture itself. Previously, culture was singular. Before, there usually was a king or a powerful authority deciding what culture and taste should be. It trickled down to everyone else. It’s very singular and exclusive. That’s sushi. Deep, refined, with one strong idea.
But culture today in the 21st century is moving from singular sushi to plural pad thai. There’s no longer one person deciding culture. There are many voices, many movements, many forms of art, all existing simultaneously. Some people see that as chaos. But I don’t think the world will return to one singular voice. Culture now is about creating unity out of difference and diversity.
When you design historic institutions, what is untouchable and what must be challenged?
I don’t think anything is untouchable. You should contemplate everything. It’s important not to take anything for granted. But you should be inspired by history and extend it. I don’t really see anything as taboo. Maybe the way I see it is: you play with it.

How did you learn not to be intimidated by institutions?&nbsp; 
I think it depends on how you see life. For me, life is about learning, discovery, and curiosity. I’m very curious. I always want to understand what people are thinking, why they do things the&nbsp;way they do, and what they find important. I don’t really see things as challenges. I always feel there’s a way to understand. That keeps me alert and young.
What invisible barriers do most institutions fail to see?
Museums are difficult places because many people feel museums are not built for them. They feel museums are only for wealthy people or people who already understand art and culture. Middle-class and lower-income people often feel intimidated and unwelcome. Those are the people we need to focus on the most.
People already interested in art will come on their own. But children and adults who haven’t had the opportunity to engage with art need invitations extended to them. That’s who I’m interested in because art has great potential to improve lives.
What milestones are you still looking toward at this point in your career?
I’m interested in work that elevates human life in general. I work a lot in cultural spaces and architecture connected to nature. One thing I’m very interested in is creating communities where aging people can live with dignity and grace.
We’re all going to die. I’m interested in multi-generational housing where different people live together, where older people can live long, healthy lives and die with dignity.
Older generations have so much to give younger generations, and vice versa. I’d love to create that kind of living condition—whether it’s a village, a building, or something else.
The other thing I’m interested in is empathy and peace.
The world is full of anger, ego, damage, wars, hatred, and killings. I think that will continue because we’re human. I’d love to create places, maybe gardens, temples, museums, and communities that allow people to understand who they are and why they are on this earth.

Open Plan: Architect Kulapat Yantrasast

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