In Conversation with: Maciej Dusiciel Czarnecki
We talk to the Polish photographer and modernism expert known as Turysta Futurysta about turning everyday buildings into open-air museums, social history hidden in concrete, and why the future of cultural memory may start on your own street.
Maciej Dusiciel Czarnecki is a photographer and architecture enthusiast based in Poland, who treats modernist buildings not as static monuments but as living records of memory, culture and everyday life.
Through his book, with the same title as his social profile, Turysta Futurysta, he creates a personal archive of places that might otherwise remain unseen. The book is a touchstone photographic and philosophical guide to Polish modernism.
Anna, CEO and founder of MagnificentH, is herself Polish and deeply passionate about Polish culture and architecture. Finding beauty in the architecture around her was the spark that later grew into the concept of micro‑museums, so she was delighted to sit down with Maciej to discuss how a focused way of seeing can transform ordinary, threatened, or overlooked places into meaningful cultural collections.
Together, they explore how a place or single building can become the beginning of a living cultural record—and a micro‑museum.
Maciej, for readers who may know you only as Turysta Futurysta, how would you introduce yourself as a photographer? What kind of stories are you most drawn to tell?
I’m an architectural photographer who strives to create a kind of reportage about 20th-century architecture. Beyond architecture itself in the engineering sense – that is, the buildings – I also strive to create a story about what that architecture looked like and why. I want to show how trends and movements have changed in response to global and local events, and how designers have reacted to political and social changes. In this way, I strive to capture the genius loci – the spirit of a given place, which is shaped by all these factors – in my photographs.
“I strive to capture the genius loci – the spirit of a given place“
Architecture is the central subject of your photographic practice. Was there a specific moment or place that shaped this choice?
A little bit, a little bit not. I’ve actually been photographing architecture for as long as I can remember, since I received my first camera for my First Communion. Back then, due to my age, I photographed the architecture around me, growing up in a relatively post-communist landscape, on the site of a former Soviet garrison in Poland. Over time, my interests developed until they eventually narrowed back down to 20th-century architecture. My journey into Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway in 2017 was somewhat of a turning point; I narrowed my focus to modernism, struck by the socialist modernist architecture I encountered there.
Your work draws attention to modernist buildings that people pass every day. What do you notice first that others might miss?
My attention is primarily drawn to buildings that are preserved in a state close to their original state. The more “real” the texture, the better. People overlook such details as the texture and type of plaster, details and finishing materials, or proportions. Most people are conditioned to look for decorative ornaments in architecture. It’s an experience served on a silver platter and easy to digest. Modernism is more difficult to appreciate because its value is often not immediately apparent. On the contrary, its lack of ornamentation makes it seem less valuable than historical styles, but this is a very superficial assessment, though unfortunately very common.
I grew up in Poland seeing modernist buildings as “grey” and “cold.” Today I see beauty in them, and when I read your narratives alongside your photographs, they feel like messengers of culture, history, and time. What first drew you to modernism, and how did you start enriching these buildings with stories?
The aesthetics were definitely what first attracted me. I simply love the simplicity and the methods of expression; I’ve never been a fan of Baroque or Classicism, which I find so overstimulating for me. And with each passing week, I delved deeper into it, discovering new stories – from the large scale, such as the influence of economics and politics, to the small scale, i.e., the individual stories of individual architects, investors, and users. The 20th century was a very dynamic period, marked by many changes, and the architecture of Modernism strongly reflects this.
You’ve said that modernism brought human needs into architecture, not just new forms. How did that idea change the way you look at buildings from the 20th century?
Paradoxically, proof of modernism’s success is that its contributions are invisible today. Its contribution to architecture seems so obvious today that we don’t even seek out the hero who gave it to us. That “hero” remains anonymous, often reduced to a few well-known architects from the early days of the era. Modernism didn’t exploit the structural possibilities offered by technological advances in building materials to build even more lavish palaces for a narrow aristocracy, but rather to create a welcoming space for the working masses – providing them with light, air, greenery, hygiene, sanitary facilities, and a few more square meters of living space.
“proof of modernism’s success is
that its contributions are invisible today“
Poland has a particularly rich and complex modernist heritage. How does that history of post‑war reconstruction, socialism, and transformation after 1989—shape the way you photograph and interpret these places?
Above all, it drives me to document what has survived as quickly as possible. The capitalist approach to construction makes old buildings economically inefficient – investors want to squeeze even more profit out of them, not necessarily to the benefit of society. For this reason, I must hurry before more buildings are destroyed or rebuilt. Raising awareness of the value of this architecture is also one of my most important goals.
The book features more than 200 locations. How did you choose which places to include? Which building or site was the most challenging to photograph in a way that felt true to its story?
The selection process was difficult, as my archive comprises over 20,000 photos from several thousand locations. I chose visually compelling images that fit the book’s narrative. The most difficult part was probably entering private homes, yet I managed to enter a few – which I’m most pleased about.
What can Polish modernist architecture specifically tell us about, compared to other modernist buildings in other regions of Europe?
Polish modernist architecture was a remarkable synthesis achieved in a time of widespread scarcity. Despite belonging to the Eastern Bloc, our architects clearly gravitated toward Western modernism. The system imposed numerous limitations, including mass prefabrication and standardised construction. Architects and investors had to overcome several economic and systemic challenges to realise some projects. Polish modernism is, in part, the history of the Poles, a nation always trying to get its way.
You photograph both well‑known landmarks and much quieter, local buildings. Which types of modernist buildings do you see as most at risk of disappearing or being radically altered, in Poland and elsewhere?
Recreation-related facilities are most at risk. The socialist system brought Poland systemic recreation on a scale previously unknown – factories owned dozens of holiday homes and recreation centres for their employees. Built during a time of shortage, these were the first to clash with capitalism in the 1990s. Foreign capital entered with modern hotels, which undermined the idea of intimate relaxation. These facilities were often built in attractive natural locations, which today are a tempting morsel for investors focused solely on privatising profits from natural resources.
What could heritage organisations, municipalities and local communities do differently to protect twentieth‑century architecture?
Architectural designers and curators should raise awareness of the role architecture plays in creating living spaces. Architecture should play a responsible social role, not be merely a tool for speculation by a narrow group of interested parties.
What impressed or surprised you most when you started looking at modernism in other countries?
I was very surprised by the diversity of modernism. Modernism, in its assumptions, tended somewhat towards unification, developing trends such as the International Style – almost the same in every corner of the globe. And yet, practically everywhere I went, I could admire dozens of varieties of local modernisms, rooted in local culture and local materials. I hadn’t expected such diversity before.
“I recommend everyone start by
walking around their neighbourhood”
Are there modernist buildings outside Poland that have influenced the way you see Polish architecture? Which places feel like “siblings” or “cousins”?
I was deeply influenced by the New Khmer Architecture of Vann Molyvann in Cambodia, a great example of combining modernism with local traditions in a postcolonial setting. The architecture of Zbigniew Trzebiński, a Polish architect responsible for around 70 hotels in Kenya, also gave me food for thought. I’m also impressed by the creativity of the Japanese Metabolists and their relaxed approach to humour in architecture. Central European architecture seems most relatable to me – I envy the Czechs for their approach to this heritage, which is much more positive than in Poland.
When you arrive at an unfamiliar building, what do you notice first?
I always try to see as many nooks and crannies as possible, even if the buildings are fairly well-known and I know roughly what to expect. Then, you can always find an interesting frame, a seemingly insignificant detail, or, above all, additional spatial relationships between structures. In the case of buildings I’m unfamiliar with, I’m usually so engrossed in the tour that it’s hard to remember what I was actually doing – sometimes I remember it as if in a dream, and the photos remain the primary record of what I saw. Over the years, I’ve begun to pay more attention to finding relationships between details rather than the overall structure of the building and its urban relations.
You lead photographic and architectural walks. What happens when people encounter these places together?
The crowd is always very diverse – both in terms of knowledge of architecture and photography. From beginners to advanced. This was an interesting experience for me, because you have to be able to appeal to both, and when you’re deep into a topic, it’s easy to forget that some people might simply not understand what I’m talking about. During photo walks, we often offered equipment for loan – some were complete beginners and were afraid to ask about the basics, and therefore weren’t able to use it. I remember a memory card with only overexposed photos because someone accidentally set the sensor sensitivity to ISO 102400 on a sunny day, causing them all to turn out white – and they didn’t say anything during the entire walk about anything being wrong.
How can photographers and creators contribute to architectural preservation?
You simply have to keep creating and not get discouraged when things don’t work out. We often face hopeless situations, or the algorithm is against us. It takes a lot of determination and consistency to reach a wider audience. If you don’t have that, simply sharing important information from other creators and organisations is very helpful. But I recommend everyone start by walking around their neighbourhood – the network of smaller, local creators across the country is a huge strength.
