Words by Karen O’Leary.

Samhain – the Celtic holiday that has since become known as Hallowe’en – marked the crossing of more than one threshold. On this night, the boundary between the otherworld and our world was thought to be at its thinnest, which is where all those traditions designed to either welcome or ward off the supernatural come from.

As well as celebrating this liminal space, Samhain also honoured a junction of time - the end of the year, or rather, one half of it. Just like the split between night and day, the Celts saw the entire year as such: a darker half a lighter one, Samhain a gateway between the two.

The Celts had a different approach to timekeeping. Curiously, their day didn’t begin at midnight, but at sunset. Opening with the disappearance of light, each day embraced the entire passage into darkness, and out of it. It makes you wonder why it is that our days begin at the somewhat hazy hour of midnight, that perhaps the boundaries of time are somehow both fixed and a little arbitrary, both real and made-up, like directions on a compass. Sunset may have been a clearer, albeit ever-changing, marker of the border between night and day. With winter just around the corner, Samhain acted as a kind of sunset on summer as a whole, heralding in the full depths of darkness yet to come.

In places where sunlight is sparse, its rarity makes it all the more precious. Newgrange, Ireland’s most famous Neolithic passage tomb (constructed before the Celts ever arrived – and long before both Stone Henge and the Pyramids, mind you) was not designed to let much light in. If anything, it’s designed to keep the light out. Somehow – who knows how – they specifically engineered the tomb’s window to catch a narrow beam of dawn at an angle only possible on the Winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year. This being Ireland, most of the time it’s too cloudy for the light to break through. But when it does, there is a brief moment of almost inexplicable magic, before the mornings slowly start to brighten up all over again.

Words by Fahad Malik.

For most of history, human attention has focused on physical surroundings, navigating landscapes, structures, and environments that demanded constant interaction. However, over the last twenty years, the focus has shifted dramatically towards the digital realm. Today, most people spend the majority of their day engaging with digital screens. This shift has been profound, as digital spaces often outperform physical environments in terms of perfection: they are smooth, fast, and efficient, in contrast to the imperfections of physical space, where doors creak and walls crumble.

The first digital space I encountered was the desktop of Windows 95, a system featuring a teal background with a Start button and a few icons like My Computer and Recycle Bin. Surprisingly, despite three decades of technological advancements, the fundamental design of this desktop space has not changed much. Today’s desktops and phone screens still rely on background images and icons to represent different applications. Even with advancements in spatial computing and virtual reality, these technologies merely project familiar desktop layouts onto three-dimensional environments. This lack of innovation raises important questions. Why hasn’t the layout of digital spaces evolved more radically? Is an icon with words required to represent an application? Why don’t frequently used applications expand or contract based on usage patterns? Why don’t digital environments change dynamically, perhaps reflecting different colours or textures depending on the time of day or the user’s location or mood?

In contrast, physical spaces have continually evolved throughout human history, with design innovations reshaping the way we live and work. The lack of parallel innovation in digital spaces suggests that designers may have neglected the potential to rethink these environments from first principles. As digital spaces increasingly dominate our lives, there is a clear need for a more dynamic, responsive design that can keep pace with the physical world's ingenuity. Perhaps the next era of digital space will finally embrace this potential.

Walking map here, words by Walid Bhatt.

Along with the English Breakfast and fish and chips, curry is widely regarded to be one of the UK's most popular dishes. While curry is now one of Britain's favourite dishes, its roots go far beyond the 20th century. Chicken Tikka Masala, for example, is said to have been invented in Glasgow during the early 70s by a Pakistani chef who realised that the British enjoyed a gravy-like sauce accompanying their dishes giving rise to a new, milder chicken dish that has been voted Britain's favourite, but the history of South Asian food in Britain is very old indeed.

1. Lloyd's Building, Leadenhall Street

The East India Company, founded in 1600, played a significant role in bringing spices to Britain, laying the groundwork for curry's arrival. The company’s headquarters were on Leadenhall Street in the heart of the City of London. The site is now occupied by the Lloyd's building.

2. Greville Street, Holborn

The first recorded British curry recipe appeared in 1747 in The Art of Cookery by Hannah Glasse. Her recipe for chicken curry, using onion, turmeric, ginger, and cream, is still easily recognisable today. Hannah Glasse was born on Greville Street, Holborn, and her work marks an early step in Britain's culinary adoption of curry.

3. Main Piazza, Covent Garden

In 1811, another early curry recipe appeared in The New London Family Cook, written by Duncan MacDonald, head chef of the Bedford Tavern Hotel on Covent Garden’s Main Piazza. This rabbit curry, served to guests, was key in showing how curry was becoming more established in British cuisine.

4. Haymarket, Piccadilly

The first commercial curry offering in London was at the Norris Street Coffee House on Haymarket. An advertisement reveals that the establishment not only served curry but also offered a home delivery service—one of the earliest examples of Indian food delivery in the city—all the way back in 1773. It was an era in which Mozart was still active. King George III was on the throne, and the American War of Independence was still two years away. The question is, how did they transport curry by horse with no foil containers?

5. Cowper's Court, Bank

The Jerusalem Coffee House on Cowper's Court, a short walk from the East India Company's headquarters, also served curry in addition to the more typical English fare. Popular with the company’s officers, who had developed a taste for Indian food, this coffee house reflected a growing popularity of curry in London during the 18th century.

6.34 George Street, Marylebone

In 1810, Sheikh Dean Mahomed opened London’s first true Indian restaurant, the Hindoostane Coffee House, on George Street. Mahomed, an entrepreneur from Bengal and later adopted by an Anglo-Irish officer of the British Raj, decorated the restaurant with Asian furnishings and offered authentic Indian cuisine along with a personal head massage. With all that in mind, you think Mahomed was onto a winner but sadly this wasn't the case. The restaurant lasted for just one year before he was forced to file for bankruptcy. Mahomed later found success in Brighton, where he ran a vapour bath and massage parlour, earning the nickname "Dr. Brighton." Mahomed was an expert in shampoo, and his services at the bath played a pivotal role in introducing shampoo to Europe.

7. Veeraswamy, Regent Street

Today, London’s oldest Indian restaurants continue the legacy of these early pioneers. The Halal, opened in 1939, The Punjab, founded in 1946, and Veeraswamy, established in 1926 on Regent Street, are enduring symbols of Britain's love for Indian food. Veeraswamy, the oldest, has hosted many notable diners, including Charlie Chaplin and Indira Gandhi.

Image: Sake Deen Mahomed, Shampooing Surgeon, Brighton. 1820’s.

Words by Karen O’Leary.

Last week, a review of the new production of The History Boys stirred up some memories of my own school days. Susannah Clapp, theatre critic for the Observer, found the set design to be ‘puzzling’, and could only describe the classroom as ‘what looks like a static caravan’. This telling comment caught on quickly, illustrating the divide in education a little too well. Some people’s schools have prefabs, and others don’t even know what prefabs are.

Looking at Grace Smart’s set, I was reminded of my old primary school. A former convent, Fatima was set across a pair of disjointed buildings on the edge of a busy road. The only one that still resembled a convent – lurching Gothic arches, faces carved into stone columns – was a third, disused middle building that divided the school into clear halves. The other buildings were dreary in a much more boring way, with a set of prefabs out the back.

Those prefabs housed the smallest of us for the first two years of our education. They were temporary – only there to manage capacity before the ‘New School’ would be built. The prefabs didn’t bother me. They were small, but so was I. Years later, my mum told me that they bothered her. At one point construction had begun – sadly, not for the elusive ‘New School’ - on the slope behind the portacabins. She was so worried by the sight of an excavator perched on the hillside, and our classrooms sitting in its path, that she briefly withdrew me from school.

By first year, I graduated to the main buildings. These weren’t much better – or safer. The school was falling apart. One weekend, a large part of the gutter fell from the PE hall into the playground below. The fact that this didn’t occur on a school day inevitably earned it the newspaper headline ‘Miracle of Fatima’.

I was more concerned with the fact that running wasn’t allowed in the playground. In actuality, this was permitted; the unspoken agreement was just to not pass the observing teacher at full-speed. We were also told not to lean against the windows in case the glass broke. We probably still did this too, looking out at the oversized shopping mall that was being built across the road, and that’s still only half-finished today. Once - on the last day of school, no less - we all had to evacuate because of a suspected gas leak on the mall’s building site. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to us, a minor threat that instantly cemented itself into primary school lore. Those poor girls who started their summer holidays early came back to find they had sorely missed out.

Fatima wasn’t a bad school. It had a good reputation, a waiting list. They were always petitioning the government for new premises, but with no funding available, had to come up with creative solutions in the meantime. Some classes briefly moved to a parish hall up the road, and, apparently, there was a proposal to relocate the entire school into a disused factory on the outskirts of town. In desperation, they even bussed some of us down to Dail Eireann to protest, placards and samba drums in tow. I can’t remember if this made the Six One news or not, but we did get a new school eventually. Though, by that time I had already left.

Wadhal is looking for a talented Architectural Assistant to join the studio.

Wadhal is an architecture studio based in London, creating narrative-led spaces that reconsider design, tradition and culture.

We are seeking an Architectural Assistant to join the practice on a full or part-time basis, contributing to a diverse range of projects. This is a unique opportunity for a passionate and motivated individual to become a core member of our small team.

Responsibilities

-Assisting Project Architect with client meetings, taking minutes and keeping records
-Arranging quotes from consultants and issuing briefing documents
-Collating visual references and preparing hand sketches
-Preparing architectural drawings, digital models and visualisations
-Creating physical models to test design ideas and suit project requirements
-Formatting client presentations and submitting relevant statutory applications
-Preparing technical design drawings, specifications and schedules
-Liaising with clients and consultants
-Attending construction site visits
-General administrative support

Requirements

-A genuine interest in design and a willingness to learn
-Undergraduate qualification or above in Architecture
-Hard-working and highly organised
-Confident verbal, written & visual communicator
-Self-motivated; able to work autonomously within a small team
-Excellent technical drawing and construction detailing skills
-Highly skilled in AutoCAD, Rhino/ SketchUp and V-Ray
-Experience with Grasshopper would be an advantage
-Proficient in Photoshop, Illustrator & InDesign

Offer

-Opportunity to work from concept to completion on design-led projects
-Competitive salary and hybrid working
-Access to co-working spaces
-28 days annual leave
-RIBA Pension scheme
-Monthly CPD

To apply

Please email your application to the Studio Manager at karen@wadhal.co.uk by midnight on 25th February, including your Cover Letter, CV & Portfolio. Please send these via a WeTransfer link and do not attach large files to your email.

Candidates must be eligible to work in the UK with a recognised Part 1/ Part 2 qualification. Wadhal is an equal opportunities employer. We strongly encourage applications from candidates who are under-represented within the architecture industry.

Charpais are commonly found across rural communities in South-Asia, made from four rounded timber legs and posts to form size of a single bed. As they were traditionally fabricated prior to mechanical fixings being readily available, all the joints are solid mortise and tenon without the need for nails or screws. These joints are highlighted beautifully at each corner to express how the posts connect to the feet. The timber frame is typically finished with cane weaving as a readily available by-product of agriculture forming a comfortable base. The charpai is specifically interesting to explore as it performs the functions required from all furniture in a typical home with a single unifying design.

Most commonly, charpais are used as a bed, for sitting, socialising and eating meals indoors or outdoors. They are a bed, a dining table, a sofa and garden furniture. Often many charpais are arranged in a U-shape for communal meeting so they become a mini auditorium. Historically, before people had bathrooms, four charpais would be tilted vertically for washing to form a shower enclosure, so they become sanitaryware. During events, charpais are used to store food and make Halwa (a desert) so they also become a kitchen.

Two charpais can be stacked to form bunk beds to become a space saving device. During warmer months charpais are used to keep quilts to become storage and the furniture of different seasons. Dogs are often tied to the posts of a charpai and shelter underneath from the sun to become furniture for your pets. Multiple charpais can be arranged vertically to form a screening wall where furniture becomes architecture.

A cloth can be tied to two posts on a charpai to form a baby's cradle. During a funeral, charpais are used as an open coffin. In this respect, the charpai is the furniture of life and death. If someone is mourning, charpais are turned upside down as an expression of grief to become the furniture of symbolism, transcending pure function.

Image: Charpais in Veranda.

The climate crisis, pandemic and rapid changes in technology have changed the way we live forever. The typical family home with a living room orientated around a television, with bedrooms above is no longer relevant to the way we live, work, and relax. The Off Grid Jewel rethinks the home with changing lifestyles over the next decade in mind. While the design is organised as a four-bedroom house, it creates six different opportunities for home working. This includes dedicated spaces in each bedroom, a separate home office and an integrated workspace in the living room.

The proposal takes a fabric first approach via significant insulation throughout the envelope. The entire building is clad in an integrated solar panel rainscreen and utilises an Air Source Heat Pump with underfloor heating. In the summer months, overhangs to the ground floor terraces protect from overheating. Opening windows across each elevation create ample opportunities for cross ventilation. During winter, the lower angle of the sun penetrates deep into the ground floor with rising heat keeping the living space warm. Dormer windows across each elevation allow generous daylight throughout the day to create a delightful living space with a dramatic faceted roof above.

The Off Grid Jewel takes a classical approach of hyper logical plan and section and offsets this against a contemporary brief of climate demands and working from home alongside advances in digital technology. It develops the typical vernacular of a pitched roof house in the countryside with a rationality toward form, proportion, structure and daylight, while pushing the use of everyday materials to create joyful compositions.

My father was a journalist and when I was young, our home was full of newspapers. As a kid I could fill weeks and weeks lying around and sketching on newspapers with a biro- we used to call it a ball point pen. I have a fond memory of getting a four-colour Bic biro from the local shop, it was a real highlight. This one had four tabs, with black, blue, green and red. It was easy to twist apart, so you could see the relationship between the spring and the four different biro nibs and tabs. The shop that sold these biros also had a bakery in the basement, which had a particularly distinctive smell which could fill the entire street. We lived in a modest neighbourhood in Islamabad in the nineties, with crisp white Corbusien tower blocks which had not aged gracefully. The communal stairwells had perforated brickwork painted white letting the sun dapple through and the balconies and terraces were enclosed by in-situ concrete painted white. Before the balcony balustrade hit the floor, there was a 50mm gap where the rebar was exposed and also painted white. These were beautiful details, now that I think back to them.

A lot of people go to architecture because they were the kid who was good at drawing in school. I was no different, but with time and experience I realised that being able to create nice sketches has zero impact on your abilities as an architect. It is easy to get lost in a drawing, a model, or a visualisation even, which never translates into a built result. Given such a realisation, I spent the previous eight years doing extraordinarily little sketching, despite finding it enjoyable. I still do not really need to sketch unless it is therapeutic or meditative. If I get the thinking right, I should be able to create an elegant scheme on the first draft.

When lockdown happened, among the unending blur of zoom meetings, I began to realise that communicating architectural ideas verbally was near impossible. The sketches started as a means to communicate what I meant, but then I rediscovered how much quicker it was. The computer forces you to commit to dimensions with a tolerance of millimetres, which one can escape from with hand sketches, even when they are to scale. But most importantly, rediscovering sketching connected me to those earlier memories, of doodling with the four-colour ball point pens on my father’s old newspapers.

Image: Bic four-colour ballpoint.

The Melting Pavilion is a competition entry, proposed as an abstraction of Arctic Sea ice. The Arctic is warming twice as fast as the rest of the globe, a sombre reminder of the ongoing climate crisis. My generation of designers is facing a climate catastrophe which should drastically impact how we think about the built environment, materiality and energy use. The melting pavilion aims to provocatively symbolise this crisis as the primary design brief for the coming decade.

The Melting Pavilion is completely static, yet appears to be in movement, transforming dynamically from one state to another. The design is articulated as four L shaped elements, deconstructed in varying orientations and at different points of sinking. Therefore, the proportion and perception of the pavilion is completely unique in each elevation.

A treated softwood structure is proposed, finished in cladding made from waste materials. Smile Plastics can supply panels made from recycled chopping boards and plastic packaging. The panels are completely weatherproof and can be easily machined, drilled, cut, CNC routed and fixed using adhesives and screws. In the ‘blue dappled’ finish, this material has a depth and vibrancy reminiscent of the Arctic landscape.

The pavilion is completely permeable in plan, arranged across a platform of seven floating pontoons on the canal. It is a prototype shelter which hopes to provide a temporary moment to pause and reflect on this site, as an encouragement to move toward an environmentally responsible future together.

“Poverty is not a disgrace. Not everyone can be born into feudal manor house. But to pretend such a thing to one’s fellow men is ridiculous, immoral. So let us not be ashamed of the fact that we live in a house with many others who are socially our equals. Let us not be ashamed of the fact that there are materials which would be too costly for us as building materials. Let us not be ashamed of the fact that we are people from the nineteenth century, and not those who live in a house which, in its architectural style, belongs to an earlier time.” Adolf Loos, 1898.

Kano’s video for Pan-Fried featuring Kojo offers a collage of deteriorating housing developments across East London. He contrasts celebratory lyrics against imagery that portrays something entirely different - “We celebrate life non-stop, cos we made it off the block”, in contrast to the visual of excessive fly tipping outside derelict housing. Much of the cinematography is focused on the architecture, and when people are shown as well as buildings, it is the buildings which occupy the majority of the frame. Pan-Fried describes the culture of this part of London authentically, trying to communicate that this urban decline wasn’t just something to be dismissed or scoffed at, it was a catalyst for a subculture which should be cherished. In the chorus, Kojo sings as his hair is being groomed by a young woman, in-flux as opposed to the final presentation - a clear reference to changing urbanism. Kano makes the same point that Adolf Loos made in 1898, via a different medium.

Most people’s perception of a building very rarely has anything to do with its style. When I moved to London as a kid, I had a very neutral perception of such council estates. I had spent my early years in cliché modernist developments in an entirely different cultural context, crisp white towers surrounded by landscaping etc. Yet most British people at the time associated this with the deteriorating reputation of social housing and poverty. By 2020, we have gone full circle, where the brutalist icons are considered a part of national heritage and a renaissance of council housing is taking root. As a teenager, I would have associated Balfron tower with the hood, now I think of lucrative property investment. I had this discussion with a colleague who pointed out that the design of the buildings remains unchanged – rather the societal perception of the design has changed. Architecture cannot be more powerful than politics.

More than a hundred years ago, it was declared that Ornament is Crime. Yet, no matter how revolutionary at the time, stylistic and material preferences of one era will become ornamentation and imitation for the next. An in-situ concrete wall, or the latest recycled eco-plastic rainscreen can also be used as ornamentation without any function much like a baroque style moulding, they are just communicating something else. Kano’s video shows that buildings which were rejected in the noughties can become a cultural driving force for the twenties. So equally, let us not be ashamed of the fact that not everyone can splash out a million on a property in a brutalist icon, to harp back to this style in design terms would be equally immoral. As an architect, you cannot control society’s perception of a material finish in the long term, you must innovate at a level that goes beyond stylistic communication and sinking budgets on specification and product displays. The best things about buildings don’t have to cost anything.

Image: Pan-Fried by Kano feat Kojo, 2019.

In recent years, I have been exploring daylight analysis and energy modelling during the concept design phase of architectural projects. The process begins with a general daylight analysis, measured in Lux, to assess the performance of spaces throughout the year based on design, location, and weather. A desirable target is 300 Lux or above for residential spaces, but I aim for a balanced composition of light and shadow rather than maximizing daylight in every corner. This analysis is visualised in diagrams showing over and underlit spaces, which guide design adjustments, such as adding rooflights to improve lighting in specific areas.

The Spatial Daylight Autonomy (sDA) analysis measures how much of a space receives adequate daylight, focusing on the percentage of floor area that meets minimum illumination levels for a significant portion of occupied hours. A score of 55% is considered adequate, with 75% being excellent. I use sDA to refine designs, adjusting elements like glazing and ceiling heights. Another metric, Annual Sun Exposure (ASE), highlights areas receiving excessive sunlight, which can lead to thermal discomfort. While keeping ASE under 50% is ideal, this can be challenging and not always desirable, especially in passive solar designs.

Beyond quantitative measures, I also assess the poetic quality of light using the Daylight Factor, which simulates daylight under overcast conditions. This analysis reveals spaces with fluctuating light qualities, akin to those in galleries or museums, offering a deeper understanding of a design’s atmospheric potential. Additionally, I evaluate direct sunlight hours during winter to inform a passive thermal strategy, integrating thermal mass and controlled roof openings.

Finally, I create a simple energy model to estimate energy use. In one project, a draft analysis predicted a 48% reduction in energy use compared to a traditional structure, suggesting further refinements during technical design. Overall, this approach underscores the importance of integrating energy reduction strategies from the outset, moving beyond regulatory requirements toward a more context-sensitive, sustainable design.

Image: Daylight Factor Analysis.

I think it is possible to talk about an approach to sustainability in extremely simple terms. For example, it’s cold and you have some wood, you can burn the wood and you will feel warmer. On the other hand, you may use the wood to construct shelter to provide warmth (Banham’s parable). My interest toward Environmental Architecture is concerned with maximising the potential of the latter. Such thinking translates to practice, where I am keen to remind client’s that the most sustainable approach is to reduce the energy demands of the proposal from the outset.

Using daylight is a key consideration with regard to visual comfort, as well as thermal comfort. Understanding how light from the sun impacts the proposal and how to manipulate daylight internally are important design considerations. I’m interested in looking at annual daylighting in foot candles, spatial daylight autonomy (sDA) & daylight factor analysis, to work in conjunction with the design concept. Over the next post I will break down how detailed analysis of these factors can help influence the design concept at the outset.

The driving force behind this approach is rooted in the idea that changes in the physical environment effect the behavioural patterns of people. The examination of a series of multi-faceted subjects facilitates design quality as well as environmental responsibility. Believing that such practice is possible is a source of inspiration, even when it diverges from the conventional path.

“We are facing an ecological emergency. According to the United Nations, if we want to avoid a climate breakdown, carbon emissions must be cut by 45% by 2030 and reach zero by 2050. We are no longer discussing an environmental catastrophe that might impact future generations, but a catastrophe that will now drastically affect our own”

Eco-Visonaries Exhibition, Royal Academy

Image: Eco-Visionaries: Confronting a planet in a state of emergency, Royal Academy of Arts, London, 23 November 2019 — 23 February 2020.

Next week marks the practical completion of my first project using in-situ concrete, providing valuable lessons in design, detailing, and construction. Throughout this process, several key technical issues emerged.

Sample Testing
Before the main pour, I requested the contractor to create a 600x600x600 concrete sample to evaluate corner conditions, surface finish, and formwork joints. The mix used 40% Ordinary Portland Cement (OPC) and 60% Ground Granulated Blast-furnace Slag (GGBS), with a water-cement ratio of 0.5 and a cement-to-aggregate ratio of 1:6. The sample, encased in 18mm MDO film-faced plywood formwork, required two coats of release agent. Despite this, the sample took several days to stabilise its color, which resembled light marble with a smooth, glossy finish. We discovered that using wood filler instead of silicone for formwork joints created cleaner, neater lines.

Reinforcement
The importance of having comprehensive reinforcement drawings was highlighted during construction. Our contractor needed guidance, prompting us to request prioritised rebar schedules from the structural engineer. This was crucial, especially for the in-situ concrete kitchen island with its significant cantilevers, requiring precise steel reinforcement to address concrete’s poor tensile strength.

Formwork
Detailed drawings of the formwork were essential due to the inevitability of visible joints caused by the pressure of the poured concrete. I aligned the formwork sheets with structural elements like columns and rooflight upstands, making any imperfections appear intentional. Two coats of Nufins Chemlease release agent were applied meticulously to prevent surface retardation.

Temporary Works
The contractor managed the temporary works, which involved extensive support structures, including acrows and timber frameworks, to hold the concrete in place. Although this approach worked, slight bowing of the concrete occurred in areas without clamps, underscoring the need for a detailed temporary works design in future projects.

Shadow Gaps
Shadow gaps presented challenges, particularly at the column-to-soffit intersection. Using glazing beads for these gaps proved too intricate, leading to difficulties in achieving clean lines. I learned that shadow gaps should only be used when necessary, with larger tolerances to ensure clean execution.

Thermal Breaks
To address cold bridging at the window head, we used Ancon thermal breaks, carefully integrated into the rebar. However, the lead time for these components delayed the project, highlighting the importance of early planning.

Sequencing and Compaction
The pouring sequence could have been improved by allowing the ceiling to dry before pouring the upstands, which would have simplified the process. Additionally, careful compaction using electrical pokers was necessary to avoid defects like poker burns and blow holes.

Sealing
Finally, sealing the concrete after it dried was essential to protect the surface. I specified a water-repellent, vapour-permeable sealer, Facael Oleo, for both internal and external surfaces. The parapet detailing used liquid-applied waterproofing to maintain a clean aesthetic without visible flashings.

This project taught me that while my initial instinct was to tightly control every aspect of the concrete work, the beauty of in-situ concrete often lies in its imperfections—subtle variations in color, texture, and form that contribute to its unique character.

Image: Site Inspection/ August 27th, 2019.

London has a great building culture due to high land value. Clients are prepared to invest heavily, even on modest projects, creating a fertile environment of experimentation for young architects who position themselves thoughtfully. Conversely, most architects working on small to medium scale projects are primarily focused on residential, refurbishment and extension work. I have often noticed this resulting in a curiously amusing hierarchy of buildings; curious because the power of building is far greater than what can be illustrated in a kitchen design, and amusing because it’s obviously infantile to make interior joinery the ‘drop-mic’ moment of your project. These elements can only be meaningful if they reference the overall concept, they cannot be your starting point. Often, designers are more opinionated about joinery and kitchens than the building envelope details themselves. Most of these residential extensions across London are guaranteed to boast exceptional kitchen designs and tragically un-elegant exterior elevations, concurrently. The solution is for architects to clarify a personal hierarchy for the building before the design process begins. I have found the following is useful:

-Proportions: Preference to keep dimensions proportional, ordered and elegant.

-Structure: A thoughtful way of expressing the structural elements of the building, related to its proportions.

-Daylight: Thinking about direct and diffused lighting and its effect on the proportions and structure.

-Narrative: Carefully designing the differences between from one room to another, so varying atmospheres can be felt powerfully.

-Repetition: The more you repeat an idea, element or proportion in a building, the better it gets.

-Contradiction: At the heart of all great art, there are always two ideas that are the same yet entirely contradictory.

-Juxtaposition: The detailing of the building, looking at corners and junctions between different elements.

-Materials: Technical exercise of exploring potential of the chosen material in terms of density, texture colour etc.

In Britain, there is a tendency for architects to fetishise materials, textures and colours. However, in my limited experience, I have found it increasingly difficult to polish a turd with nicely detailed materials. I think these are the weaker elements in architecture, if I can execute the primary volumes with a degree of poetry, the colour of the bathroom tiles will be irrelevant.

Image: No. 428 2013 by Rana Begum.

I am conscious of my writing being perceived as a self-indulgent, due to a continued antagonistic relationship with conventional architectural practice. Writing helps vent frustrations and rationalise ideas, like that cliché of writing to discover what you think, in a way that social media cannot. Social media is image focused and constructed with an audience in mind yet writing in a different format can be for yourself, a targeted audience or no one whatsoever. Additionally, I am drawn to the immediacy with which I can construct ideas through writing, something which can take years in architecture.

I recently read an interview with the French painter Fabienne Verdier, who learnt calligraphy from the old masters in China. They would make her practice drawing one line for weeks on end, with the ambition that each stroke should represent the energy of your perception. If the energy is accurate, there can be no mistakes because there are no corrections. This is what writing feels like. Verdier says that the act of painting can be done in a matter of minutes, but each piece represents months of planning. This is what design feels like.

Image: Deconstructed Sign by Fabienne Verdier.

I recently entered a competition inviting architects to rethink the suburban home for the 21st century. I choose a site to provocatively highlight the disparity between the typology of a suburban villa and requirements for contemporary urban living. To purchase a large suburban home in London with multiple bedrooms is not an economic reality for my generation. As opposed to suburbia spanning away from the city centre, perhaps it is worth exploring what lessons can be learnt from this model, to generate an architecture rooted within an urbancontext. Consequently, the starting point for the design proposal is to ask a question; can the typology of an affluent suburban villa be developed for contemporary urban living?

The site is at the corner of St Ann’s villas and Queensdale road in West London, a residential street developed in the mid-nineteenth century as part of the Norland Estate. The properties are semi-detached, largely converted into flats with red brick facades and slate roofs, built in a mock Tudor style. There are many similar examples of traditional suburban villas in London against an increasingly urban context, considering the growth of the city over time.

The design proposal is idealistic, giving equal importance to outdoor rooms and internal floor area. Proposed as a series of mirrored elements, a matrix between interiors and verandas is created on each floor, allowing spaces for dining, living, studying and sleeping to flow from one to the other. Each room mirrors the proportions of another, every gesture is reflected elsewhere with semi-circular arches, corner windows and views across brick walls to achieve a coalescence of interior and exterior. It is not possible to change a singular element without affecting the whole.

The ground floor has multiple entrances as a shared living space, with eight self-contained units and private terraces on the upper floors. While the design may be adapted to family and generational living, it looks to take the typology of a suburban villa and modernise it for a younger generation. It manifests as an idea for a home, but also one for society, questioning our presuppositions toward living, interaction and community.

Much of my earlier learning in practice was concerned with economy, the challenge of achieving an architecturally thoughtful result with a modest budget and reinterpretation of common forms and materials. Conversely, it was great to see a Scottish project win the RIBA house of the year, my only fear being that it will solidify the perception that only archetypal forms are possible in this part of the world. I suppose what I learnt in addition, was to question myself and the preconceptions of others about what architecture should be, what buildings should look like, what materials should be used, how big a bedroom needs to be and so on. I envy the architect that can be selective upon the same form, make the interior all white and re-apply the detail that’s been tried and tested.

It is only recently, that I have had the opportunity to design bespoke furniture to coalesce with the wider ambition of the project. Subsequently I find myself questioning preconceptions once again- why can’t a bedroom be less than nine square metres? Why do we need a wardrobe? Technology has changed the way we live forever, and physical space has been replaced by digital space. One terabyte of my cloud storage is far more valuable than a square metre in my flat. The architect’s challenge is to create meaning for the remaining physical space in the most ferocious manner, a new machine for living which surely does not manifest as a pitched roof, timber clad house in the countryside.

Image: Abitacolo Bed 1972 by Bruno Munari.

I recently attended an extensive exhibition on the work of Tadao Ando at the Centre Pompidu in Paris. I felt, much of this work is archetypal of what my education was trying to nudge me toward, a restrained, monastic aesthetic concerned deeply with materiality, light and the senses- principles that I continue to be interested in. As an architecture student you are shown diffused light falling on a concrete wall and told it is beautiful. However, as I get older, I wonder if architecture can be more than just exposed concrete and birch-faced plywood.

On the other hand, proposing new wacky shapes facilitated by innovations in software is also problematic. Use of multiple colours and different shapes in some form of arbitrary post-modern revival can be equally disorientating. It doesn’t take much skill to use colours or create a new shape, or a baby with a crayon could issue multiple concept designs within a minute. I do not believe architecture can be instinctive, or come from the gut, the design process should be controlled, calibrated and precise.

If I had to make one criticism of my generation of architects, it would be that perhaps they are more influenced by precedents than conceptual ideas. I wonder if Instagram, Pinterest or Dezeen may have more influence on today’s designers as opposed to a personal, reflected ethos toward architecture. In such an age, architecture can only be regurgitation of the current style. Given the current trend of sensitive, restrained brutalist revival, I worry if we will be remembered as propagators of the anodyne architecture.

Image: Kompozycja przestrzenna 4, 1929 by Katarzyna Kobro.