Light and wind arrive slowly, through the branches.
They settle on the wood, slide down the lime walls, and insinuate themselves through the air like a memory.

I designed these two lodges for Locanda Sandi, similar to woodsheds, not to exist within the landscape, but with the landscape. So that every line, every shadow, every pause could also belong to the forest. I conceived them as if they were a breath, a fragile yet vital balance.

They are places of the necessary need for shelter, of the need to slow down, of the need for each to inhabit their own complex existence.

They possess the simplicity that Tessenow sought:
not the poverty of the gesture, but its purity. There is nothing superfluous: simple and clear volumes, measured proportions, a gabled roof, the welcoming portico.

Essential, inevitable. Without rhetoric, without ostentation. Beauty is not in the design, but in its balance with life.

Reclaimed wood speaks of other places, of hands that have already touched it.
The old decorated cement tiles convey the quiet and slowness of time. The old roof tiles belong to the country woodshed.

Inside, a few objects.
A bed, scattered rugs, silence.
Outside, the forest moves, the shadows of the branches stir, and the architecture moves with it.
Not to imitate it, but to listen to it: houses should be like trees: rooted!

Everything here has a light weight.
Everything lives in the suspension between built and natural, between refuge and meditation.

When evening falls, the wood becomes shade and smells of rain, the large windows filter the moon dancing on the rugs.
And only the breath of the place remains:
that almost imperceptible sound that tells us that architecture, sometimes, is not for building, but for feeling.