Image source: Jewish Museum Berlin, Photo: Jens Ziehe
There’s something about walking past a brutalist building in Berlin that makes you stop. Not because it’s beautiful in the conventional sense—though I’d argue many of them are—but because these structures demand attention. They’re unapologetic, bold, sometimes even confrontational. After living here for years, I’ve developed what I can only describe as an obsession with these concrete giants. They tell the story of Berlin in ways that plaques and museums can’t quite capture. The raw concrete, the geometric severity, the refusal to soften or apologize—it’s all so deeply Berlin.
Brutalism gets its name from “béton brut,” French for raw concrete, and nowhere is this architectural movement more fascinating than in Berlin. The divided city became an unlikely laboratory for brutalist experimentation during the Cold War, with East and West competing to prove their ideological superiority through architecture. What resulted is a collection of buildings that are now, finally, being recognized not as eyesores but as vital pieces of architectural heritage. Some face demolition threats, others have been converted into galleries or cultural spaces, and a few still serve their original purposes. These are my twelve favorites—the ones that make me grateful I moved here, the ones that remind me why I fell in love with this complicated, beautiful city.
Image source: www.exrotaprint.de
Hidden away in an industrial courtyard in Wedding, ExRotaprint is an outstanding example of bold industrial architecture influenced by brutalism. Architect Klaus Kirsten designed it in the late 1950s as the production site for the printing press manufacturer Rotaprint, which was once one of Wedding’s largest employers. When Rotaprint dissolved in 1989, the building could have easily been demolished or turned into luxury apartments.
Instead, it was taken over by the Liegenschaftsfonds (Real Estate Fund) and now functions as an open workspace for artists, startups, and social groups. It’s become a model for how brutalist industrial architecture can be repurposed for community benefit rather than private profit. I love visiting ExRotaprint—there’s always something happening, some exhibition or event that makes use of those dramatic concrete spaces. It proves that brutalist buildings can have vibrant second lives if we’re creative enough to imagine them.
Address: Gottschedstraße 4, 13359 Berlin (Wedding)
Architect: Klaus Kirsten (late 1950s)
Current use: Open workspace for artists, startups, and social groups
The former Embassy of Czechoslovakia is a futuristic anomaly on stately Wilhelmstraße. Built in the mid-1970s by the architect couple Věra and Vladimír Machonin in collaboration with Klaus Pätzmann, the structure blends socialist modernism with brutalist architectural elements. Its granite-clad concrete façade and spaceship-like appearance—some joke it looks more like a UFO than a building—make it stand out dramatically from its surroundings.
The building served as the Embassy of Czechoslovakia until the state’s dissolution in 1992. While it technically can’t be directly assigned to brutalism, its austere appearance and strict design motifs certainly fit the bill. It seems to float above the ground thanks to its clever structural design, creating this otherworldly effect that I never get tired of seeing. It’s a reminder that East Berlin had its own architectural experiments happening, driven by different ideologies but equally bold in their concrete ambitions.
Address: Wilhelmstraße 44, 10117 Berlin (Mitte)
Architects: Věra and Vladimír Machonin, with Klaus Pätzmann (1970s)
Image source: Jewish Museum Berlin, Photo: Yves Sucksdorff
In the courtyard of the Jewish Museum Berlin, you’ll find the striking “Garden of Exile”—49 concrete pillars topped with olive trees, designed by architect Daniel Libeskind. While perhaps pushing the definition of brutalist architecture a bit, the installation’s use of raw concrete and its powerful geometric form certainly evoke the movement’s aesthetic principles.
The garden is set on an inclined plane, deliberately designed to convey the disorientation and uncertainty experienced by Jewish émigrés forced out of Germany. Walking through it is physically disorienting—you feel unsteady, off-balance, unsure. The olive trees above symbolize hope and peace, but you experience them while feeling fundamentally destabilized. It’s one of the most affecting memorials I’ve encountered anywhere. Libeskind understood that sometimes architecture needs to make you uncomfortable to make you understand. The concrete pillars don’t just tell you about displacement—they make you feel it.
Address: Lindenstraße 9-14, 10969 Berlin (Kreuzberg)
Architect: Daniel Libeskind (2001)
Museum website: jmberlin.de
In 1951, the Berlin Senate commissioned Eduard Ludwig to design a memorial on the newly named Platz der Luftbrücke (Airlift Square). The concrete sculpture rising into the sky commemorates the Berlin Airlift and the pilots who died during the period between June 24, 1948, and May 12, 1949, when West Berlin was blockaded by Soviet forces and Western allies supplied aid by air.
The memorial’s three arcs reaching skyward represent the three air corridors used during the airlift. It’s brutalist not in the architectural movement sense, but in its use of raw concrete and its stark, unadorned form. I find it deeply moving—the simplicity feels appropriate for commemorating an event that was fundamentally about survival and solidarity. Every time I pass through Tempelhof, I make a point to stop and look at it, thinking about those pilots flying in supplies while Cold War tensions threatened to explode into something worse.
Address: Platz der Luftbrücke, 12101 Berlin (Tempelhof)
Architect: Eduard Ludwig (1951)
Image source: Dieter Brüggmann / CC BY-SA 3.0
This is perhaps the strangest entry on this list, and whether it even qualifies as “architecture” is debatable. The Schwerbelastungskörper—the name translates to “heavy load-bearing body”—is a massive concrete cylinder built by the Nazis around 1941. Its purpose? To test whether Berlin’s soil could support Albert Speer’s planned triumphal arch, part of Hitler’s grandiose vision for transforming Berlin into “Welthauptstadt Germania” (World Capital City Germania) after Nazi victory.
The 12,650-tonne structure sits between Schöneberg and Tempelhof, protected as a monument to remind us of the megalomania of the Nazi regime. It doesn’t get more brutalist than this—it’s literally just a massive concrete cylinder doing nothing but existing. I’ve walked past it dozens of times, and it always provokes the same mixture of fascination and revulsion. It’s a monument to unrealized fascist ambition, a reminder of how architecture can be weaponized for ideology. Berlin has kept it deliberately, refusing to let us forget.
Address: General-Pape-Straße/Loewenhardtdamm, 12101 Berlin (Tempelhof)
Year: Built around 1941
Image source: Marek Śliwecki / CC BY-SA 4.0
The Bierpinsel—literally “beer brush”—is one of Berlin’s most unusual structures. This 46-meter tower next to the A103 highway in Steglitz was designed by the architect couple Ralph Schüler and Ursulina Schüler-Witte, who also created the ICC Conference Center. They envisioned it as a tree shape, but locals immediately saw something else, hence the nickname that stuck. It’s a concrete tower with a bulbous top section that housed restaurants and a nightclub.
The building closed to the public in 2006 for construction work and has been in limbo ever since. Various proposals for its use have come and gone—everything from converting it into apartments to making it a climbing wall. The colorful paint job has faded over the years, giving it an almost post-apocalyptic quality that’s weirdly compelling. I’m in the camp that wants it preserved and revitalized, though I understand the challenges. It’s such a distinctly Berlin piece of architecture—strange, ambitious, slightly absurd, and impossible to ignore.
Address: Schloßstraße 17, 12163 Berlin (Steglitz)
Architects: Ralph Schüler and Ursulina Schüler-Witte (1976)
More info: Hello Berlin
Image source: Gunnar Klack / CC BY-SA 4.0
Built between 1974 and 1977 after the Berliner Sportpalast was demolished, the Pallasseum is a prime example of brutalist architecture as modern living. This massive residential complex designed by a group of architects houses over two thousand people, making it one of Berlin’s largest housing blocks. It’s sometimes called the “Sozialpalast” (Social Palace), though not always affectionately.
What fascinates me about the Pallasseum is how it represents both the promise and the problems of brutalist social housing. The idea was noble—creating affordable housing with a sense of community and modern amenities. The execution is… complicated. Some residents love it, appreciating the solid construction and central Schöneberg location. Others find it oppressive and alienating. I think both perspectives are valid. When I pass it on the U-Bahn, I always wonder what Le Corbusier would think—whether he’d see his vision realized or betrayed. Probably both.
Address: Pallasstraße 5-11, 10781 Berlin (Schöneberg)
Architects: Jürgen Sawade, Dieter Frowein, Dietmar Grötzebach, Günter Plessow (1974-1977)
More info: Wikipedia
Image source: hygiene.charite.de
Part of the Benjamin Franklin Campus of the Charité in Lichterfelde, this building represents Fehling+Gogel at the absolute peak of their powers. Completed between 1966 and 1974, it’s the most elaborate project by the architecture firm and was received with tremendous acclaim as a prime example of brutalist architecture. What sets it apart is the organic interpretation of brutalism—a captivating interplay of curved surfaces, rectilinear planes, and a striking triangular prism, all meticulously crafted in board-marked concrete.
The building isn’t open to the public, but since it’s not fenced in, you can easily admire it from the outside. I’ve made the trip out to Steglitz-Zehlendorf specifically to see it, and it’s worth every minute on the S-Bahn. The way Fehling+Gogel manipulated concrete to create these flowing, almost sculptural forms solidifies their position as key figures in 20th-century German architecture. It’s brutalism, yes, but with a warmth and humanity that the movement is rarely credited with achieving.
Address: Hindenburgdamm 27, 12203 Berlin (Steglitz-Zehlendorf)
Architect: Fehling+Gogel (1966-1974)
Image source: House of World Cultures. Photo: Studio Bowie/HKW
Most people call it the HKW, though Berliners affectionately nicknamed it the “Pregnant Oyster” because of its distinctive curved roof. American architect Hugh Stubbins designed this congress hall as the US contribution to the 1957 International Building Exhibition—a gift to West Berlin meant to symbolize freedom and democracy during the Cold War. The arched roof was considered architecturally and structurally revolutionary at the time, a bold statement in reinforced concrete that rejected the oppressive monumentality of fascist architecture.
Located on the south bank of the Spree in Tiergarten, the building has served as a cultural venue since 1989. It hosts exhibitions, concerts, performances, and discourse events that focus on international contemporary arts and critical debates. The architecture itself creates these extraordinary spatial experiences—standing inside feels like being inside a concrete wave frozen mid-crest. On summer evenings, I love sitting on the terrace overlooking the Spree, watching the light change on that iconic roof. It’s one of those buildings that makes you understand why people fought so hard to preserve brutalist architecture.
Address: John-Foster-Dulles-Allee 10, 10557 Berlin (Tiergarten)
Architect: Hugh Stubbins (1957)
Website: hkw.de
More info: Museumsportal Berlin
Image source: st-agnes.net/
If art is your religion, Werner Düttmann’s St. Agnes Church is your cathedral. Built between 1964 and 1967 as the centerpiece of a social housing community in war-leveled Kreuzberg, this windowless cube with its cubic bell tower perfectly embodies brutalist principles—stark, functional, powerful. The 20-meter-high interior receives natural light only through vertical window slits and roof skylights, creating an almost mystical atmosphere that architectural critic Niklas Maak described as capturing “the sense of space and the mystical atmosphere of old Roman churches.”
When parish membership declined and the church was decommissioned in 2005, art dealer Johann König saw opportunity where others saw obsolescence. He acquired a 99-year lease in 2011 and enlisted architect Arno Brandlhuber for a respectful renovation that earned them the Berlin Architecture Prize in 2016. The church reopened as König Galerie in May 2015, and it’s become one of Berlin’s most compelling art spaces. The raw concrete interior, the austere geometry, the play of light and shadow—it all works to create a setting where contemporary art feels both challenged and elevated. I’ve spent countless afternoons here, and the space never fails to impress.
Address: Alexandrinenstraße 118-121, 10969 Berlin (Kreuzberg)
Architect: Werner Düttmann (1964-1967)
Renovation: Arno Brandlhuber (2015)
Website: koeniggalerie.com | st-agnes.net
More info: Architectural Record
Image source: Matthias Süßen / CC BY-SA 4.0
When Le Corbusier was invited to contribute to the 1957 International Architectural Exhibition (Interbau), he proposed his iconic Unité d’Habitation concept—vertical neighborhoods designed to bring villa living to high-rise apartments. The design was too massive for the planned Hansaviertel location, so Berlin provided a site near the Olympiastadion. What emerged is a 530-apartment residential complex that stands 53 meters high, stretches 141 meters long, and showcases Le Corbusier’s vision of communal modern living.
The building had to be modified from the French versions to meet German building regulations, which actually resulted in roomier apartments. The colorful façade was designed by Le Corbusier together with painter Fernand Léger, using Le Corbusier’s “color keyboard of polychromy.” Walking through the building today—and yes, you can take guided tours organized by the Förderverein Corbusierhaus Berlin—feels like stepping into a time capsule of mid-century optimism. The original shops, medical offices, and communal spaces have largely disappeared after it was converted to condominiums in 1979, but the architectural integrity remains. It’s probably the most elegant of Berlin’s Plattenbauten, proving that social housing doesn’t have to be soulless.
Address: Flatowallee 16, 14055 Berlin (Westend, Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf)
Architect: Le Corbusier (1956-1958)
Website: corbusierhaus-berlin.de
More info: visitBerlin.de
Image source: Gunnar Klack / CC BY-SA 4.0
The Mäusebunker is probably Berlin’s most recognizable example of brutalist architecture, and also its most controversial. Designed by Technische Universität professor Gerd Hänska in 1981, this building looks like a concrete battleship that somehow got stranded in southwest Berlin. The jagged façade interrupted by blue cylindrical ventilation pipes gives it an almost industrial-fortress appearance that’s simultaneously menacing and fascinating.
The controversy doesn’t end with its appearance. As the name suggests—”Mäusebunker” literally means “mouse bunker”—it functioned as an animal testing laboratory for Freie Universität Berlin. When Charité announced plans to demolish it in 2020 to build a new research campus, architects and art historians launched a successful campaign for its preservation. It was granted cultural heritage status in 2023, ensuring this remarkable structure will remain part of Berlin’s architectural landscape. I’ll admit, the first time I saw it, I understood why some people want it gone. But the more I looked at it, the more I appreciated its uncompromising vision of what architecture could be.
Address: Krahmerstraße 6-10, 12207 Berlin (Lichterfelde)
Architect: Gerd Hänska (1981)
More info: Wikipedia
The Concrete Heart of Berlin
After spending years exploring these buildings, I’ve come to believe that brutalist architecture is misunderstood because it refuses to be liked. These buildings don’t care if you find them beautiful. They’re not trying to charm you with ornamental details or seduce you with graceful proportions. They exist with a kind of stark honesty that’s increasingly rare in contemporary architecture—what you see is what you get, no facades hiding the structure, no pretense about the materials.
In Berlin specifically, brutalism tells the story of a divided city trying to rebuild itself while simultaneously proving ideological superiority. The competition between East and West produced some remarkably ambitious architecture—each side pushing concrete to its limits, creating monuments to their respective visions of the future. Architecture historian Felix Torkar, who created the Brutalist Berlin Map, describes how “nowhere else in the world did the opposing sides of the Cold War converge in such a tight space.” That convergence, that architectural peacocking between systems, gave Berlin a density of brutalist experimentation that few cities can match.
What strikes me most about Berlin’s brutalist heritage is how precarious its future remains. Some buildings like the Mäusebunker have been granted protected status after fierce campaigns by architects and historians. Others like the Bierpinsel sit abandoned, their futures uncertain. Still others have been successfully repurposed—St. Agnes becoming König Galerie might be the best example of how these spaces can be given new life that respects their architectural integrity while serving contemporary needs. The conversation about preservation versus demolition continues, and it’s not a simple one. These buildings are expensive to maintain, often energy-inefficient by modern standards, and yes, many people genuinely find them ugly.
But I’d argue that preserving Berlin’s brutalist architecture isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about maintaining connections to our recent history, even the uncomfortable parts. These buildings embody post-war optimism and Cold War anxieties, utopian housing dreams and their sometimes dystopian realities, experiments in communal living and investigations into what concrete could achieve. They’re physical manifestations of ideologies, both capitalist and socialist, wrestling with how to build a better future from the rubble of the past. To lose them would be to lose tangible connections to that history, to simplify a complex era into something more palatable but less true.
My advice for anyone interested in Berlin’s brutalist architecture? Start with St. Agnes—it’s the most accessible and immediately impressive. Then visit the Corbusierhaus on a weekend when tours are available; seeing the interior transforms your understanding of what Le Corbusier was attempting. Make the pilgrimage to the Mäusebunker just to stand in front of something that committed to its vision. Take the S-Bahn out to see the Institute of Hygiene and Environmental Medicine to understand how brutalism could be organic and humane. And walk through the Garden of Exile to experience how concrete can convey emotional truth.
These buildings aren’t going anywhere—well, most of them aren’t, though the threats remain. They’re part of Berlin’s architectural DNA, as essential to understanding this city as the Brandenburg Gate or the Television Tower. Love them or hate them, they demand engagement. And in a world of increasingly bland, inoffensive architecture, there’s something refreshing about buildings that inspire such strong reactions. Berlin’s brutalist architecture is bold, uncompromising, historically significant, and occasionally beautiful in ways that conventional beauty can’t capture. Just like Berlin itself, really.
