We were recently interviewed by Jonathan Jacobs on the Behind the Build podcast and prompted to reflect on our approach to architecture. The conversation touched on familiar themes in our work: pared-back forms, warm natural tones, texture, and a restrained execution. While summarising, I found myself saying, almost instinctively, “we prefer a cave to a computer.”

In many ways, that phrase captures much of what drives us. Architecture, at its best, is a place of refuge and escape. It is an antidote to the pace and pressure of contemporary life. Increasingly, we see our role as creating environments that stand apart from the digital world - not in opposition to technology, but as an intentional counterbalance to it.

The metaphor of the cave is not about darkness or retreat, but about depth, protection, and calm. It is a reminder that spaces should shelter, soften, and restore. In contrast, the “computer” suggests efficiency, speed, and constant connectivity - qualities that are necessary in many areas of life, but not the ones we believe should define the home.

Our mission, in an era of AI integration and ever-present screens, is to design spaces that allow for disconnection. We conceal technology where possible, integrate it discreetly where necessary, and give primacy to the tactile and the timeless. Render, stone, timber, and light form the architecture, not the devices that inhabit it.

Call me a hermit, but I will always retreat to the cave. For us, the enduring value of architecture lies in creating environments that nourish, restore, and endure - places where life can unfold freely, away from the glow of the screen.

When I am in Tel Aviv, it is hard not to be seduced by the architectural heritage of the White City ; a collection of some 4,000 buildings constructed from the 1930s onwards, now recognised by UNESCO as the world’s largest concentration of Bauhaus and International Style architecture.

Many of these buildings stand in various states of disrepair. Yet their essence remains striking: the clean horizontality of cantilevered balconies, the narrow “thermometer” windows, the geometric massing and flat roofs. These elements, originally transplanted from Europe and adapted for a Mediterranean climate, have weathered a century of sun, salt, and use. They inspire not only through their original forms, but through the patina of daily life and the countless adaptations that have allowed them to continue serving the dense urban fabric at the heart of the city.

Walking the streets, there is always another discovery. A brise-soleil screen casting delicate shadows, a balustrade with a handmade curve, or a terrazzo pattern worn smooth underfoot. Each detail tells a story of modernism translated into lived experience, shaped as much by residents as by architects. The White City is less a static museum of modernism than a living canvas, where buildings evolve organically with time.

Beyond the Bauhaus legacy, older parts of Tel Aviv reveal a rich layering of styles. Eclectic architecture from the city’s early decades; a blend of European, Middle Eastern, and Art Deco motifs, is now being carefully restored, bringing back a vibrancy that speaks of cosmopolitan beginnings. Just as compelling is Tel Aviv’s remarkable collection of brutalist buildings, many of which rise in unapologetic contrast to the refined modernism of the White City. Together, these overlapping styles form a complex architectural identity that is both regional and international.

To walk through Tel Aviv is to understand how architecture has shaped not only the city’s fabric but also its spirit. The White City, together with the Eclectic and Brutalist layers that sit alongside it, reflects a vision that has continually fuelled the dynamism of Ir L’lo Hafsaka, the city that never stops. Here, the work of architects over generations has contributed to a vitality that feels both historic and immediate, making Tel Aviv a place where architecture and life are inseparable.

Last month, while in Jerusalem, I had the opportunity to visit the recently completed National Library of Israel by Herzog & de Meuron.

I had first seen the site on an earlier trip, when the monumental exterior was nearing completion. The building is clad in Jerusalem stone, its surface patterned with distinctive cuts and irregular openings. Immediately it brought to mind a particular course of stone blocks near the top of the Western Wall that had always intrigued me. (Fig 1) It is a detail anyone familiar with the Old City would have passed countless times, yet here it has been observed with care and distilled into something new and quietly resonant. This ability to translate the vernacular into the contemporary without imitation is one of the project’s most impressive qualities.

Behind this protective stone envelope, the organisation of the library is legible and calm. Circulation flows with ease, guiding visitors almost instinctively. At the heart of the plan, the great reading room sits enclosed behind glass, illuminated by daylight from a vast circular oculus above. From afar, this skylight presents itself as a window into the building, a symbol of openness and accessibility. It suggests that knowledge, though carefully preserved, remains something to be shared, not locked away.

Internally, the architecture feels shaped less by the hand of the builder than by the forces of time. The entry sequence, staircases, and major forms have an organic character, as if eroded by natural weathering or gently carved by centuries of human touch.

Figure 1. The Western Wall, Jerusalem

Outside, Micha Ullman’s Letters of Light adds a quiet counterpoint to the building. The work has two parts. A heavily textured tunnel, set below grade, leads to a concrete cubic room where three skylights are cut in the shapes of the first letters of Israel’s official languages: Hebrew, Arabic and English. Above ground, twenty-two large boulders of Jerusalem stone carry voids that trace the Hebrew alphabet. The letters are not carved as objects. They appear through absence, held by light and shadow. The piece sits calmly against the library’s monolithic form and extends its interest in material, daylight and legibility into the landscape.  

Materially and spatially, the building is defined by a conscious pursuit of survival and longevity. Spaces are robust yet carefully detailed, intended to withstand the wear of generations while offering moments of clarity and lightness. The architecture acknowledges its dual responsibility: to safeguard fragile texts and artefacts, and to invite the public into a place of learning and reflection. This duality - protective yet open, weighty yet transparent - is resolved with remarkable poise.

For a national library, this approach feels entirely fitting. It is a vessel for the preservation of memory, designed to carry cultural heritage forward into an unknown future. By embedding echoes of Jerusalem’s ancient fabric into its very form, the building affirms its belonging to place while remaining undeniably contemporary. In doing so, it stands not only as an archive, but as a living monument - a testament to continuity, knowledge, and endurance.

In our work, we often seek clarity, spaces stripped of ornament and freed from superfluous detail. Yet, in the quiet of that restraint, a question lingers: when expression and overt context are pared away, how does a space hold on to its vitality? How does it maintain proportion, intimacy, or intrigue?

A room is never only a volume. It is a vessel for memory, for light, for the slow passing of seasons. It is the particular quality of shadow in the late afternoon, the sound of footsteps on a timber floor, the faint scent of rain carried in from an open window. These intangible elements are what lend permanence, what allow a space to become not merely functional, but alive.

One of the challenges we often set for ourselves is the play between the familiar and the abstract, the comfort of something expected versus the purity we seek through distillation. To do this, we strip an idea back to its core DNA. We ask: What is this space really about? What makes it work? Once we understand that, we can decide what is essential, and what can be discarded.

That DNA can be found in proportion, materiality, texture, symmetry, acoustics, and the sequence or procession through space. These qualities are not tethered to any one culture or style, yet they can be infused with meaning and manipulated to create emotional resonance.

Proportion is one of our most powerful tools. It’s in the size and placement of an opening in a wall, how it pierces the surface, revealing its depth. It’s in the way light passes through that opening, blending spaces together or holding them apart. It’s in the way a view unfolds, slowly or all at once, leading the occupant from one experience to another.

But restraint comes with risk. Pared-back minimal spaces can easily slip into sterility; cold, clinical, lifeless. For us, the solution lies in looking to the past, not to replicate it, but to reinterpret it. We find lessons in historic architecture: the way light grazes a worn stone wall, the way a timber beam frames a view, the way spaces are shaped to invite pause. These references remind us that simplicity need not be empty; it can be rich, layered, and deeply human.

For us, the enduring moment in any building is achieved through the sequence of spaces, the way they relate to one another, whether clearly defined or softly blurred. It’s in how they respond to what lies beyond their walls: the shifting light, the movement of landscape, the expanse of sky. This orchestration creates something more than shelter. It creates places that live in the memory, spaces that feel inevitable, as if they could never have been otherwise.

In the end, that is the true measure of success: to craft a space that endures. One that is spare, yet vital. One that can be rediscovered again and again, revealing new layers over time. One that is capable of carrying nostalgia; for those who have known it, and even for those who have only imagined it.

On a recent trip to see French Impressionism from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston at the National Gallery of Victoria, I found myself moved anew by the power of these works. The exhibition, part of Melbourne’s Winter Masterpieces series, brings more than 100 Impressionist paintings to Australia, many never before seen here; by Monet, Renoir, Manet, Degas, Cassatt, Morisot and their contemporaries.

Though I’ve studied Impressionism, visited the Musée d’Orsay, and attended similar shows, seeing these vibrant, liberated works in person felt incredibly uplifting. There is a sheer delight in the way they frame the everyday, humble houses, winding streets, open fields, each rendered with astonishing energy and economy.

What struck me most was the way the artists stripped buildings back to their absolute essence. Intricate detail is gone, yet the form remains: the rhythm of rooftops, the mass of a wall in shade, the sharp cut of a silhouette against the sky. Roof and base, light and shadow. Architecture distilled to its most elemental. It is something I often think about in our own work: how a space or a building is perceived through narrowed eyes, when the noise is removed and the fundamental is amplified.

One of the most compelling reminders of this came from Monet’s Haystacks series—dozens of paintings of the same subject, yet each transformed by the light and atmosphere of a particular moment. These are fundamentally the same image, but what matters is the time of day, the season, the shifting conditions. This is very much how we think about the spaces we design: as experiences that are rediscovered again and again across the day, the year, and over decades of living in them. Light changes. Shadows move. Material patinas deepen. The architecture is constant, yet it never presents itself in quite the same way.

The Impressionists were not concerned with faithful documentation, but with evoking sensation, the way light falls across a garden path, the mood of a street at dusk. In our architectural practice, we seek something similar. We aim to create spaces that capture a mood, spaces that feel alive and resonant.

Walking through the exhibition, I thought about how, in design, limits can bring freedom. A reduced palette, a simple structure, controlled views and indirect light often result in a building that feels more considered, more deliberate. The Impressionists achieved this through brushstroke and colour; we aim for it through material, form and sequence.

Seeing this exhibition renewed my conviction that our approach shares much with that of the Impressionists: a focus on perception, light, simplification, and the clarity of experience. However, just as an Impressionist painting captures a fleeting moment and invites the viewer in, we aim to create architecture that allows people to inhabit lasting ones.

When you engage an architect - What is the destination? And how will you know when you’ve arrived?

Often, there’s a vision; a feeling, a quiet clarity. You can see yourself sitting in your favourite chair, in a particular room, with a particular view. You can picture the movement of shadows, the softness of the light, the echo of footsteps, the texture of the walls.

Getting from here to there is the architect’s role. But before pen ever meets paper, we need to download that vision - or at least your version of it - from your mind. To understand what matters, what lasts, and what home truly means to you.

Clients often come to us unsure of how to describe what they want. That’s okay. In many cases, they look to us to help crystallise the vision, test possibilities, explore potential, and drive the process forward. It comes down to two things: good communication—and trust.

From there, we often joke that there are 10,000 decisions to be made, probably more. Our job is to tackle the vast majority of them, distilling complexity into clarity. Through drawings, visualisations, and thoughtful conversation, we help you see the path ahead, with one eye always fixed on the destination.

Along the way, we experience what we think of as “mini-destinations”, those moments where everything clicks into focus. The language of the project becomes clear. The fog lifts. The idea sharpens. But nothing compares to the moment of true arrival.

Because architecture is never just bricks and mortar. It’s not just stone, glass, or timber. It’s the realisation of something imagined, and more. It’s how space can hold feeling, respond to mood, and evolve with time. It’s the quiet sense of rightness that arrives when something you once only hoped for becomes something you could never quite have imagined, yet now couldn’t imagine being without.

Over the years, I’ve returned time and again to the TarraWarra Museum of Art. Perched above a sculpted lawn, Allan Powell’s original museum building has long impressed itself into my memory; a massive, blank façade that once struck me as forbidding. Defensive, even. A castle on a hill. But with time, what once felt imposing now reads as protective. Familiar. The same wall that once challenged me now welcomes me, shields me. It’s a shift that speaks less to the building than to my own evolving perspective.

The original 2003 design brought together a museum and restaurant, linked by a courtyard that still feels monolithic and primal. Concrete forms rise from the earth like a modern-day stonehenge; assertive, ambiguous, and sculptural. That in-between space is not transitional but atmospheric. It announces that art, here, is something you move toward with intent.

The recently opened Eva and Marc Besen Centre, designed by Kerstin Thompson Architects, extends the experience with humility and quiet strength. Set behind the Powell building, it gently follows the existing crescent avenue, a gesture of deference and dialogue. The echo in form is deliberate, yet the contrast in materiality is striking: where Powell’s original wall is heavy and massive, Thompson’s new elevation is light, woven, and permeable. A stainless steel mesh softens the back-of-house functions, providing glimpses of the life within while maintaining a measured restraint.

The Besen Centre houses visible art storage, learning spaces, and areas for performance and community engagement. It literally supports the museum, its green roof doubling as the visitor carpark, and symbolically reinforces the museum’s foundational ethos: that art, education, and landscape can exist in quiet, enduring harmony.

The museum’s collection, gifted by Eva and Marc Besen, contains hundreds of works of Australian modern and contemporary art. But more than just a collection, it’s a gesture of cultural trust, a belief in the value of public access to art, and the importance of creating an architectural context that honours it.

Revisiting TarraWarra with the addition of the new centre felt like a jolt of clarity; a reminder of the power of restraint, and the joy that comes from resolution. Durable materials. Controlled views. A reverence for sequence. And above all, a deep understanding that architecture, like art, shifts meaningfully over time.

Architects are not court-appointed.

That might sound obvious, but it’s worth stating: both architect and client have agency and responsibility in choosing to work together. It’s a relationship built on mutual alignment, not obligation.

The act of selecting an architect is the first design decision a client makes. Done thoughtfully, it becomes the foundation for a creative relationship that can be defined by tension, trust, growth, and ultimately, transformation on both sides.

A client’s task isn’t just to find an architect, but to find the right one; a practice whose values, approach, and aesthetic sensibility resonate. Likewise, we seek clients who are open, to being challenged, to being surprised, and to trusting a process that is sometimes linear, sometimes not. When that chemistry is there, the project can really sing.

Some clients arrive with Pinterest boards and magazine clippings. Others bring carefully structured multi-page briefs. Both approaches show care, and both offer insight. More importantly, they start the conversation, and begin to reveal what lies beneath the surface.

Every project begins with a brief. But the real work happens in the subtext: the unspoken needs, the contradictions, the subtle tensions between wants and instincts. The early meetings are a kind of decoding, not just listening to what’s said, but observing body language, silences, patterns. Slowly, a clearer picture emerges. And with it, trust.

An informed, enthusiastic client is a gift. Their clarity can embolden us. Their ideas can become sparks for ours. When we sense a client is open, really open, we ask. Can we be braver? Bolder? Is there something here we wouldn’t have otherwise explored?

Of course, design is rarely without friction. Sometimes we nudge clients out of their comfort zones, if only momentarily. And in turn, they challenge us to sharpen, refine, articulate. When the relationship is grounded in respect, this push and pull doesn’t weaken the project, it strengthens it. It forces everyone to think more deeply. To raise the bar.

When a client feels safe, and we feel empowered, design can become expansive. That’s the sweet spot; when both parties feel secure enough to take risks, to be vulnerable, to work from instinct as well as intention.

The relationship evolves as the project unfolds. What begins as formal and careful becomes casual and collaborative. Conversations become more fluid, decisions more intuitive. The language of the project, once tentative, begins to crystallise.

When the relationship works, it brings out the best in everyone involved. The result is more than just good design, it’s a reflection of shared trust, curiosity, and intent.

Reflections from the 2025 Melbourne Design Week Film Festival

Until recently, Arthur Erickson was a name I only knew in passing. It was just six months ago that I properly encountered his work, and what caught me immediately wasn’t the scale or form, but the light. Or rather, the contrast of it: the deliberate play of light and shadow, the sense of quiet drama. Erickson knew how to make a space breathe; how to create calm through control, and warmth through restraint.

So when Beauty Between the Lines screened as part of this year’s Melbourne Design Week Film Festival, I made sure to see it. What followed was more than a biography; it was a meditation. The film traces his career with patience and clarity, revealing not just the celebrated projects and public acclaim, but the inner world of a man who lived for architecture, and, at times, despite it.

What struck me most was the consistency of vision across his work. Whether designing monumental civic buildings or private residences, Erickson’s sensitivity to landscape, structure, and silence never wavered. The film captures this beautifully. It also delves into his relationships with collaborators, clients, friends, many of which were close, sometimes complicated, always deeply human.

One scene near the end of the film stays with me. Erickson, by that point bankrupt and largely overlooked by the profession, is working on a coastal house. Just before a concrete pour, a serious issue arises. There’s tension, pressure. And then, he picks up a pencil. With quiet confidence, he sketches a solution, seemingly without hesitation. It’s resolved. Elegantly, effortlessly. The pour goes ahead.

Watching that moment, I felt a kind of reverence. It was mastery, distilled. The kind of clarity that only comes after a lifetime of drawing, thinking, making.

Beauty Between the Lines is not a loud film. It moves softly, just as Erickson did. But it leaves a lasting impression. It reminds us that architecture is not just a profession, it’s a life. It demands everything. And if you’re paying attention, it gives something back: a way of seeing, of shaping, of being. Erickson lived that truth completely. And through this film, we get to witness it.

See Arthur Erickson’s most significant works here.

Over the weekend I watched the Bob Dylan biopic A Complete Unknown. Set against the backdrop of Cold War anxiety and rapid post-war modernisation, it reminded me how folk music emerged not just as cultural expression, but as a kind of resistance; raw, real, and rooted in something ancient. It felt eerily parallel to the moment we’re living in now.

Today, the world is in the throes of another transformation - AI, hyper-connectivity, and digital immersion shaping not only how we work and communicate, but how we think, relate, and even imagine. It’s exciting, yes. But it also feels precarious. Disembodied. In response, I’ve noticed a shift, not just in myself, but among peers and clients too-toward something quieter, slower, and more elemental.

In our studio, we’ve been thinking about what it means to pursue a “primitive” architecture. Not primitive as in undeveloped or regressive, but in the sense of the essential: forms and materials that speak to permanence, legibility, and human instinct. A kind of architecture that resists noise. That feels analogue; not digital. Solid and earthen; not elusive.

In many ways, it’s a return to fundamentals: heavy materials, clear structure, courtyards, thresholds, walls that frame rather than dissolve. There’s a renewed appreciation for things that age and weather, that hold heat or give shade. Our recent work increasingly centres around these archetypal moves. Simple geometries, grounded floor plans, spaces defined not by novelty but by necessity.

This isn’t nostalgia and it’s not anti-technology. We use digital tools every day. But we’re asking: where’s the counterweight? If the world is rushing toward lightness, fluidity, and frictionlessness, can architecture do the opposite? Should it? Can it offer resistance in the form of slowness, stillness, and solidity?

We’ve found inspiration not in novelty, but in permanence. Ancient buildings that remain legible centuries later. Rural constructions built without drawings, only instinct. Rooms where sound echoes in just the right way. Light that enters once a day with purpose.

In some ways, the most radical thing we can do now is to make something calm. Something that doesn't move. Something that gives weight to your day and allows for ritual and consideration.

Architecture, at its best, is a cultural record—an echo of its time. But it can also be a correction. A reminder that in a rapidly dematerialising world, the most meaningful spaces might be those that are the most grounded. The ones made not of code or cloud, but of timber, brick, earth, and shadow. The ones you can feel.

So we continue, not with grand gestures or new theories, but with quiet convictions. A well-proportioned opening. A shaded courtyard. A wall that does what it’s meant to do. In pursuit not of innovation for its own sake, but of the primitive, simple, enduring, and deeply human.

This series offers a glimpse into the ideas that shape our work: the role of time, the behaviour of materials, the pursuit of feeling over formality.
Not manifesto, but meditation; a way of sharing what we value, and how we design for life as it is truly lived.

In architecture, the conversations that shape a project often live beneath the surface; decisions about materiality, time, feeling, and restraint that are rarely seen, but deeply felt.

What is a material you love more once it has aged?

Quality, natural materials, detailed with sensitivity and understanding have the rare ability to improve with time. Sun, wind, rain, and the human hand all leave their mark. Materials like leather and timber soften and darken through use; concrete limes and discolours as it settles into place; metals like brass and steel patinate, deepening in richness.

Fresh concrete can look good; but it only feels resolved once it has weathered, begun to lime, and absorbed the atmosphere of its setting. As ivy finds its way across the surface, or rain carves faint patterns, the building begins to feel inevitable. A similar story can be told of brass, steel, and stone. They find their full expression through time, not despite it.

Can you describe a favourite moment when a material surprised you over time?

Travertine is a material we return to often. Its natural pores and pits often lead to questions: should they be filled or left open? Our preference is to leave them exposed. Over time, dust and fine debris naturally settle into the voids, subtly darkening the surface and softening its overall appearance. It is a process that brings an authenticity and depth no synthetic material can replicate. Rather than resisting the character of the stone, time reveals it.

Why is imperfection beautiful in architecture?

Architecture holds space for both perfection and imperfection. Embracing the natural weathering of materials introduces time as a deliberate ingredient in the design. Ageing, patination, and imperfection allow a building to feel more human, connected to its environment and its occupants, rather than frozen at the moment of completion.

How do you design for patina? Do you invite it rather than resist it?

Designing for patina begins with a respect for durability and appropriateness. This operates at every scale: from the choice of wall finishes that will soften with exposure, to a stair tread subtly rounded in anticipation of decades of wear. Some signs of age are celebrated openly; others, such as the softening of a well-used threshold, are anticipated quietly through careful detailing.

If you had to choose: perfect crispness forever, or graceful ageing? Why?

Architecture is not static. Buildings are prototypes of human imagination, crafted by hand rather than machine. Pursuing the illusion of perfect crispness often leads to fragility and disappointment.
We design with an understanding that craft, buildability, and the realities of time are not constraints but opportunities. In that light, graceful ageing is not simply accepted, it is invited.

In Melbourne, landscapes often function as a backdrop, appreciated more for their visual presence than as spaces to actively inhabit. Yet, when thoughtfully conceived, courtyards have the power to transform a home, enhancing both its interior and exterior expressions.

Courtyards bring more than landscape into a design; they allow the introduction of air, sky, and light, elements that add depth and vibrancy to a floor plan. Their presence creates an opportunity to shift the spatial experience, blurring the boundaries between indoors and outdoors and fostering a dynamic relationship with the natural world.

The role of a courtyard is often defined by how it engages with the spaces around it. Some are designed as active extensions of living areas, hosting gatherings, meals, or quiet moments of recreation. Others take on a more contemplative function, offering framed views of a lush garden, a sculptural centrepiece, or the shimmering surface of a water feature.

These spaces might reveal themselves slowly, with glimpses through carefully framed openings, where shards of light and shadow dance across walls, or they might be bold and transparent, functioning like a 'fishbowl' that connects expansively to its surroundings.

Equally important is how the courtyard sits within the architecture itself. The transition between indoor and outdoor might be seamless, with flush thresholds that invite continuity, or slightly stepped, creating subtle separation. Windows and doors become more than functional - they frame the courtyard, shaping how it is experienced from within.

Some of our favourite courtyards are below.

LDS Residence I

To mediate the transition between the rear of the house and the swimming pool and tennis court beyond, we designed a cloistered courtyard that extended the house through two covered areas. The first served as an extension to the meals area, while the second connected to the living room and featured an outdoor fireplace. The open space between these areas was left exposed to the sky, housing an ornamental garden that brought a sense of calm and elegance to the design.

EPSC Residence

Situated on a steeply sloping site, this house was designed around two courtyards to allow light and air to penetrate the spaces. The first courtyard is small and private, offering a quiet retreat, while the second is larger and highly functional. Acting as the entry point to the house, the larger courtyard serves as an enclosed outdoor room, providing shelter from the strong winds characteristic of the site.

LPS Residence

In this rural home, the courtyard was envisioned as a central element, creating a transition between the vast openness of the surrounding property and the intimacy of the interior spaces. This courtyard became a unifying feature, linking the expansive natural landscape with the comfort of the home’s living areas.

JDF Residence

One of four courtyards in this house, this central courtyard acts as a focal point, visible from the entry and meals area. It also includes a covered dining space, offering both functionality and a striking visual anchor within the home.

At the heart of every well-designed space is a dialogue between form, function, and the experience it creates. With Design Insights, we aim to share our perspective on design—how we approach crafting environments that feel inspiring, thoughtful, and enduring. These reflections offer a glimpse into the interplay of light, materiality, and spatial relationships that guide our work, bringing insight into how we conceive and approach our architecture and interior design.

Our first article focuses on a quintessential element of our practice: courtyards - spaces that integrate nature within architecture, creating moments of connection and dynamism.