At first, it was just a house. A house in the truest sense—defined by straight lines, precise right angles, and surfaces measured down to the millimeter. But as we looked at the drawings, we sensed something missing. A stiffness, a repetition so familiar that it became mundane.
Then a moment happened—just days before presenting the design, we decided to “break it.” An impulsive decision, yet one driven by a deep intuition: this house needed rhythm. It needed to be freed from the rigid confines of geometric rationality. And so, curves emerged.
But these were not arbitrary curves. They embodied the flow of space, the way architecture responds to people. Walls were no longer mere partitions; they became soft, undulating surfaces that guided the eye and body naturally. Stairs were no longer just for ascending; they invited, drawing people closer together. Arched openings, rounded corners, sweeping balconies—all blending seamlessly to create a unified whole, full of surprise and movement.
A house is not a static object. It has its own rhythm, its own breath, its own story. And within it, a family lives—moving, meeting, conversing—inside a space liberated from invisible constraints.