Frank Kunert’s meticulous, uncanny, craft miniatures focus on satire, tragedy, and dark humour.

Transmission 270: Interview with Frank Kunert

Decades of analog craftsmanship produce photographs that force viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about contemporary existence

Frank Kunert is a master of miniature model-making and photography whose meticulously crafted works blend satire, tragedy, and dark humor. Born in Frankfurt am Main, he began his career as a photographer before transitioning to studio work, where he developed his distinctive style over three decades. Working at the intersection of photography, sculpture, and storytelling, Kunert painstakingly constructs detailed architectural miniatures by hand—run-down structures, suburban homes, and everyday interior spaces—which he then carefully lights and photographs. The resulting images appear deceptively realistic at first glance, but closer inspection reveals absurd, surreal details that transform ordinary scenes into what he calls “bizarre wonderlands.”

His work balances wit, irony, and melancholy to explore overlooked aspects of contemporary life. By shrinking scenes to miniature scale, Kunert reveals larger truths about humanity and society, forcing viewers to confront “the great in the small.” These darkly humorous tableaux function as wordless narratives that invite reflection and emotional engagement.

Kunert’s work has been exhibited internationally and published in several acclaimed photo books, including Topsy-Turvy World, Wunderland, and Lifestyle. He has received multiple awards, including a silver German Photo Book Award, earning him recognition as a visual poet who transforms the mundane into the extraordinary. His latest collection from Hatje Cantz spans thirty years of artistic practice.

Featured image: Auf hohem Niveau | At a High Level, 2008 © Frank Kunert
Frank Kunert’s Offcial website | Facebook | Instagram

Technology allows us to instantly render perfect 3D worlds digitally. What mainly motivated you to still prefer the slow, tactile model-building process? Did you also make models during your childhood?

In our increasingly fast-paced world, it seems more important than ever to slow down and work on things the analog way. It often seems to me that this is the only way I can have real experiences that I would not have in the digital world. When I have finished a piece of work, it gives me a feeling of real satisfaction that is connected to genuine experience. I don’t know if I would feel the same way if I had created a work on the computer or even with AI. That’s why I’m grateful that I grew up at a time when the digital world didn’t play a role yet and doing things with your hands, the haptic playfulness, was completely natural. I was already working with small models back then, but these were kits where I glued the individual parts together. But that’s how a small world was created, through the work of my hands. I found that satisfying even back then.

Frank Kunert offers a great narrative of nowadays time in the very elaborated everyday scenes transformed into eerie narratives that challenge how people see modern life. 

When you’re building a miniature scene, do you start with a fully formed concept, or does the story emerge as you construct it? Do you think in terms of architecture first or narrative first when conceiving your models? Can you tell us about your creative process?

It always starts with an idea, which I sketch in my sketchbook. Then it has to mature. At some point, I start working on the three-dimensional implementation. Based on the narrative I want to express in the scenery, the architectural style also develops. This means that I think about what the building should look like, what period it comes from, and what kind of environment it is located in. So it’s usually the case that the narrative determines the architecture—the buildings are the framework that supports the story I want to tell. The basic idea develops further during the creative process; at the beginning, it is often unclear what the picture will look like in the end—I only have a vague idea of it.

Many people see your work from the photography point of view, but the craft is also sculpture, architecture, and stage design. Do you identify more with one discipline than the others? Do these roles influence each other?

For me, it all belongs together. Photography is my ultimate medium, but without all the other aspects, none of it would be possible. Model making influences photography and vice versa. Right at the beginning of a new work, I often accompany the process with my camera to get a feeling for the approximate composition. I view the scene as a stage set from a particular angle. Then I continue building until it seems alive to me. Studio lighting also plays a crucial role here, determining the atmosphere of the image.

You’ve mentioned finding beauty in the “patina” of aging buildings. In an increasingly digital and optimized world, what does the presence of cracks, wear, and decay in your models represent about our collective relationship with time and perfection?

Patina can tell stories about time. It reveals traces, fragility, transience, decay. As humans, however, we often feel the need to control things. But perfection often only pretends to give us a feeling of security. Nothing is really secure, even if we try to pretend it is. It doesn’t always help us to cover up the traces. We have to face imperfection, and when we do, perhaps that is the basis for seeing beauty in what we perceive as flawed. For me, old buildings that have a fragile charm often say: “I’m still standing, I have my pride, I’ve survived so much!”

Each photo starts with a carefully accurate hand-built model that is then shot to bring out its underlying and hidden comedy or subliminal and quiet discomfort.

What’s the most unconventional material you’ve used to create imperfections in your models to add character?

The materials I use aren’t particularly unusual. The patina is created by applying different layers of paint. It’s more the creative process itself that gives rise to imperfections: for example, when I apply paint that I don’t like later, or when a wall breaks. But the unwanted elements then become part of the story. I can paint over, glue, and fill in. Sometimes I improvise, just like in real life.

Your work is known for its meticulous precision, what about improvisation. Can you recall a time when an unexpected accident or material limitation during the model-making process led to a significant improvement or a whole new meaning in the final photograph?

Improvisation really does play a role time and time again. It makes the work more playful and lively—and I remain more open to change. I remember my photo “Bel Étage,” where the design of the model was very complex. At some point, I realized I needed to convey a different idea than the original one. That’s how the diving board and the pool in front of the house came about, which wasn’t planned at the beginning. And in the end, I was really happy with it.

Your “Small Worlds” can be read as social critique, but also as playful imagination. Your images often sit between humor and melancholy, how do you keep on scene the right emotional balance?

For me, social criticism is always a criticism of all of us, including myself as part of society. And I find it appealing to deal with it in a playful way. I think humor and melancholy belong together. Of course, it’s not always easy to find the right balance. But when I notice, for example, that something is becoming too heavy, too dramatic, or that melancholy is becoming the sole determining factor, then I no longer like it. The only thing that helps is to create some distance, and this often comes with a dash of humor that doesn’t deny the serious background.

Your scenes are nearly always devoid of people, yet they are profoundly human. Is the absence of a figure a choice to make the architecture itself the protagonist, or is it a way to invite the viewer to project themselves into the space and become the inhabitant?

I think both are correct. The deserted scenes nevertheless tell of the people who were there and who might reappear. By becoming the “main character,” the architecture tells us about people and invites the viewer to imagine themselves in the setting. If there were people in the scenes, it would distract me from the actual story I want to tell.

Some of your scenes feel timeless, others very contemporary. Do you intentionally anchor them to a specific cultural moment? 

I believe that the timeless and the contemporary correspond with each other. I arrange each scene in an architectural style from a specific period (sometimes after much deliberation beforehand, sometimes quite intuitively), but I think it is entirely possible to transfer the message to different time periods.

Your models are “deceptively real.” How do you manage the fine line between realistic detail and surreal absurdity? Do you deliberately cultivate a sense of the “uncanny valley” where something looks perfectly normal, but feels deeply wrong?

The more realistically something is portrayed, the more likely it is to be believed. Then it is not so easy to recognize how absurd and perhaps even false something actually is. Sometimes I succeed in doing this better, sometimes worse, but I find it most satisfying when the abysses, the grotesque aspects of life, appear completely normal, banal, and self-evident in my works.

His scenes become moving meditations on the human condition, societal follies, and the ongoing duality of hope and dread in our so-called civilized society by purposefully leaving out people and concentrating on the architecture and remnants of life.

If one of your scenarios could come alive as a real environment, which would you most like to walk into, and which would you least?

There isn’t really a specific scene that comes to mind. But in any case, it would be important to me if there were any indication  that there would be something to eat and drink. If not, I’d rather stay away.

What kind of “small world” would you never build: something too close, too personal, or too frightening?

Generally speaking, there are no restrictions. If I had any, I would probably forbid myself from pursuing an idea further. But if a topic doesn’t really appeal to me, then I leave it alone. I also don’t like humor that puts others down.

Your work often touches on societal themes: isolation, consumerism, and the struggle for personal space. If you were to create a piece that perfectly captures the current state of the world in 2025, what  architectural problems would you design?

Currently, the problems in the world are so overwhelming that I find it difficult to come up with a concrete image idea. Nevertheless, I think that everything that is happening today will leave a lasting impression and, in a roundabout way, find its way into my work.

Photos courtesy of Frank Kunert

Dominique Musorrafiti

Ciao! My name is Dominique. I’m Italian and I’m proud to be a mix. My father was an Italian chemical engineer and high school teacher, with Greek and Polish heritage. My mother is Haitian, she was high school language teacher, with Dominican, Spanish, French, Portuguese, African and Native American heritage. Being a mix makes me appreciate to want to understand different cultures and lifestyles. I grew up in Italy, lived few years in Haiti, travel around main European capitals, lived many years in China, in Spain and UK. Traveling makes me feel that we can learn something from every situation in every part of the world.