The concept of a Louvre in Abu Dhabi or a Centre Pompidou in Brazil may initially seem surprising, given how deeply these world-renowned museums appear connected to their original cultural contexts. However, this phenomenon represents a significant shift in how cultural institutions operate in the globalized world, transforming from local repositories of art into international brands with commercial value.
The original Louvre, deeply rooted in French history as a former fortress and royal residence, embodies invaluable heritage values that were further enhanced by I.M. Pei's iconic glass pyramid intervention in 1989. Similarly, the Centre Pompidou marked a historic turning point by redefining public infrastructure through radically unconventional architecture, becoming the first cultural institution to draw mass audiences. Both institutions built their identities over decades or centuries, supported by factors that inscribed them into history—not only through their precious collections and contexts, but also through the symbolic power of their architecture.
These elements combined to form what can be described as cultural brands that acquired commercial value, with architecture operating as a market language detached from specific contexts. This transformation represents a way of promoting and selling an idea of culture while positioning cities on the global map. When institutions like the Louvre, Centre Pompidou, and Guggenheim began expanding beyond their countries of origin, it raised the inevitable question of whether culture has also become a marketing device.
The contemporary museum functions as more than an art repository—it operates as a brand. The Guggenheim name evokes aesthetic and performative experiences, Louvre suggests prestige and tradition, while Pompidou conveys innovation and experimentation. These names have become transferable symbols capable of generating value and prestige anywhere in the world. As products of globalization affecting politics, economics, and culture, museums began to be viewed as marketable assets profitable in various ways.
Given the increasingly fierce competition for global hegemony, culture—understood as an instrument of a nation's soft power—has gradually entered political and economic arenas. Its associations with peace and affinity make it the most easily accepted form of international exchange. Exporting museums means exporting models of thought and cultural power, with major cultural powers beginning movements to reaffirm their global roles: the United States disseminating the Guggenheim model while France multiplies branches of its most emblematic institutions.
This represents the export of cultural brands following corporate logic based on licensing names, lending artworks, transferring expertise, and using architecture as a visual identity device. Economically, it creates a two-way relationship where exporting countries reinforce their hegemony while receiving countries use these projects to reposition themselves globally, associating with modernity and symbolic legitimacy.
The Guggenheim Bilbao case marked the peak of an era when iconic architecture was seen as an economic and political catalyst. Frank Gehry's building, inaugurated in 1997, stands as a monumental titanium sculpture that challenges and disregards the city's scale. The project's touristic and economic success generated the "Bilbao Effect"—the belief that importing a star architect and spectacular building was sufficient to place a city on the global map.
While this wasn't entirely new—Sydney had demonstrated transformative landmark power, as had Paris with the Centre Pompidou—Bilbao distinguished itself through the contrast between the city's modest status and its iconic proposal's artistic and architectural ambition. Two years after opening, economic activity in the Basque Country reached 775 million euros, nearly ten times the initial investment cost, with the museum responsible for approximately 4,100 new jobs.
Over time, however, this model faced questioning. City branding no longer depends exclusively on monumental architectural icons, as contemporary tourism—especially architectural and urban tourism—takes other forms driven by ephemeral trends, personalized experiences, and often small, photogenic places outside traditional circuits. Additionally, out-of-context architecture celebrated in the 1990s now faces resistance, with form-driven iconic buildings increasingly viewed as expressions of spectacular but obsolete architecture.
Contemporary discourse values belonging, local materiality, environmental responsibility, and dialogue with place. This raises questions about whether the Guggenheim Bilbao's architectural language would still be accepted if conceived today, and whether its impact would be the same—likely not.
Museums exported in recent years reveal this transition. The Louvre Abu Dhabi, designed by Jean Nouvel, and Pompidou Metz, by Shigeru Ban, attempt to construct belonging narratives despite being imported institutions. For the Louvre, Nouvel conceived a luminous Middle Eastern metaphor: a floating dome projecting shade and coolness, evoking an oasis image while filtering light into delicate patterns inspired by Arab mashrabiya. This represents bold yet deeply poetic architecture—a gesture of sensitive integration with local climate and traditions.
The political agreement between Abu Dhabi and Paris grants Louvre brand usage for 20 years in exchange for approximately 700 million euros to the French state. While criticized for allegedly renting the museum's name and artworks arbitrarily, Dominique Vieville, director of the Rodin Museum, defends the operation, attributing resistance more to the project involving a country outside traditional Western cultural circuits than other reasons.
This viewpoint could also apply to Brazil with the arrival of the Pompidou designed by Paraguayan architect Solano Benítez. Though little is known about the project, it's expected to use simple materials—primarily brick produced from local earth—establishing dialogue with local landscape and population's everyday experience. Both cases represent architectural and geopolitical acts celebrating cultural encounters while staging world hierarchies that remain asymmetric.
These projects are perceived as reverse operations compared to Bilbao: stemming from global concepts but materializing from territory. This seeks to rebalance tensions between universal and particular, between export and translation. Within these belonging strategies, there's clear effort to legitimize the idea that any city can host its own Pompidou, dissociating the name from its geographical origin.
While culture has inevitably become a marketing instrument, it can operate in more critical, conscious, and rooted ways. The export of museums seems beneficial to some extent, building bridges and bringing public closer to culture itself. The danger emerges when architectural language reduces to constructing decontextualized icons, risking self-referential spectacle where buildings serve photography more than experience, brand projection more than public engagement.
Within this framework, it's worth reflecting on positive impacts these cultural branches worldwide can generate. Just as the Pompidou in Paris transformed the city in the 1970s and brought the population closer to culture, could the Pompidou in Brazil produce similar effects? The contemporary challenge may not be rejecting this marketing strategy altogether, but reinterpreting it as cultural communication—making architecture not a product, but a mediator between worlds.
