Two pieces of chocolate. That was all Stefan Suchanek initially needed to make an entire audience question its own perception. The supposedly larger piece changed as soon as the arrangement changed, while the chocolate itself remained exactly the same size. “These two pieces are the same size,” Suchanek revealed, neatly demonstrating how quickly the brain can see something that objectively is not there.
Suchanek opened the programme at SommerWerkschau26 on 16 July 2026 at Munich’s Alte Fruchthof. According to DesignWerkschau, around 560 guests from architecture, interior design, design and retail attended that evening. The Munich-based business psychologist and spatial architect spoke about neuroaesthetics – and about what spaces may do to people before the conscious mind has managed to construct a reasonably sensible explanation.
“The body reacts before the mind,” was how Suchanek condensed his central argument. It is a good line for a stage, not least because it casually challenges a substantial part of the rational language traditionally used to justify architecture. Floor plans work, circulation works, fire safety hopefully works too, materials are certified and the technology is efficient. None of that necessarily tells us whether people enjoy being there, feel safe there or remember the place at all.
Suchanek therefore brought out one of modernism’s most famous principles: “form follows function”. For decades, he argued, architecture had pursued maximum functionality while “somewhat neglecting psychology”. As a verdict on a century of architecture, that is fairly athletic. It becomes more interesting, however, when Suchanek is not arguing against function but expanding its definition: a technically perfect room that leaves people completely cold may not be functioning quite as perfectly as its specifications suggest.
To demonstrate the point, Suchanek first showed photographs of Paris, Athens, Venice and Tokyo. The audience recognised the places almost immediately, and a murmur moved through the room. People associate such images with “an enormous amount of emotion”, he said. Cities have faces, memories, cultural codes and enough peculiarities to make a label with their name largely unnecessary.
Then he showed airports from those same cities, and the game became considerably harder. There was plenty of white, glass, light, grids and international efficiency – cleanly planned, carefully organised and often difficult to connect to a particular place. Suchanek described this as an “expert-layperson dilemma”: planners and clients have created buildings that “function wonderfully” but increasingly struggle to create “that murmur, those emotions”.
You do not have to blame the modern airport for the disenchantment of the world to understand the point. Architecture can be technically excellent and still remain emotionally remarkably inconsequential. A terminal may move thousands of people per hour with impressive efficiency yet have so little character that, after landing, you barely know whether you have arrived in Paris, Athens or somewhere between Gate B42 and the next duty-free shop.
This was where Suchanek introduced neuroaesthetics. The field investigates links between aesthetic perception and processes in the brain. He referred to neuroscientist Semir Zeki, one of the influential researchers associated with the field, and turned that research into a fairly ambitious demand for design: spaces should address not only the rational mind but also the physical and emotional processes involved in perception, behaviour and decision-making.
In Suchanek’s hands, this quickly becomes a substantial toolbox. Light, colour, proportion, surfaces, perspective, natural structures, shelter, overview and movement are not decorations to be added shortly before opening day. They may influence whether people feel safe or nervous, whether they become curious, whether they move faster or slower and whether a place has any chance of remaining in memory.
When discussing memory, Suchanek brought Eric R. Kandel into the story. He was rather generous with the chronology on one detail: the Austrian-born American neuroscientist did not receive the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 2012, but in 2000, together with Arvid Carlsson and Paul Greengard. Kandel’s research on signal transmission, learning and memory nevertheless matters to Suchanek’s broader argument because it shows that long-term memory is not simply a larger storage folder in the brain but involves complex biological processes.
Suchanek turned that into a stage-friendly formula: the journey into long-term memory involves protein kinases. Then came the joke that clients might want to eat enough protein if designers expect an interior to remain memorable. The audience was allowed to laugh, and thankfully no nutritional programme for developers followed.
The serious thought behind the joke was much more useful: experiences that become aesthetically or emotionally relevant have a better chance of being remembered. Suchanek pointed to holidays as the obvious example. People may recall particular places, colours and atmospheres years later while struggling to remember what happened at nine o’clock three mornings ago. Architecture does not therefore become a memory machine, but the question of why some spaces stay with us while others pass through without leaving a trace is certainly a design question.
Suchanek became even more interesting when he moved from memory to movement. “Do you want to see whether your customers feel comfortable in your buildings?” he asked. “Look at how someone walks.” It initially sounds almost too simple. Yet Suchanek developed it into a small observational theory: at the beach, people do not merely walk, they stroll. Their pace slows, their feet drag slightly and the body appears less tense.
His conclusion was that anyone trying to understand the effect of a space should not only ask people how they feel but watch what they do. Do they slow down? Do they stop? Do they look upwards? Do they seek protection along the edge or move naturally through the centre? Architecture receives a physical response long before a user survey has been processed.
Suchanek offered an entertaining example from Ikea. The company, he said, had experimented with slight gradients because people might move more easily and with greater relaxation on a gentle downward slope. Churches and cathedrals had long used spatial direction and changes in level to shape movement. At Ikea, however, the construction required to achieve the effect apparently became too expensive. The idea that screed costs ultimately defeated neuroaesthetics is, at the very least, one of those stories that does remain in the memory after a lecture.
Suchanek did not allow tall spaces to remain merely tall spaces either. Churches are not high by accident, he argued: people straighten up, look upwards and alter their posture. He connected this observation with the familiar idea of “power posing”, according to which expansive body postures might affect experience and behaviour. Some distance is useful here, because the more spectacular hormonal effects originally associated with power posing have not been reliably reproduced in later research.
That does not make the design question any less interesting. Architecture does change posture. A low ceiling affects the body differently from a nave, and a narrow passage differently from an open square. But it is worth resisting the temptation to turn those relationships into a hormonal light switch for architects. There is still a fairly large building between plausible effect and precisely controllable biochemistry.
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Two pieces of chocolate. That was all Stefan Suchanek initially needed to make an entire audience question its own perception. The supposedly larger piece changed as soon as the arrangement changed, while the chocolate itself remained exactly the same size. “These two pieces are the same size,” Suchanek revealed, neatly demonstrating how quickly the brain can see something that objectively is not there.
Suchanek opened the programme at SommerWerkschau26 on 16 July 2026 at Munich’s Alte Fruchthof. According to DesignWerkschau, around 560 guests from architecture, interior design, design and retail attended that evening. The Munich-based business psychologist and spatial architect spoke about neuroaesthetics – and about what spaces may do to people before the conscious mind has managed to construct a reasonably sensible explanation.
“The body reacts before the mind,” was how Suchanek condensed his central argument. It is a good line for a stage, not least because it casually challenges a substantial part of the rational language traditionally used to justify architecture. Floor plans work, circulation works, fire safety hopefully works too, materials are certified and the technology is efficient. None of that necessarily tells us whether people enjoy being there, feel safe there or remember the place at all.
Suchanek therefore brought out one of modernism’s most famous principles: “form follows function”. For decades, he argued, architecture had pursued maximum functionality while “somewhat neglecting psychology”. As a verdict on a century of architecture, that is fairly athletic. It becomes more interesting, however, when Suchanek is not arguing against function but expanding its definition: a technically perfect room that leaves people completely cold may not be functioning quite as perfectly as its specifications suggest.
To demonstrate the point, Suchanek first showed photographs of Paris, Athens, Venice and Tokyo. The audience recognised the places almost immediately, and a murmur moved through the room. People associate such images with “an enormous amount of emotion”, he said. Cities have faces, memories, cultural codes and enough peculiarities to make a label with their name largely unnecessary.
Then he showed airports from those same cities, and the game became considerably harder. There was plenty of white, glass, light, grids and international efficiency – cleanly planned, carefully organised and often difficult to connect to a particular place. Suchanek described this as an “expert-layperson dilemma”: planners and clients have created buildings that “function wonderfully” but increasingly struggle to create “that murmur, those emotions”.
You do not have to blame the modern airport for the disenchantment of the world to understand the point. Architecture can be technically excellent and still remain emotionally remarkably inconsequential. A terminal may move thousands of people per hour with impressive efficiency yet have so little character that, after landing, you barely know whether you have arrived in Paris, Athens or somewhere between Gate B42 and the next duty-free shop.
This was where Suchanek introduced neuroaesthetics. The field investigates links between aesthetic perception and processes in the brain. He referred to neuroscientist Semir Zeki, one of the influential researchers associated with the field, and turned that research into a fairly ambitious demand for design: spaces should address not only the rational mind but also the physical and emotional processes involved in perception, behaviour and decision-making.
In Suchanek’s hands, this quickly becomes a substantial toolbox. Light, colour, proportion, surfaces, perspective, natural structures, shelter, overview and movement are not decorations to be added shortly before opening day. They may influence whether people feel safe or nervous, whether they become curious, whether they move faster or slower and whether a place has any chance of remaining in memory.
When discussing memory, Suchanek brought Eric R. Kandel into the story. He was rather generous with the chronology on one detail: the Austrian-born American neuroscientist did not receive the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 2012, but in 2000, together with Arvid Carlsson and Paul Greengard. Kandel’s research on signal transmission, learning and memory nevertheless matters to Suchanek’s broader argument because it shows that long-term memory is not simply a larger storage folder in the brain but involves complex biological processes.
Suchanek turned that into a stage-friendly formula: the journey into long-term memory involves protein kinases. Then came the joke that clients might want to eat enough protein if designers expect an interior to remain memorable. The audience was allowed to laugh, and thankfully no nutritional programme for developers followed.
The serious thought behind the joke was much more useful: experiences that become aesthetically or emotionally relevant have a better chance of being remembered. Suchanek pointed to holidays as the obvious example. People may recall particular places, colours and atmospheres years later while struggling to remember what happened at nine o’clock three mornings ago. Architecture does not therefore become a memory machine, but the question of why some spaces stay with us while others pass through without leaving a trace is certainly a design question.
Suchanek became even more interesting when he moved from memory to movement. “Do you want to see whether your customers feel comfortable in your buildings?” he asked. “Look at how someone walks.” It initially sounds almost too simple. Yet Suchanek developed it into a small observational theory: at the beach, people do not merely walk, they stroll. Their pace slows, their feet drag slightly and the body appears less tense.
His conclusion was that anyone trying to understand the effect of a space should not only ask people how they feel but watch what they do. Do they slow down? Do they stop? Do they look upwards? Do they seek protection along the edge or move naturally through the centre? Architecture receives a physical response long before a user survey has been processed.
Suchanek offered an entertaining example from Ikea. The company, he said, had experimented with slight gradients because people might move more easily and with greater relaxation on a gentle downward slope. Churches and cathedrals had long used spatial direction and changes in level to shape movement. At Ikea, however, the construction required to achieve the effect apparently became too expensive. The idea that screed costs ultimately defeated neuroaesthetics is, at the very least, one of those stories that does remain in the memory after a lecture.
Suchanek did not allow tall spaces to remain merely tall spaces either. Churches are not high by accident, he argued: people straighten up, look upwards and alter their posture. He connected this observation with the familiar idea of “power posing”, according to which expansive body postures might affect experience and behaviour. Some distance is useful here, because the more spectacular hormonal effects originally associated with power posing have not been reliably reproduced in later research.
That does not make the design question any less interesting. Architecture does change posture. A low ceiling affects the body differently from a nave, and a narrow passage differently from an open square. But it is worth resisting the temptation to turn those relationships into a hormonal light switch for architects. There is still a fairly large building between plausible effect and precisely controllable biochemistry.