— Ksenia, your journey began in ultra-luxury construction. Moscow's most exclusive suburbs, massive budgets—it looks like the pinnacle of a career. Why did you decide to leave that for urbanism?
— Actually, high-end construction in Moscow's wealthiest suburbs (between 2019 and 2021) was just one phase that I stumbled into almost by accident. Before that, there was a diverse mix of construction projects in healthcare, hospitality, and the Moscow City business district. But it was in the ultra-luxury sector that I acutely felt a paradox: the better I worked, the less joy it brought me. Building a 32,000-square-foot mansion for a single family is prestigious, but you're working for just one "unit."

I caught myself realizing that I only truly light up when a project affects many people. My main thesis: I love driving qualitative changes in people's lives and seeing the result. Renovating a small local coffee shop where people meet in the mornings inspired me more than another mega-mansion. Urbanism became my way of changing the lives of thousands of people through the right environmental scenarios. If people want to return to a place over and over again, it means the urbanists did a great job.
— But the transition from construction to urbanism often looks like moving from hard business to "contemplation." How did your experience as a "hardcore" construction manager help you?
— My experience on complex sites turned out to be an incredible asset. Urbanism is full of dreamers who draw beautiful pictures but have no idea how to actually build them. I came in with an understanding of estimates, materials, and how to make a contractor meet a deadline. My main skill is problem-solving. If there is a task that seems impossible, bring it to me.

— Your portfolio has an impressive geography. For example, designing an ashram in New Delhi is a challenge for any manager.
— It was a true leap of faith. A client I had worked with on healthcare projects in Russia invited me to India. During the process, the project faced several hurdles—like the need to urgently replace the team during the most critical phase. Simultaneously, we had to adapt to Indian building codes and analyze the local metal supply.
In India, metal is incredibly expensive, and we literally fought for every cross-section of rebar. The client asked to cut costs, but I stood my ground. The geotechnical reports there were just awful, and it's a seismic zone. I replied, "No, we either build safely, or I don’t sign off on the project." In the end, we designed guest houses and an ashram that stand on extremely complex soils. This project taught me the most important lesson: a client's trust is the foundation upon which you can build anything, even in a different culture.
— In Georgia, you worked on the Summer 365 project in Batumi. That required a completely different, sociological approach.
— Yes, we decided to create the city's first true family-oriented residential complex in a place used to building concrete "boxes" for tourists. We conducted deep research: what do expats lack? What do locals want? The result was a 300-page city guide. We filled the project with purpose and meaning, not just square footage. Now other developers are trying to copy us, but they don't have the foundation of meaning that we laid down.
— You currently live in Valencia, but there are no new Spanish projects in your portfolio yet. Why is that?
— When I relocated, Valencia became a "golden mean" for me. I didn't want to dive straight into megacities like Madrid or Barcelona—I needed a calm city with great infrastructure to adapt.
Why no local projects right now? There are objective barriers. Architecture and design in Spain are strictly licensed professions. To work here directly, you either have to spend years validating your qualifications or join a local firm, which is currently in progress. Plus, there is the language barrier. But there is also a strategic reason: I have intentionally put the Spanish market on hold for now. My plans are tied to the US, and I prefer to spend my resources preparing to enter that larger, more dynamic market. I am currently studying Europe as a whole, but my focus is already across the ocean.
— Your focus in Russia is the "Small Towns" grant competition. Living in Europe, why do you bother with urban improvements in remote regions like Udmurtia or the Russian Far East?
— It’s a question of legacy. When you do a project in a town of 6,000 people, you know that every single resident will use that public square. My job is to be the mediator. I speak to government officials in their language, to designers in theirs, and to residents with respect.
In Votkinsk, for example, when we worked on the "Birch Forest" project, the locals met us with massive distrust. "We know you Moscow architects," they said. "You're going to chop everything down for your photo zones." And we literally hovered over every single tree. We walked the entire territory on foot, mapping every living pine into the blueprints. We came up with engineering solutions where the trails and site furnishings (benches, canopies, small landscaping elements) weaved between the trunks instead of bulldozing through them. That is the only way to restore people's faith that they can influence something—when they see that their fear for their native forest was heard, and the project was adapted to the landscape, not the other way around.