Era of Pay-to-Stay Urbanism Ending: Snøhetta

Cities are learning how to let people in again; not through landmark towers, but through something more subtle—removing barriers. Fences are disappearing. Lobbies are opening. And in their place, a quieter but more radical idea is taking hold—the rise of what global architect and Snøhetta co-founder Kjetil Thorsen describes as “cappuccino-free zones”. “You should be able to walk into a space and not have to buy anything to belong there,” Thorsen says. It’s a simple idea, but it marks a fundamental shift in how cities are conceived and experienced. The end of transactional space For decades, contemporary cities have been shaped by transaction. Office towers with imposing and guarded foyers. Public plazas edged with cafés where seating is reserved for paying customers. Retail-dominated environments where lingering without spending is quietly discouraged through hostile architecture. But for Kjetil Thorsen, architecture has never been just about buildings. As the co-founder of Snøhetta, he has built a career—and a global practice—around rethinking how people move through and experience space. And that transactional model is being re-evaluated, Thorsen says. “We’re [encouraging] ‘cappuccino-free zones’—places where accessibility is free,” he explains. “You don’t have to pay to sit down.” ▲ One of Kjetil Thorsen and Snøhetta’s first projects to exemplify non-transactional spaces was the Library of Alexandrina. This shift is not about eliminating commerce from the city, but rebalancing the relationship between public and private space—ensuring that the civic experience is not contingent on getting your wallet out. Developers are recognising that successful places invite people to stay, not just pass through. Thorsen visited Australia this month to see Snøhetta projects, including Mirvac’s Harbourside development, Tea House by Monno in Melbourne, and the Glasshouse Theatre, where it applied its acoustic expertise alongside lead architect Blight Rayner. Rise of the civic living room Unlike many design movements, this shift hasn’t been driven by a single moment or manifesto. But the signs are unmistakable. “If you look at our relationship with fences, you can see that fences are disappearing,” Thorsen says. In parallel, buildings are becoming more porous. Ground planes are opening up. Lobbies are evolving from controlled thresholds into extensions of the public realm. Once markers of private space, they’re now reimagined as civic living rooms—places to meet, rest or simply exist. “You can walk into this lobby, and you don’t have to buy anything,” Thorsen says, pointing to Brisbane’s latest offering, The Glasshouse Theatre. “The power of design is inviting you in at a different level.” Designing for belonging At its core is a shift towards architecture as experience. “Architecture is a social art form,” Thorsen says. “Why would certain parts of the city be dedicated only to certain types of people? It’s about diminishing the threshold between first-time users and those who feel comfortable entering.” ▲ The Glasshouse Theatre in Brisbane, designed by Blight Rayner in partnership with Snøhetta. Pictured are Michael Rayner, Gumji Kang and Jason Blight. He says accessibility is key—not just technically, but socially and psychologically. Thorsen says this can be achieved through transparency, openness and physical design—but also through something more intangible: a sense of permission. Spaces that feel shared, not controlled. “You have to be able to touch things, sit on them, walk under them,” he says. “Architecture must engage the body.” It’s a departure from more formal, observational approaches to design. Instead of being admired from a distance, buildings are increasingly becoming immersive environments. This is where cappuccino-free zones become particularly powerful. People can move freely and make a space their own, Thorsen says. The overlooked value of in-between space The rise of more open, accessible environments also brings renewed attention to the spaces between buildings—the often-overlooked pockets of urban fabric. “We are still underestimating urban ecologies,” he says. “We’re underestimating the value of utilising every possible space.” From narrow laneways to residual plots, these areas hold enormous potential. With minimal intervention—planting, seating, shading—they can become vital components of the public realm. In denser cities, these micro-spaces may prove as important as major civic projects, according to Thorsen. And it has been a lifelong commitment to urban ecologies that led the vertically integrated Snøhetta to champion landscape architecture as a key aspect of design. “We are genetically wired to respond positively to beauty,” he says. “I think getting cities closer to their public is key,” he says. “Making sure you can feel it, touch it—almost be intimate with it. “If architecture doesn’t move you, it has no effect.” ▲ The Norwegian National Opera and Ballet ( left ) returned the water to the people. Civic realm was equally important in the Shanghai Opera House. And for Thorsen, as Snøhetta inches closer to four decades in business, from Oslo to a global architecture practice, the future is one where human creativity partners with digital technologies and AI. AI is just another layer of complexity While AI is often framed as a threat or breakthrough, Thorsen sees it as far less binary. “It’s just another layer of complexity into what we do,” he says. For an industry that has already undergone multiple technological disruptions—from hand drawing to CAD to advanced parametric modelling—AI is less a rupture and more a continuation, according to Thorsen. “In the end, we are providers to AI much more than we are users,” he explains. “Every time you post something on the internet, it becomes part of that information stream that others are drawing from.” Architectural knowledge, once shared through publications and built work, now feeds a vast digital ecosystem. “But we can’t rely on AI alone,” he says. “This is an analogue and visual profession at the same time.” That duality is critical. Architecture, unlike many other fields, is deeply rooted in materiality and physical experience. It cannot be fully abstracted into data sets or rendered outputs, Thorsen says. “You have to hold a piece of wood in your hand to understand it,” he says. “You have to work with materials, with clay, in the model workshop—as well as in the computer.” Rather than replacing traditional methods, AI is simply becoming part of how architects work. The process now moves back and forth between physical and digital—starting with hand-made ideas, turning them into digital designs, and sometimes bringing them back into physical models, alongside concepts that exist only on screen. “We keep moving back and forth,” he says. “Even constructing a building is part of the creative process—not just the design.” Thorsen believes the future of architecture won’t be defined by technology, but by how well it serves people—and how thoughtfully it balances innovation with the fundamental need for connection, belonging and shared space.

Era of Pay-to-Stay Urbanism Ending: Snøhetta

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