house for a family with two children is inspired by the traditional Georgian darbazi house, with its high pitched roof and central light well. In a darbazi, the roof structure is formed by the sequential rotation of each new ring of logs over the previous one.

This became the conceptual basis for the project’s key move: rotating the second floor by 14.76 degrees relative to the first.

This rotation made it possible, on the one hand, to optimally shape the courtyard and parking spaces with the ground floor, and on the other hand, to orient one roof slope ideally for solar panels, whose increased performance due to this rotation makes it possible to supply the entire house with electricity directly and with heat via a heat pump.

The same rotation also allowed us to form a canopy over the parking spaces and a protected passage to the main entrance and the kitchen entrance without substantial cantilevers.

The rotation is organized around a central light well, as in a darbazi—only here that role is played by the stair core, which also becomes an internal winter garden.
The first floor “flows” down the slope, and the rooms follow the logic of descent: from the low, compact service spaces of bathroom and storage at the entrance, through an amphitheater stair for collective film viewing, toward the dining and living areas, which open to the terrace and a wooded courtyard.

The logic of several cascading courtyards continues the interior sequence: parking spaces give way to a guest courtyard by the kitchen, which in turn gives way to a private pool. Additional load-bearing walls supporting the second floor shield the private zones from the views and noise of the settlement street.

The alternation of large glazed openings and solid walls continues the overall theme of calibrating openness and privacy. Toward the neighboring courtyard, located at close range, the house presents a massive textured concrete wall whose apparent monotony becomes pictorial through the sculptural rotation of the upper volume and multi-level planting, recalling the overgrown, fissured, terraced rocks nearby. Toward the guest courtyard, the house opens with the kitchen door.

The living room with a fireplace opens onto the pool, which also casts moving reflections of light onto its ceiling and illuminates the room without overexposure at noon.
Finally, the children’s rooms open to the broad panorama of the settlement, the valley below, and the Bioli resort, while the master bedroom acquires its own panoramic terrace with a mini-fireplace built into the chimney of the main fireplace, and a developed bathroom protected from neighbors’ views yet open to the mountain panorama and framing the TV tower on the summit of Mount Mtatsminda in central Tbilisi.

This is how we understand dwelling: at once in the full privacy and pleasures of a private house, and at the same time in direct visual relation to the very center of the capital.

#private_house, #veranacular_minimalism, #steep_terrain, #hedonist_master_bedroom, #biophilic_design, #mass_in_the_sunlight

A hillside resort on Madeira—set near Santa Cruz (spelled exactly so) —deploys a family of stilted cabins across a steep forested slope, alongside two public anchors: a restaurant and a spa. The masterplan is driven by a simple ethical and spatial constraint: not a single tree is to be touched.

Buildings are therefore “threaded” into the existing clearings and between trunks, lifted on piles so the terrain, root systems, and undergrowth remain continuous beneath them; architecture becomes a light occupation of the hillside rather than an act of clearance.

Despite the gradient, the layout is calibrated for walking. A continuous pedestrian network—landings, ramps, and gently staged stairs—turns the slope into a promenade where distances feel short and legible. From any point, the route is rewarded by carefully choreographed vistas: the ocean as a constant horizon and the town read from above, so that the experience is simultaneously panoramic and sectional—moving through height while looking down through depth.

The architecture is contemporary and parametric, yet it carries local memory in both form and material. Its pitched, thatch-like silhouettes echo Madeira’s rural straw-roof houses of Santana, while the ribbed, hull-like timber frameworks and woven screens reference the logic of local fishing boats—lightweight, curved, and wind-aware. In this way, the project holds a deliberate double identity: digitally authored geometries that still feel genealogically tied to vernacular roofs and maritime craft, translating regional history into a new tectonic language without resorting to imitation.

The perfect moment you’ve been waiting for.
For those who recognize opportunity and never let it slip. Lightweight titanium frames and delicate temples—designed for instant reaction and a feeling of absolute freedom. These glasses aren’t just worn—they’re lived in, in the one truly important “now.”

Landscape-focused deconstruction of the barnhouse typology villa for the Project Tsavkisi settlement

Hill slope luxury hotel complex for 28 units with restaraunt and spa on the bioreserved hill slope of the Madeira island

A-100 Development company from Minsk, acquired an old panel-housing factory with an ambition to use it to overturn the Belarusian mid-market housing segment.

We developed a series of first experimental buildings and their courtyards—pilot prototypes that, while using an already familiar standardized prefabricated construction technology, produced an environment of a radically new quality. What changed was not the industrial method, but the standard: proper thermal insulation; bright, generous stairwells; vandal-resistant glazed entrance doors; a warmer, more domestic silhouette achieved through two-level apartments with attic floors; and large, glazed balconies that added depth, winter-use value, and a recognizable facade rhythm.

Five courtyards were composed into a compact, walkable quarter under a simple promise—“everything is here”—made real precisely through the diversity of outdoor rooms. The system included children’s playgrounds and adult zones, a central square for courtyard celebrations, a skate park for teenagers, tactile and aromatic micro-gardens for children and the elderly, designer bicycle garages, a dedicated bike lane, walking loops, and designed micro-relief.

Crucially, all car parking was moved out of the courtyards, turning the entire inner structure into a pedestrian realm.

A parallel challenge was identity: the quarter had to be legible and attractive not to “high-brow architects,” but to future buyers—friendly, new lower-middle-class families of young, highly educated specialists. We therefore developed a unique visual language: playful and comic-like, yet explicitly not childish—an accessible form of design intelligence.

For the first time in Belarus, we also used a dark graphite, almost black color as an active architectural element—and it worked, giving the district an unmistakable tone and market presence.

The result was not only a pilot, but a shift in standards and taste. A100 used this project as the basis for its future strategy and identity, and we later developed a new guideline for the brand.

What we introduced in 2013 became a broader trend: dark graphite facades, developed courtyards, bright entrances, and bicycle garages that proved unexpectedly—and enormously—desired.

Most importantly, the pedestrian quarter formed by five distinct courtyards enabled a truly inclusive environment, designed for very different people, and became a new reference point for mid-market housing in Belarus.

EPAM Systems—the largest Belarusian IT company of the 2010s and a major global outsourcing player—recognized that a new headquarters in the High-Tech Park had to be more than workspaces.

To support lifelong education and to cultivate internal product initiatives, the building needed a robust layer of spaces for meetings, small flash-groups, educational programs, hackathons, and, equally, for hobbies, sport, and informal encounters. We were given carte blanche to rethink the project, and this became the basis for a spatial system we named the EPAM Loft.

While the rest of the interiors follow a clear corporate IT logic, the Loft is conceived as an engineering sandbox—designed simultaneously on two levels: spatial organization and a symbolic / navigational layer.

Spatially, we built the Loft as an absolute transformer: a system in which every element exposes its full set of affordances, and every component can be creatively reinterpreted, recombined, and connected into radically different functional scenarios.

The point is not to prescribe use, but to make use inevitable through the intelligence of parts.

For example, we designed deep, robust window sills whose height makes them not only sills, but also tables, seats, and daybeds—so that events in the Loft immediately become informal and status-neutral.

We placed the stage, amphitheater modules, and other elements on industrial wheels, so teams can playfully move them—even together with people on them—and assemble multiple spatial configurations in minutes. We distributed accessible power outlets even where we ourselves could not predict their application, and mounted plasma screens on mobile rails, allowing the technical layer to shift as quickly as the social one.

On the lexical and spatial-signage level, we reject the soft grey-blue palette of “work pens” and instead adopt an engineering notation. The exposed ceiling infrastructure—air ducts, fire-suppression lines, digital communications, power outlets, and movable components—is color-coded like computer parts: legible, inspectable, and open to understanding, learning, and recombination. It actively addresses the user’s engeneering mind with a simple message: you are allowed to understand—and to rework.

Tablecloths in the kitchen-dining area, glass partitions, and even cabinet doors are turned into marker surfaces and projection screens. Markers and mini projectors are simply everywhere, casually available, almost left lying around.

Explore. Disrupt. Interpret. Reassemble and create: a new team, an internal product initiative, or a startup. Everything is intillegible and affordable for creation.

Belgazprombank sought to position itself as a leader in banking innovation for business and the middle class—and for that it needed a new narrative and its architectural expression.

Yet the very building intended as a headquarters for small business and startups was trapped in a hostile in-between: squeezed between the bank’s own office skyscraper and the parking structure of an adjacent shopping mall. The setting was a chaotic dump of architectural lexicons and symbols, so conflicted that even bringing order to it seemed impossible—let alone making a new statement.

We chose a paradoxical route and turned to the philosophy of financial exchange: the economy as an instrument for structuring dialogue and mutual adjustment. If that is the underlying meaning, then the reconstructed startup-bank building does not need to be loud or verbose.

On the contrary: let the symbol of subtle, almost invisible fintech innovation become not a message, but a dialogue—an architecture that helps the forced neighbors finally find their own voice.

We formed a terraced glass “lego” system of modules whose glazing repeats the logic of the neighboring skyscraper, and then allowed a pliant, rhythmically organized layer of lamellas—structurally echoing the lamellas of the adjacent multi-storey parking—to slide over these glass cubes of new offices and meeting rooms. This second skin protects the south-facing façades from overheating, and, through a unique parametric pattern and curvilinear geometry, it also reveals and amplifies the latent “sound” of the neighboring mall building.

The resulting double-layer structure proved both functional—reducing energy demand for cooling—and aesthetically precise: it reconciled the irreconcilable and turned an awkward back-of-house yard into a public plaza.

The composition is completed by a triangular piece of artificial relief, covered with green lawn, which creates a literally and symbolically barrier-free entrance to the bank, while separating it from the parking structure and giving the arrival sequence a human scale.

OK16 / Oktyabrskaya Street, Minsk is a rare case where cultural infrastructure was not “inserted” into the city, but urbanized from within—as a combined strategy, masterplan, architectural intervention, and operational model for an entire post-industrial corridor.
Working for Belgazprombank (2017–2019), we treated Oktyabrskaya not as a single address, but as a linear district with latent capacity: factory yards, service lanes, residual plots, and inactive ground floors waiting for a new public life. Our scope covered the full stack—development strategy, masterplanning for the street and adjacent заводские корпуса, architectural and interior interventions, renovation and repair, environmental and graphic design, art curation, and the governance layer of a functioning property portfolio.
At the architectural core sits OK16—a cultural hub established within the former MZOR industrial fabric at Oktyabrskaya, 16. Rather than erasing the industrial memory, we used it as an urban resource: existing structures became the armature for a contemporary recreational and cultural program. The project combined adaptive reuse with precise new insertions and systems upgrades, enabling 7,200 m² of industrial space to be brought under reconstruction and management, and translated into an operable, flexible cultural machine.
The internal city of OK16 was built around performative and social hybridity: three independent transformable theatre halls, supported by bars, public foyers, event infrastructure, and the spatial capacity for rapid reconfiguration. The aim was not just to “host” culture, but to produce it—through spatial typologies that amplify collaboration, overlap, and temporal intensity.
On the scale of the street, the work extended beyond buildings into urban choreography. We masterplanned and activated roughly 1,060 meters of Oktyabrskaya as a pedestrian cultural route—linking venues, courtyards, and facades into a coherent public narrative. Architectural interventions, repairs, and design decisions were paired with curatorial programming and operational management, so that identity, economics, and spatial performance evolved together.
OK16 / Oktyabrskaya is thus presented as a complete urban project: architecture and design as instruments of governance, culture as an engine of regeneration, and real-estate management as the means by which a new district-scale public life becomes sustainable.

A private house in Minsk is set within a neighborhood of late postmodern domestic architecture, and it deliberately adapts to that context—yet in a quieter, more contemporary, and intellectually restrained register. Designed for a restaurateur’s family, the project takes seriously the need for a good-neighbor image: from the street it reads as contextual and modest, keeping brick as the primary material, echoing the familiar roof angles, and participating in the local rhythm rather than competing with it.

Behind this calibrated public face, however, the house becomes a space of radical interior self-expression. The family’s private life is staged in an unapologetically modernist environment—closer in spirit to a villa than to a conventional “house”—where spatial continuity, proportion, and light become the real luxuries. The plan is organized as an open sequence rather than a set of enclosed rooms, with long sightlines, controlled thresholds, and a clear hierarchy of social and intimate zones.

The courtyard façade is conceived as the true architectural front: it is composed almost entirely of expansive glazing, turning the garden into an extension of the interior and making daylight, depth, and atmosphere the project’s primary material. In this way, the house holds a deliberate double identity—civic restraint toward the street, and a modernist, villa-like world within, balancing добрососедский образ with an interior culture of freedom.

A house for a yoga and nutrition instructor: a home able to host guests and to hold a masterclass. A house whose one façade faces an инженерный shed that cannot be removed and the street of a small suburb, while the other opens to a pine forest and the sunset.

A house where meditation is meant to become an ordinary, habitual process—fusing with contemporary everyday life.

The entire project is organized around the daily movement of the sun.

The day itself becomes a meditation as sunlight reveals spaces one by one—first illuminating the kitchen zone for coffee, green tea, and breakfast; then the meditation space; then the aromatic herb garden whose plants are used in the kitchen but also fill the architecture visually, framed through dedicated eye-level slit windows designed for a person sitting on the floor. These same openings are the intake point of the natural ventilation system, so the herbs also inhabit the house aromatically. The sun then leads guests toward an evening meditation and a panoramic window facing the pine forest and the setting sun.

Rather than imitating nature or performing “magical Bali design,” we propose a simple, expressive geometry that frames the landscape and gives direct access to its material components: from gravity made visible where heavy steel structures bear onto masonry walls, to the tactile truth of wood, stone, and plywood in the interior finishes.

Yet the “user scenario” is only half of the project’s synergy of meanings and principles.

Every element also serves a passive-solar house logic that maintains a stable microclimate with almost no fossil-fuel cost—electricity is used only for heat pumps during peak cold spells, even though the house is located at latitude ___.

Narrow slits in the south wall do not only shape views and light; they also protect from overheating. The wall’s thermal mass is calculated to absorb heat by day and release it at night. The south-west panoramic glazing captures the last warm winter sun, yet is protected from it in summer… and so on.

For all its apparent geometric clarity, the house is permeated by natural energies: from solar warmth to the scent of aromatic herbs; from the eastern windows of guest bedrooms in the mezzanine to the western position of the hearth—accessible both from inside and from the outdoor terrace.

A temporary camp for a technology conference is set on a meadow at the edge—between forest and lake—in Karelia. The primary constraint was ecological: we did not touch the site. No earthworks, no clearing, no heavy foundations.

Pneumatic shells and tensile membranes are anchored lightly and assembled as an ultra-fast, reversible system. When the conference ends, the camp disappears without residue—leave no trace as a design principle, enabled by an innovative construction logic where air pressure replaces mass and tension replaces permanent structure.

The camp is organized as a contemporary reading of the ancient forum. A ring of pavilions hosts the conference’s parallel processes—talks, workshops, demos, hackathons, informal meetings—while collectively shaping a central agora: an open commons that holds the event together.

The agora is not just a void; it is the social engine of the conference—orientation point, waiting room, networking field, spontaneous stage, and the place where collisions between disciplines become visible. It concentrates arrival and dispersal, supports chance encounters, absorbs overflow from the pavilions, and turns the conference into a shared public life rather than a sequence of isolated sessions.

Formally, the architecture is openly technological—quilted pneumatic vaults, inflatable ribs, translucent membranes—yet it remains radically pragmatic. The thickened air-formed skins soften acoustics, diffuse daylight, and make interiors calm and legible, while at night the entire camp becomes a low-energy lantern on the forest edge.

It is an architecture of minimum material and maximum presence: temporary, high-performance, and site-respectful, staging the conference as a walkable micro-city that appears, works, and vanishes.

We developed a contemporary mid-rise guideline for A-100 Development—a hybrid system of residential and public space structured by two intersecting movement grids. The car network forms one readable grid of blocks, while pedestrian axes form a second, independent lattice; where they overlap, they generate enlarged perimeter blocks with continuous pedestrian permeability—a quarter that remains legible for cars yet fundamentally walkable through its internal crossings.
Before fixing geometry, we benchmarked block typologies and dimensions and deliberately anchored the system in Barcelona’s Cerdà logic: a consistent block module (Cerdà’s Eixample blocks are ~113.3 m per side, with chamfered corners) as a reference for human-scale urban repetition and predictable connectivity. At the scale of neighborhood structuring, we also treated superblock thinking as an operating precedent: a larger “cell” that protects internal pedestrian life by managing traffic on the perimeter (often discussed at roughly 400 m × 400 m in Barcelona’s Superblock framing).
The guideline consolidates best practices into a single, operable design code—an IP framework we continue to apply across other urban projects. It is not a catalogue of “nice ideas,” but a system of performance-driven rules: daylight and shading, summer comfort, and wind management; noise mitigation through perimeter buffering, courtyard depth, and program placement; biodiversity through layered planting, habitat continuity, and water-aware landscape; and green roofs as both microclimate infrastructure and stormwater logic. It formalizes height variation (graduated этажность) as an urban tool—using stepped massing to tune sunlight access, protect courtyards, and create a readable skyline without resorting to high-rise escalation.
Public life is not treated as “leftover space.” The pedestrian grid is designed to carry everyday public programs—entrances, small commerce, community rooms, mobility nodes—so that the enlarged blocks remain internally active rather than privatized. In this sense, the guideline shares an affinity with the research-driven urbanism of practices like MVRDV (systemic thinking about block-based cities and differentiated urban spaces) and the narrative clarity often used by BIG to translate complex urban mechanisms into legible spatial rules—yet our focus is explicitly on a repeatable developer-grade tool that can be built, maintained, and iterated at scale.
In short, the document codifies a compact, mid-rise city of walkable enlarged quarters: car access remains rational and bounded, while the pedestrian network becomes the true urban structure—supporting climate comfort, biodiversity, acoustic protection, and a resilient public realm as default, not as decoration.

Libani Valley, near Bakuriani (Borjomi Gorge, Georgia) — a 100-hectare territorial system and general plan on the valley slopes, conceived as landscape-first urbanism rather than a conventional “resort layout.” (Libani is documented in the Borjomi Gorge, on the route between Borjomi and Bakuriani.)
1) Water first: the “vascular” structure
We began by mapping every watercourse and its green corridor—treating the hydrological network as a living кровеносная system that must remain continuous. This aligns with blue-green infrastructure practice: restore and protect natural drainage pathways and ecological corridors first, then place development around them.
2) Roads second: the “nervous” structure
Only after the green-blue frame was fixed did we thread the road network through its gaps—roads as a nervous system that connects without severing. The result is a legible hierarchy: mobility is present, but it is never allowed to overwrite water, vegetation, and connectivity.
3) Block scale from Georgian village morphology
Quarter dimensions were not “invented,” but extracted from digital analytics of historic Georgian villages—both in scale and in the proportion between built height and open ground. This anchors the plan in a local spatial metabolism: compact enough to walk, porous enough to breathe, and culturally familiar without copying any single vernacular image.
4) 50/50: development paired with untouched nature
The masterplan enforces a strict alternation—roughly 50% built fabric, 50% untouched landscape—so that nature is not a backdrop but a co-equal system. This is not decorative greening; it is an eco-sensitive zoning logic that protects continuity and biodiversity while still enabling a coherent settlement.
5) Solar logic as territorial infrastructure
All homes on the south-facing slope are equipped with PV as a default layer of the plan—because in the northern hemisphere, south-facing orientation is typically the highest-yield baseline for solar exposure.
6) Wildlife and landscape continuity
The green corridors are also treated as habitat continuity—keeping movement paths and refuge zones intact (yes, including deer presence as an ecosystem constraint rather than a postcard motif). This follows the broader best-practice framing of ecological connectivity in regional-scale planning.
7) Evidence-driven tooling: remote sensing → simulation → parametric GP
The plan was developed as a computational pipeline, not a one-off drawing:

• Satellite data + thermal imagery to read slope exposure, heat patterns, and seasonal risk zones.
• Microclimate simulation at neighborhood scale to test comfort and wind/heat behavior (tools like ENVI-met are explicitly positioned for neighborhood-scale climate-adaptive planning).
• Waterflow / runoff simulation to validate that the green-blue network works as a hydrological system, not a diagram.
• Parametric generation of the general plan to keep the rules consistent while adapting to micro-topography, view corridors, and ecological buffers.

In sum
Libani Valley is planned as a mountain settlement where landscape is the primary code: water and green corridors define the frame; mobility is threaded as a secondary system; block scale and height proportions are derived from local historic morphology; development alternates with untouched nature; and PV becomes a territorial layer on the southern slope. The outcome is a 100-hectare plan that reads as contemporary and data-driven—yet locally scaled, ecologically legible, and walkable by design.

An art-park for festivals and family recreation without harming nature, set on the shores of Lake Chereiskoye in Belarus—near the village of Chereya in the Vitebsk region.
1) Start with what must remain untouched
The project begins as ecological mapping, not “design”: we preserved every existing tree, identified zones of higher biodiversity and bird nesting, and declared these areas strictly no-go—a protected core where the landscape remains intact and human presence is deflected, not “curated.” This follows the basic logic of biodiversity-first site planning: set habitat priorities early, then design circulation and program around them.
2) Work only where the field is already a monoculture
Where the abandoned wheat field had become a single, low-diversity surface, we intervened—not by building, but by cutting: paths are mown into the grain, and a constellation of circular clearings is carved at multiple scales, from picnic to workshop to concert. The composition reads as an intentional cultural reference—half UFO, half crop circles—turning minimal disturbance into a strong image.
3) Two routes, two states of movement
A dual-loop structure binds the park into a coherent experience. One direction is a land route: the path is cut into the wheat, stitched through clearings, and calibrated for slow family wandering. The return becomes a water route: a floating line of pontoons that “walks” the lake surface, shifting the same landscape into a second register—reflection, horizon, silence.
4) The clearings are not empty—each is a program container
The circles are designed as event-ready rooms in the open air: informal family отдых, children’s activities, small performances, lectures, larger festival stages—without forcing permanent hardscape. This is a park that can intensify temporarily, then return to landscape.
5) Land-art + glamping + spa as lightweight anchors
A set of land-art objects operates as orientation points and destinations, while glamping and a compact spa add an extended-stay layer—still treated as light-touch insertions that respect the protected ecological zones and the logic of minimal footprint.
6) “Leave no trace” as an operational principle
The entire system is conceived to be reversible: nothing requires heavy ground works; the most visible geometry is mowing, floating, and temporary assembly. The ambition is not to “conquer” the lake edge, but to host culture and family recreation while keeping the site legible, recoverable, and ecologically safe—consistent with Leave No Trace frameworks that pair access with protection and clear behavioral rules.

The tasks architecture faces in the 21st century—and which we adopted as a studio motto—demand an ability to weave incompatibles and join what seems unjoinable: to host human life while remaining a living landscape; to be ruthlessly functional and built from recyclable materials, yet still give people simple beauty and strong emotion. Among historical periods, the most powerful emotional work with incompatibility was achieved in the Baroque. This is why we often describe our own approach as bio-digital baroque.
These principles are expressed most clearly in a corner pavilion that stitches a typical Moscow park to a new skate-park. Can one object be public space, sign, and adventure at once—an interior café and an exterior amphitheater; part of the park landscape and a free civic room; simultaneously iconic and quietly background?
Easily.
We take a Baroque stair-as-amphitheater, and—like Bernini at St. Peter’s—boldly cut it with an oval “garden room.” We place the café beneath the stair, and we specify every surface in materials that skateboarding cannot harm.
Done: landscape, urban plaza, sports tribune, and building—at the same time.

On the bank of the Kura / Mtkvari River in Sodevi, Georgia, the project begins with an existing reinforced-concrete hotel skeleton—an unfinished relic whose aged concrete already carries a striking beauty. Our strategy holds two intertwined themes: to preserve and intensify the expressive presence of this old concrete, and to transform the structure into a contemporary recreational hotel without erasing its history.

The contemporary requirement was clear: extend the floor plates to produce properly sized rooms and a viable hospitality layout. The question became how to give this new construction a coherent architectural logic. We turned to a local archetype from Kvemo Kartli: traditional houses wrapped on all sides with verandas and a characteristic wooden lattice that filters sun and frames everyday life.

We translate this into a modern interpretation—parametrically developed lattice families tuned to each façade’s orientation and exposure. The diagonals of the pattern do more than shade: they form a light yet highly stable structural frame for the added extension, turning ornament into tectonics.

To make this dialogue legible, all other hotel programs—pool, restaurant, and service infrastructure—are absorbed into the lower levels. Their green roofs read as landscape rather than building, quietly masquerading as the neighboring hills, so that the old concrete volume and the new lattice-veranda exoskeleton remain the project’s primary narrative.

A school for adults in Africa is built from local material—adobe brick—forming massive walls and an integrated climate apparatus composed of underground air ducts, entrance cooling towers borrowed from local architectural traditions, manually operated dampers, and a double roof. The lower roof, made of adobe, works like a thermos: a heavy insulating layer that stabilizes interior temperature. Above it, a roof of locally ubiquitous corrugated metal sheds rainfall into a dedicated cistern used to irrigate the garden, while also creating a thermal gap between the two layers. As air in this gap heats up, it rises and drives the entire passive system: warm air is extracted from the rooms, while fresh, humidified air is drawn in through the adobe cooling towers and the network of vertical shafts—cooled, moistened, and renewed.
The architecture operates as a form of new regionalism: it grows from the simple act of giving expressive, locally legible form to each engineering decision, using local materials not as a finish, but as the very medium of performance.

A prefabricated cabin system for deploying hotels in high-value protected landscapes. The architecture is modular: square-in-plan units on a glulam timber frame, built around a single, hard-won discovery—the ideal square.

We searched for it precisely because this one plan dimension can host any of the core luxury-hotel scenarios perfectly. In the same exact square, a king-size bed lands with the right perimeter of space and calm; a two-person round jacuzzi fits with a dome that feels inevitable rather than forced; a mini-kitchen and dining setup resolves with proper working clearances; and other resort programs slot in with the same sense of geometric rightness.

One module size—multiple “ideal” rooms.

The lightweight structural logic allows the cabins to stand on minimal supports, lifting the volume off the ground and keeping the landscape intact. Modularity and prefabrication enable high-performance assemblies, including engineered floor/roof build-ups; the green roof is not an add-on but embedded in the module as standard, turning each unit into micro-infrastructure for insulation, stormwater retention, and climatic stability.

As a market-ready “constructor” for eco-responsible luxury—mini-lodges, micro-villas, and dispersed resort rooms—the system combines repeatability with a high-design identity. Panoramic glazing is positioned as a deliberate instrument for framing nature rather than consuming it; a modular terrace extends the living area into the site without heavy foundations; and every dimension—structural spans, clearances, furniture fit, wet-zone volumes—is tuned to be both elegant and buildable.

The result is a kit of parts that can scale from a single cabin to a full lodge settlement, delivering contemporary comfort and strong architectural character while keeping impact light, reversible, and precise.

A domestic shell is renovated into an art center and landmark by treating architecture as an edit, not a replacement. The project keeps the building’s familiar mass and calm white presence, then injects a new public logic through a sequence of cuts, frames, and programmatic condensers—a Koolhaasian move where the “statement” is produced by circulation, adjacency, and intensity rather than by decorative form.

The public face is organized around a walled courtyard: a quiet lawn and a single tree, bounded by thick white surfaces and punctured by decisive arches. A large arched glazing becomes a civic aperture—simultaneously window, entrance-condition, and urban display—while the smaller arch reads as a calibrated threshold, turning the building into a walkable micro-campus rather than a single room.

Inside, the project is assembled as a montage of atmospheres. A lecture / screening room is framed as a deep black proscenium—an “interior exterior” that can host talks, projections, and gatherings. Adjacent spaces shift into gallery and shop functions (“founders art gallery & shop”), where softness and social pause are staged as part of the cultural machine, not as leftover lounge.

The intervention works through layering: raw textures and existing fabric are kept legible where needed, while new insertions are precise and infrastructural—glass partitions, track lighting, clean planes, and controlled openings that turn daylight into a curatorial tool. Above, an attic volume becomes an almost abstract chamber of timber planes and a sharp skylight—an instrument for concentration, rehearsal, or quiet work.

The landmark arrives at the roofline: a slender, reflective vertical element with an arched void, and a glazed belvedere volume that reads as both signal and observation device. It makes the building visible from afar without shouting—an urban punctuation that completes the transformation: not a new object in the city, but an old body reprogrammed into a public engine of art, learning, and gathering.

A luxury guesthouse conceived as an act of adaptive reuse: an existing café building becomes the grounded plinth, while a new timber-clad volume is set on top as a measured inhabitable crown. The intervention is intentionally dual—heavy and quiet below, lighter and more expressive above—so the project reads as a precise addition rather than a total replacement, turning reuse into a visible ethic rather than a hidden constraint.

The new upper structure is shaped as a sequence of framed-view chambers. Deep window reveals, tall vertical cuts, and a single panoramic gable opening work like optical instruments: each aperture is sized and positioned to isolate a specific horizon line, a tree crown, or a clearing—so landscape is not “scenery,” but the primary interior content. This approach aligns with the best hospitality precedents where rooms are deliberately placed and opened to deliver distinct, changing views rather than generic glazing.

In plan and section, the house behaves like a small campus. The renovated base holds the stable, service-heavy functions; the elevated timber volume contains the quiet, view-driven suites; and a glazed connector reads as a climatic buffer and social hinge. An external stair and calibrated thresholds make arrival a choreographed passage—from ground to crown, from shared to private, from program to contemplation—so “luxury” is defined as sequence, silence, and orientation, not excess.

Materially, the language is restrained but tactile: a white, almost monastic base; a vertical timber skin above; and deep shadows inside the reveals that turn openings into thickness. The architecture gives you access to the material reality of place—light, gravity, texture, temperature—while keeping the footprint light and the intervention legible. In this sense it sits in the same lineage as landscape hotels where precision framing, minimal disturbance, and the elevation of everyday rituals become the core of comfort