abruptarchitecture - people's homes

"There are houses in which we have lived for many days and yet which remain in our memories foreign and cold, unfit to evoke any state of mind, scenery to which looking at them as if someone else had lived in them. Others, on the contrary, are in our memory warm oases in which we find ourselves, in which something of ourselves continues, in which we turn in our thoughts to look into the shadowy mirrors to see the depths of the past. There are houses under whose roof we have stayed barely a day, or only a night, hurried travelers that we always are. Yet they are on the map of our inner journeys as happy resting places from which we have left more cheerfully before. And they are homes in which some of us have lived for years and years in the gray monotony of debt, which I can neither see nor describe.

When I make a house for someone, an anonymous someone I don't know much about, whom I can guess as little as I need to understand their desires, I always think of the influence of houses, rooms, inhabited spaces, with their own sound, their own particular light, on these memories, this ever-growing and ever-changing past from which our personality is composed.I try to understand why certain windows still open for me today on the dreamy vistas of the promised lands, why certain rooms at certain hours had something solemn in the growing darkness that enveloped them, why certain staircases put boundaries between the masts instead of connecting them, why certain doors that are too large frighten as if they should open only for a banquet, why some houses are inhabited by the soul of the times, while others never grasp life? I ask myself all these questions, and yet I do not answer them, I cannot answer each one individually, but from the sum of them I try to form an intuition which will be the key with which I shall hope to penetrate into the world of what we call, without any reckoning, the world of inanimate objects. For nothing is more alive - or ought to be more alive - than a house. But who gives the house this initial soul? Those who inhabit it? No. What then? It is up to you, the architect, to give facades and rooms the sound of life. Only on this condition is the architect a creator... if not, he remains a mere maker of scenery as artificial as that on a theater stage. You can learn to make scenery. There are rules, guidelines and even recipes for this kind of craft. But bringing a house to life, no matter how simple, cannot be learned. It's a gift you may or may not have, a gift you are born with... a gift that you don't find at school or in libraries, a kind of sense of space and destiny that permeates, giving rise to this play of forms called "architecture".

I make a man's house... so I define a space, a period of time called this man's life. I'm creating an intimacy, I'm creating the premises for a ritual of daily life. I will color, according to how the light will fall in the house I will build, the memories, and even the hopes, the longings of the man who will live with his family in the spaces I will create.

I am making a man's house... that does not mean only protecting him from the elements and providing him with what is called "comfort". I must also give him the possibility of forgetting that I was ever involved in the making of his house, I must give him every opportunity to assimilate my work... for only then will it be valid. For the day will come when this man's son will say: ...my father's house, and in the child's mind this house will indeed be his father's house, and not that of any other architect... and only then will it be right and just.

I make a man's house... I make a likeness of his dreams. I make a sort of abstract portrait, I confess for him what he may not even have known he had to confess, I put him in front of his desires, I express them as best I can, I put him in front of his ways... I fight them as best I can. And my resistance and his will make a home. It's a kind of collaboration between two strangers, a magical game of intuition.

I make a man's house... so I leave the city in which he lives the imprint of his will. In the social conglomerate of a city, I sketch the ideogram of a personality. Once the house is finished, it will become his. It will be someone else's house, in front of which I, too, will once pass, almost forgetting that I did it. And when the house is finished, when the last carpenter, the last electrician or painter has left it, I too will retire on tiptoe, so that no one will hear that I have left and at the same time forget that I was there..." *

"There are houses in which we spent many days and which, nevertheless, left a cold, hostile trace on our memories, unable to evoke any state of mind, settings that, when looked back at, seem to have been inhabited by someone else. There are others, on the contrary, which find their place in our memory like warm oases, in which we find ourselves, where something from inside us is continued, houses that we revisit in order to look, in their shade-filled mirrors, for the depth of the time past. These are houses under whose roof we barely spent a day or a night, like the hurried travelers that we always are. And still they remain on the map of our inner roads like happy shelters whence we moved on more cheerful. And there are also houses in which people have been living for years on end, overwhelmed by grey monotonous duties, and which they are neither able to see clearly, nor to describe.

When I make a house for someone, an anonymous someone about whom I do not know much and I tend to make guesses in order to understand his or her wishes, I always think about the authority of houses, rooms, inhabited spaces possessing their own sonority, their own light, about these memories, this past, constantly augmented and undergoing eternal transformation, which forms our personality.I am trying to understand why certain windows are still opening today, for me, onto the sunny views of the promised land, why some rooms at certain hours acquired something solemn as it grew darker and darker, why some stairs put up borders between storeys instead of connecting them, why some doors that were too big frightened me as if they had to open only for a procession, why some houses are inhabited by the spirit of their times while others never seem to latch on to life? I ask myself all these questions and still I cannot answer them; I cannot answer each of them in turn, but from them all I try to form an intuition which will be the key that will help me penetrate the world of inanimate objects, as so inconsiderately we call it. Inconsiderately because there is nothing livelier - or there shouldn't be anything livelier - than a house. But what animated this house, originally? The people who live in it? No. But what, then? It is your job, yours, the architect, to imbue the façades and the rooms with the look and sonority of life. It is only by meeting this requirement that the architect becomes a creator. Otherwise, he stays a mere builder of settings, just as artificial as the theater ones. One can learn how to make settings. There are rules, molds, even recipes for this kind of craft. But to give life to a house, however simple, cannot be learnt. It is a gift that you either have or you don't, that you are born with... a gift not to be acquired in school or in libraries, a special mixed sense of space and destiny which gives rise to the play of forms referred to as 'architecture'.

I make a man's house... therefore I trace the boundaries of a space, of a period of time which is that man's life. I create intimacy; I furnish the premises for a ritual of daily life. I shall color, according to the way light falls on the house about to be built, the memories, even the hopes, the aspirations of that person who will live together with his family in the spaces arranged by me.

I make a man's house... this does not mean solely that I protect him from bad weather and I provide him with what is known as 'comfort'. I need to give him the opportunity to forget that I have ever been involved in the making of his house, to give him all the chances he needs to appropriate my work... because it is only then that my work will be valid. Because that day will come when that man's son will say: ...my father's house, and in the child's mind that house will truly be his father's creation, and not that of some architect... and this is the only way and the right way to think about it.

I make a man's house... therefore I give shape to his aspirations. I make some sort of abstract portrait, I confess for him what he probably didn't even know that he wanted to confess, I place him face to face with his manias, I express them to the fullest extent possible. And thus, my strength and his will combine in making a house. It is a collaboration between two strangers, a magic game of intuition.

I make a man's house... therefore I leave the imprint of his will on the city in which he lives. In the social conglomerate of a city, I trace the ideogram of a personality. Once completed, the house will become entirely his. It will be the house of that man, by which I shall also pass some day, almost forgetting that I made it. And when the house is finished, when the last carpenter, the last electrician or house painter has left it, I shall also withdraw on tiptoe, so that people stay unaware that I left and also forget that I was there."*