Design Is a Journey—Buckle Up, Michele Gucciardi’s Got Stories

Design Director Michele Gucciardi’s journey into Architecture began with a sketchpad in hand and the quiet wonder of watching a Sicilian town rise from the aftermath of an earthquake. In this conversation, Michele reflects on a career shaped by curiosity, collaboration, and the belief that design is both deeply personal and profoundly human. 

How did your design journey begin?

I think, if I’m being honest, my design journey started long before I even knew what Architecture really was. I was maybe five or six when I said I wanted to be an Architect. I loved drawing—always have—but more than that, I was growing up in this place in Sicily that was being rebuilt after the earthquake in ’68. There was this energy in the air. These incredible Architects and artists were coming in, reshaping what had been lost, and people were paying attention with genuine respect. Even as a kid, I remember feeling the weight of that. The idea that you could help rebuild not just a place, but a future—that stayed with me.

When we moved back to Canada, I was very lucky. I ended up at C.W. Jefferys, which had this amazing art program. I was surrounded by teachers who believed in what they were doing and students who were just incredibly creative. That environment gave me the foundation I needed—not just technically, but emotionally—to keep going. I had been planning to go to the University of Toronto, but at the time, there were talks of closing their Architecture program. My parents said, why not study in Italy? We had family in Northern Italy, and the Politecnico di Torino had a great reputation. So, I did. And that’s how I ended up in Turin.

What was your university experience in Italy like?

My time at the Politecnico was... I would say, incredibly formative. The professors there were practicing Architects, many of them quite well known in Italy and across Europe. There was this professional lineage that traced back to Carlo Mollino. He was such a fascinating figure—almost a perfect embodiment of the futurist spirit. He designed everything—buildings, furniture, cars. A kind of creative force that did not fit neatly into any one category.

Many of my professors had worked with him, either in his Studio or through academic ties. So even if I never met him, his way of thinking was very present. That spirit of invention, of crossing disciplines—that stayed with me. I ended up doing my thesis with Gabetti and Aimaro Isola, who were teaching at the school. And after I graduated, I was fortunate to join Studio De Ferrari Architetti . Giorgio De Ferrari had also worked closely with Mollino, so again, that thread continued.

And beyond the faculty, there was just this constant exposure to ideas. It was not unusual to attend a lecture by someone like Achille Castiglioni. That kind of access, that everyday proximity to visionaries—it felt normal at the time. But looking back, I realize how rare and special it was. I was in the right place, at the right time. And I was very lucky.

And those experiences and the inspiration and the influences that you had during that entire period of schooling and working in Italy—do you still use some of that today?

Yes, I would say so. Even though being in Canada is very different from being in Europe—especially when it comes to culture and design—there are certain themes that feel universal.

It does not really matter where you are in the world; there are aspects of design culture that remain constant.

So yes, there are things I still use today that were truly shaped by those very formative years.

But after moving back to Canada, I’ve been able to better understand which parts of my approach were tied specifically to that period in Italy, and which parts come from what I have been exposed to since. I can see the difference now. Still, I would argue that most of those early influences are quite universal. Design culture today—especially modern design culture—feels very similar across the planet.

Looking back at your entire career, what are some of the things that have remained constant in how you do and view design?

I think the one thing that has really remained constant is the idea that every project is an adventure. You never quite know where you're going to end up—but you start with the same tools.

The first tool, really, is understanding the client. Everything stems from that.

When a client gives you a project—whatever it may be—the real question is: what are they trying to achieve? Not just the budget, which of course is important, but the why. Why are they coming to you to help resolve a design problem? That’s where it starts.

And then, understanding the context, the physical and historical context of that place, is essential. Every project becomes an opportunity to learn. I start with listening to the place. Places have voices. Some people call it a vibe—you can call it many things. I think of it as the genius loci—the spirit of the place. Almost like a silent music that you have to learn to hear.

And once you’ve listened, you have to decide how to respond. Will your design tune itself to that spirit and create a sense of continuity? Or, in some cases, if the genius loci is weak—or needs to be reawakened—will your design try to shift it, evolve it, maybe even challenge it? Those are the questions I still ask. Every time.

You also need to stay humble. You have to be able to say: I don’t know this person. I don’t know this client group. I don’t know this neighbourhood, if I’ve never worked there before. So, I have to get up to speed quickly. I have to learn.

You cannot be presumptuous. You cannot assume you can wing it, or what’s the phrase? Fake it till you make it. I absolutely do not believe in that.

For me, it’s about getting informed. Doing your research. Walking into the process with ideas that are grounded in all of those factors.

Has this view changed from the time you were just starting out to now, as you became more seasoned?

Yes, absolutely. I think when you’re much younger, most Architects have a philosophy—and there’s nothing wrong with that. But in those early days, there’s often this sense of me, me, me. My talent, my vision, my design philosophy. And then, as you keep learning, you begin to realize just how impossible it is to have a fixed method—or to think you know it all.

In the beginning, I too believed the outcome depended mostly on what I could do. But over time my approach to design has definitely evolved. Especially as the Design Director, it’s about what we can do together. I’m working with incredibly talented people who all bring great ideas to the table. Everyone on the team has a different perspective, and it’s really the conversation—the process—that moves the design forward. That collective energy becomes the driver. It’s never about me.

When people talk about “my design philosophy,” I have to admit—I cringe a little. Because that phrase makes it sound like you have a fixed method. But Architecture has become so complex. Every project is unique. There are too many variables to follow the same formula.

You have to rely on the knowledge of many people. And as the Architect—or the Lead Designer, or a Design Director—your role becomes more like that of an orchestrator. You’re listening, gathering input, guiding the team toward a resolution—not trying to find the answer on your own.

Having said that, what does design mean to you, and how do you inspire the team?

Design, for me, is about finding purpose. It’s about creating something that allows people to carry out the functions of their lives—whether that’s living, learning, working. I’ve done a lot of residential buildings, but also university projects and civic work, including some significant buildings for the City of Toronto. I’ve always been a bit of a nomad, to be honest. It’s only in recent years that I’ve really settled back in Toronto. But wherever I’ve been, design has been the throughline. It just became my life. Certainly, my professional life.

Of course, like anyone, I’ve had moments where I’ve wondered: what if I had done something else? Chosen another path? But those thoughts never last long. Because the truth is, design gave me a life. It gave me purpose. It gave me a profession. And it gave me the incredible experience of walking past a building—whether here or in another city—and remembering: “That used to be black ink on white paper.” And now it’s standing there. Real. Occupied. Alive.

That feeling… I’m completely hooked on it.

So when you walk by or pass one of the buildings that you’ve designed, what goes on in your mind?

I don’t think anyone—no matter how much I try to explain it—can fully understand the feeling you get when you see something that was once just an idea. It’s exhilarating. When we go on site and see a project nearing completion, it still fascinates me—how so many people come together to transform raw materials into something that will be lived in, worked in, used. And it all starts from conversations, sketches, models… ideas.

It’s hard to put into words. Sometimes I’m in the car with my family and I’ll say, “Look! We did that!” And they kind of look at me like, “Okay… so?” But I’m super excited.

It’s also kind of special when you’re travelling. I’ve worked on projects in Vancouver, Edmonton, Montreal, New York, Italy, Bulgaria—and of course, many in Toronto.

When you pass by one of your buildings, it’s like seeing a grown-up child. During the process, it’s closely connected to you—it’s part of you. But the moment you hand it over to the client, it becomes theirs. The gestation period ends. The building now belongs to others.

And yet, when you walk by it years later, you still see yourself in it. That building carries a piece of your life. There’s this physical connection. If you try to explain that—even to someone close to you—you have to be careful. They might think you’re crazy. But the truth is, it’s affection. You feel genuine affection for it.

Sometimes you also see things you would do differently now. You look at an older project and think, “Ah, that’s when I hadn’t yet learned this or that.” There’s a kind of naivety there. But that, too, is part of the journey.

Ultimately, it’s a feeling of connection. A kind of quiet pride. Like looking at an old photo of your grown-up children, now living their own lives.

As a Design Director, you mentor a lot of people in the Studio. What advice do you find yourself giving the most?

I think the most common one is: do your research. And the amazing thing is, we can do so much of that without even leaving our seats.

I started my career during a time of intense transition. In school, everything was still done by hand. It was almost Zen-like. Then technology arrived. By the end of my studies, I did my thesis on a computer, but the internet was still basic. Then, tools like Google Earth began emerging. I’ve lived through a period of rapid, profound change in how we design.

Design is a long process. You need a huge amount of energy and sustain it through every challenge that comes your way.

Don’t let the difficult parts of the profession bring you down. Counteract them with energy. Stay engaged. Use every tool available to push design forward.

And finally, be curious. Be excited.

Is there a project that has felt like a turning point in your career?

Well, one way to answer that is to say every project brings something new. But if I had to look back, I’d say the first real project I worked on after school was the turning point. Until then, everything that had been theory—essentially a set of beautiful drawings graded by professors. But suddenly Architecture became real.

It was a healthcare facility in Turin. I landed a full-time role at Studio De Ferrari Architetti right after graduation, and I was very lucky that one of the partners, Vittorio Jacomussi, took a liking to me. We lived nearby, and he would pick me up in the mornings—every day for about a year—and we’d go straight to the site.

We’d spend the mornings understanding what issues were coming up on the project, then return to the Studio in the afternoon to revise the drawings and keep things moving. That experience made the transition from theoretical to practical very real, very fast. Seeing the things I drew actually get built—that was pivotal.

Was there any piece of advice that you received during that time that you still carry with you?

Yes. One of the key lessons I took from that early experience was the importance of seeing compromises not as failures, but as opportunities. That mindset stayed with me.

Later on, when I came back to Canada in the early 2000s, I heard another piece of advice that I always try to share with others.

I remember someone saying in a lecture: “If you tell someone you’re going to do something—whether it’s sending a drawing by end of day or completing a task—do it.”

It sounds simple, but if you consistently deliver on what you say you’ll do, that’s when your career really starts to shift. People begin to trust you—almost without realizing it.

You can be incredibly creative or skilled, but if you do not follow through, your career will stall. Once I started putting that principle into practice, things began to change for me.

What role does collaboration play in your design process, and how do you ensure voices are heard?

I used to be someone who felt I had to do everything myself—out of fear, really, of relying on others. But that only gets you so far. And it’s not nearly as enjoyable. Over the years, I’ve come to understand that Architecture and design are deeply human. Collaboration is not just important—it’s fundamental to how we deliver projects today.

Communication and collaboration are closely tied. In our Studio, there’s no such thing as a one-person project. That just doesn’t exist. It’s always a team effort.

We often think collaboration is about what we say or contribute—but more often, it starts with listening. Listening and interacting. Yes, share your perspective, but also take the time to truly understand others.

For me, learning what drives and inspires people is crucial. We have incredibly talented individuals in the Studio, all coming from different backgrounds. Things always get more interesting when multiple points of view are at the table.

I try to create space where people feel comfortable sharing their opinions. And sometimes I have to be intentional about that—am I stepping back enough? Am I giving others the room to speak?

The challenge is making sure everyone walks away with a shared sense of purpose. That takes time—and we’re always racing the clock—but it’s essential.

What role has mentorship played in your journey, and who have been the individuals that left a lasting impact?

Great question. Mentorship—both giving and receiving—is incredibly important. Even before I knew what the word meant, I was always drawn to people who knew more than me. And that’s a lot of people.

I’ve always tried to stay close to people I respect in the field—to seek knowledge, to understand their truths, and to learn from their experience. Today, you can watch a lecture on YouTube from just about any respected Architect. But when I was younger, you had to travel. I would go to Milan or other cities just to attend a lecture in person.

As for mentors I had the fortune to work with vittorio jacomussi and Giorgio De Ferrari at Studio De Ferrari Architetti. They had an enormous impact on me. I still feel their influence in how I think, how I approach the work—sometimes even in how I dress.

When I returned to Canada in 2001, I joined Diamond and Schmitt and had the privilege of working with Jack Diamond on several projects. He’s no longer with us, but his impact on the city—and on me—was immense. Donald Schmitt as well, and a number of younger principals I worked with during that time.

Even now, though I’m the Design Director, I’m constantly learning from people like Russell Fleischer , Peter Turner , Jeremy Pope , John Chow , and Ellen Bensky . It does not matter how long you’ve been in the profession—surround yourself with people who know more than you and listen. Learn from them.

At Turner Fleischer, we’ve built the Studio around that idea: knowledge and knowledge transfer.

One of the things that makes this place special is TF Academy—our internal academic program. It’s rare in the industry. And it’s not just something we say we value—we invest real resources to make it happen. It gives everyone the opportunity to learn, whether from experienced colleagues or through structured sessions.

Even the word “Studio”—if you go back to its roots—comes from “study.” A Studio is where you go to learn, to practice.

That applies to everyone, not just juniors. After all these years, I still learn something new almost every day. Not just from new projects, but from conversations, from interactions. There’s always something being shared.

What are some of the biggest shifts that you’ve seen in the industry?

I’ve seen exponential growth in the appreciation of design—that wasn’t necessarily there in the early 2000s.

Social media has played a huge role in that. It’s indirectly educated the general public about what great design can look like and do. If you’re interested in Architecture, you can follow different feeds and stay connected to what’s happening around the world. Travel and digital exposure shape how people think—and that, in turn, influences the built environment.

Clients have also evolved in a really positive way. They’re more informed, more design-aware, and that makes collaboration easier. It helps us push the work further—and ultimately leads to better outcomes.

What is one design rule you seek joy in breaking?

There are moments when, if something’s not working visually, the instinct is to cut it off. But sometimes, instead of abandoning it—give it more space. I’ve always felt that good design is circular, not linear.

It might sound counterintuitive, but if you stay with an idea that seems off—where every alarm bell is ringing—and just give it a bit more oxygen, it can come back around and look phenomenal. Even when you didn’t think it would.

But you have to be careful—it does not always come back in a phenomenal way. Still, from time to time, I quiet my instincts, let the idea keep moving, and see if it circles back into something that actually works. That’s the rule I enjoy breaking.

What’s the most “very Italian” thing about you that your Canadian colleagues may tease you about?

I’m definitely guilty of using my hands a lot when I speak. And I think my facial expressions are pretty honest—maybe a little too transparent. That gets noticed (laughs).

Also, my name gets mispronounced a lot. It was my grandfather’s name, and I’ve kept it in the Italian form—Michele. But it’s always interesting to hear the many phonetic interpretations. Russell especially loves to tease me whenever a new one pops up.

And of course, there’s the whole genius loci thing. I probably use those two words a bit too often in the Studio—and people like to remind me of that.

For Michele, Architecture is not about having all the answers—it’s about listening, learning, and allowing every project to reveal something new. Just make sure you have time if you ask him about it—he has a lot to say, and he means every word.