A building designed to grow old. The ETFE membrane weathers, the steel lattice rusts, the materials accept their site over a century. Architecture, here, is the choreography of slow death.
The conventional building is designed to resist time. Piano Factory is designed to invite it.
An ETFE membrane is held in tension on a steel lattice. ETFE clouds and dulls over forty years. Steel rusts. Concrete spalls. The brief includes its own undoing — the building is authored down to the moment of its surrender.
The piano at the centre is tuned monthly. It is the only element designed to outlast the building. A counter-monument whose principal material is time itself.
Same vantage. Same clock tower. Same building. Weathering is not failure — it is authorship continued into time.


No renovation schedule. The structure is a slow gift to the city — its death choreographed but not prevented. The piano at the centre will outlast the building. This too is by design.
The architectural canon treats time as the enemy. Piano Factory inverts this — the brief includes its own decay.
ETFE lasts approximately forty years before it dulls; we chose it for the precision of its life-span. The steel lattice will hold for a century, then will not. Concrete spalls predictably, almost on a schedule. Every material is chosen for what it will become, not only for what it is.
This is the inversion of the conservation impulse. Where most buildings are designed to be preserved, Piano Factory is designed to be witnessed. The city will return to it repeatedly, drawn by the slow strangeness of a building that refuses to be finished.
Year 100 is not pessimistic. It is the working condition of the architecture. The building grows old in public, with the city present at every stage.
The piano at the centre is tuned monthly. It will outlast the studio that designed the building. It will, in all likelihood, outlast the building. The piano is the durable thing; the architecture is the ephemeral one. This too is by design.
A speculative masterplan. The city as a translucent organism, bound by a single hydrological cycle.
Six water cycles — saline, grey, geothermal, rain, sewage, industrial — generate the spatial sequence. Each district is a station in a continuous metabolism.
Infrastructure is not concealed beneath architecture but constitutes it. Pink piping is made legible against concrete and glass.
The drawings hold two ideas at once: the schematic logic of the hydrological system, and the atmospheric experience of inhabiting it.
The pink is not decoration — it is borrowed from infrastructural codes, the colour of recycled water lines, and re-deployed at architectural scale. Where convention asks pipes to disappear, here they become façade, structure, threshold.
The work was developed without a brief. There is no client. The site is undisclosed. The plates are not proposals — they are positions.
A protocol for clearing the Korean DMZ. The work renames the African pouched rat Seosengwon — the honourable rat of Korean folk painting — and gives it a new occupation: peace.
The DMZ is the most heavily mined strip of land on earth. It is also, by accident, one of the most ecologically intact landscapes in northeast Asia.
The proposal is a 50-year demining protocol carried out jointly by the two Koreas. Its protagonist is a rat — too light to detonate a mine, trained to detect explosives by smell. The work renames it Seosengwon, the honourable rat of Korean folk painting, and gives it a new occupation.
Watchtowers are kept. Fences are removed slowly. The forest stays. Architecture, here, is the choreography of retreat.
Old battle site. Heaviest mine density. Habitat for the Korean crane.
River crossing. The Hantan flows through the strip — a soft border.
East end. Where the DMZ meets the sea. Migratory bird stop.
The protocol needs a home. Sited on the abandoned Kaesong Industrial Region — 70km from Seoul, 172km from Pyongyang — a bilateral facility where the Seosengwon are bred, trained, housed, and retired.


The protocol assumes co-operation. This is itself the speculation. Two military commands, working in pairs, in 4×4m grid cells, advancing 80m per year. At this pace, the strip is cleared in fifty years.
The rat does the seeing. A human pulls the lead. A second human, on the other side of the lead, watches. The triangular yellow signs — written in three languages, 지뢰 / MINE / 地雷 — are removed only after the cell is verified.
Architecture builds. This work proposes that architecture can also unbuild. The protocol designs the choreography of removal — fences, mines, signs — while keeping what the strip itself produced: the forest.
Keep the watchtowers. Keep three of them, well-spaced, as physical citation. Everything else returns to forest, to river, to ground.
A library without walls. Organic concrete columns stand in for tree trunks. The floor itself is a bookshelf — readers settle into it the way one settles into the forest floor.
It is a place to be creative, free, and comfortable — like sitting down at a spot to read in the woods. The floor bookshelves engage the user with the ground plane of the building.
The organic shaped columns represent tree trunks. They are densest along private areas, and sparser in public lounges. Each column carries a ventilation system within. Concrete — at once cool and warm — is the primary material.
Natural light is introduced through openings on the ceiling, designed along the shape of beams on the columns.
The premise is structural and atmospheric at once: replace the wall as the primary spatial element with the column.
Walls divide. Columns gather. A library organised by columns is a library in which the boundaries between rooms are negotiable, and the reader's body — not the architect's plan — defines the space.
The floor bookshelves are not a graphic move. They acknowledge a fact about reading: that the body wants to settle, to lean, to lie down. The architecture provides the surfaces for this.
Columns are densest at the perimeter and along the private reading rooms. They thin out toward the centre, where the public lounge gathers. The plan is a forest with a clearing.
A dual-track venue for the fastest contact sport on wheels. An ETFE membrane is folded into thousands of facets — read from beneath, it spins. The roof is a kaleidoscope in geometric form.
Roller derby is the rare contact sport organised around continuous motion. Two jammers move through a pack of blockers, lapping the track, scoring each pass. The geometry of the game is circular and relentless.
The proposal answers that geometry with another. Above the dual track, an ETFE membrane is folded into thousands of triangular facets. From beneath, the spectator looks up into a kaleidoscope — the same optical instrument that rotates pattern into pattern. The roof appears to spin with the players.
Below the membrane, the building disaggregates. Four pavilion typologies — Entry, Support, Service, Specialty — handle the stadium's programme as discrete objects within a single ring. The architecture is heterogeneous; the optic is one.
A kaleidoscope is a cylinder of mirrors. Looked into, it multiplies its small content into endless symmetry. The instrument turns; the pattern rotates with the eye.
The roof works the same way, only the spectator does not turn the cylinder — the players do. Each lap of the track is a small rotation through the spectator's field of vision. The membrane catches that rotation: the facets, lit from below, refract the players' motion into pattern.
The architecture asks a single question: what would it mean for a building's surface to participate in the sport it shelters? The answer is the membrane.