Oscar Sainsbury

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The Architecture of Access: Oscar Sainsbury’s Quiet Revolution

18 June, 2024

Words by:

Justin Jackie

With a shed that opens to the laneway and a philosophy that opens up the profession, Melbourne architect Oscar Sainsbury is quietly reshaping who good design is for.

In a city like Melbourne, where heritage facades butt up against concrete ambition and pocket gardens vanish beneath boxy renovations, architecture often feels like a closed conversation — something spoken about but rarely spoken to. Oscar Sainsbury wants to change that. As the founder and director of OSA (Oscar Sainsbury Architects), his work invites a different kind of dialogue: one grounded in subtlety, sustainability, and above all, accessibility.

“I believe architecture functions best as a mediator,” Sainsbury says. “To the physical, the environmental, the cultural, and the personal. It can help people navigate through their lives by both protecting them from and propelling them into the world around.”

It’s a vision shaped by both practice and academia. Before founding OSA, Sainsbury cut his teeth at a number of Melbourne firms, while also teaching and researching at Monash University. His work spans private homes, public installations, and ongoing investigations into how built and natural environments can coexist more meaningfully. His approach is thoughtful, but not precious. Conceptual, but grounded. More interested in possibilities than signatures.

Take Lily’s Shed, for example — the project that earned a commendation at the Victorian Architecture Awards. On paper, it’s a modest structure: a garden room tucked behind a house. But its design opens up broader conversations about how we use space, how we share it, and how we build into it. With sliding panels that adjust the relationship between garden and laneway, and dual entry points that invite multiple uses — studio, workspace, guest room — it challenges the idea that small must mean simple, or that functional can’t be poetic.

“Lily’s Shed is more than just a storage space,” Sainsbury says. “It’s a minimal shelter with flexible uses.” Its understated cleverness responds to a common suburban dilemma — the shrinking backyard. “Larger sites are being subdivided or built out entirely. Our response was to create something that encouraged layered uses, diverse tenancies, and a different kind of openness.”

That openness isn’t just spatial — it’s philosophical. Sainsbury sees every project as an “experiment in living.” There’s no fixed formula, no single aesthetic. Instead, each site, client, and context shapes the outcome. This approach, while inherently more risky than prefabricated or system-based models, is also what makes architecture meaningful — and desirable.

Historically, that kind of bespoke design has been seen as a luxury — reserved for the wealthy, or at least the well-connected. Sainsbury believes that narrative can shift. He points to mid-century initiatives like The Age Small Homes Service and Merchant Builders — programs where architects created adaptable, well-designed homes for a broader demographic.

“The value of programs like this remains today,” he says. “They allowed architecture to reach beyond the traditional client-architect relationship. They proved that good design doesn’t have to be exclusive.”

Sainsbury’s own work echoes that legacy. Rather than chasing monumentality, his buildings aim for resonance — quiet gestures that sit lightly within their environment and invite new forms of use. His research continues to explore this balance, often asking: how do we build without erasure? Can design support coexistence rather than dominance?

These questions become particularly urgent when environmental stakes are high. “The building process generally involves significant amounts of energy use, material consumption, and waste,” he notes. “Architects need to ask clear questions about what is required for each project. Is there value in what’s being demolished? Can materials be reused in a more effective way?”

Sainsbury doesn’t pretend architecture is inherently sustainable — he argues it must be made to be. That might mean choosing not to build at all. “There are many environments, both within cities and in more remote landscapes, that should be protected from any new structures. In this sense, where an architect builds is just as important as what they build.”

For him, sustainability isn’t a checkbox — it’s an ethic that extends to material, form, function, and even tenancy. His designs often allow for change over time, acknowledging that buildings live many lives — long after the original client is gone.

As for the future, Sainsbury is clear-eyed. He’ll continue working across scales — from compact structures like Lily’s Shed to broader urban contexts — while deepening his research into design’s environmental and cultural responsibilities. And always, he’ll keep returning to the question at the heart of his practice: who is this for?

Because for all the ideas and accolades, what remains most striking about Oscar Sainsbury’s work is its quiet insistence that good architecture should not be rare. It should be embedded in the everyday — in sheds and laneways, in overlooked spaces and overlooked people. It should be something we can live in, but also something we can live with.

And perhaps that’s the point. Not every building has to be a landmark. Sometimes it’s enough for it to be open.

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