When asked where my inspiration comes from, I answered, “my home.”
I am having conversations with my home, my home as my most intimate companion. These are visualization of those conversations, conversations that are shared by many, but only between two.
We play a game of power exchange, dominance and submission, my home and I.
My home is architecture, but my house is not. I have lived in many places, and those memories live on despite what house I occupy.
A house is a mere object, a fabrication of the concept of home.
Architecture is a membrane, a porous, flexible potential.
What makes a home is potential, the experience of comfort, safety, security, love, care.
Domesticity is neither safe nor comfortable. Domesticating architecture means to make it submissive; it is not and cannot be submissive because architecture is fleeting. It is experience and cannot be controlled. A building is an object, but it is not architecture. Architecture is a process - the process of unfolding, of a shared experience between building and participant, a co-constitution of moments, held in tension by a membrane. The membrane grants architecture's actions to be unravelled by the participant and the participant's actions to be unravelled by the architecture. Architecture is a disruption of space; the membrane is that disruption. The disturbance, the frustration, the agitation that occurs is the event, and it causes us to bounce between spaces of our memory only made clear by the imminent future. To say a house is a home is to dumb down and oversimplify the existence of home in our embodied experience. A house can be a tent, the back seat of a car, where we keep our stuff, but a home lives in the memory embedded in that stuff.
I am having conversations with my home, my home as my most intimate companion. These are visualization of those conversations, conversations that are shared by many, but only between two.
We play a game of power exchange, dominance and submission, my home and I.
My home is architecture, but my house is not. I have lived in many places, and those memories live on despite what house I occupy.
A house is a mere object, a fabrication of the concept of home.
Architecture is a membrane, a porous, flexible potential.
What makes a home is potential, the experience of comfort, safety, security, love, care.
Domesticity is neither safe nor comfortable. Domesticating architecture means to make it submissive; it is not and cannot be submissive because architecture is fleeting. It is experience and cannot be controlled. A building is an object, but it is not architecture. Architecture is a process - the process of unfolding, of a shared experience between building and participant, a co-constitution of moments, held in tension by a membrane. The membrane grants architecture's actions to be unravelled by the participant and the participant's actions to be unravelled by the architecture. Architecture is a disruption of space; the membrane is that disruption. The disturbance, the frustration, the agitation that occurs is the event, and it causes us to bounce between spaces of our memory only made clear by the imminent future. To say a house is a home is to dumb down and oversimplify the existence of home in our embodied experience. A house can be a tent, the back seat of a car, where we keep our stuff, but a home lives in the memory embedded in that stuff.