I am more attracted not to the buildings themselves, but to the spaces between them. These pauses, intervals, "architectural breaths" between volumes.

In modern design, we often forget that architecture is not only what we build but also what remains around it. Ancient architects seemed to understand this better than we do. Think of Greek temples—they were never crowded together; there was always space for air, for the gaze, for contemplation.

When I work on a facade project, I often think: what will this house "say" to the neighboring buildings? What kind of dialogue will arise between them? Will it be a fruitful conversation or a cacophony?

Interestingly, many clients want to "maximize the use of the plot"—as if emptiness is unproductive. Yet, meaning is often born in that very emptiness. Just like in music—pauses between notes are just as important as the notes themselves.

Perhaps our studio could design not only facades but also the spaces between them. It sounds unusual, but why not? After all, can’t we design silence?

Have you ever noticed the intervals between buildings in your neighborhood? What do they tell you?