Cement cracks gently like wrinkles in the skin. A beautiful tension: tenuous, precarious — fissures in the foundation of a building. The verticality of architecture suggests the verticality of a human form. It supports the human form; it reflects and carries the human form. How can something so hard be so soft? The boundary is unclear, the sensation strangely familiar though its origin cannot be placed. Is it our memory or the memory of the material? 

 

The skin of a body provides protection to its purpose and its memories; the walls of a building act as the skin of its form, protecting its own.

 

The intrusion of something sharp, the threat of piercing the skin — yet subtle. Protective in its nature. Weathered steel, worn like an aged body - exposed to the elements, carries its history. Aging as not deterioration but accumulation. 

 

By casting the imprint of living skin into a single, fixed form, concrete freezes what is normally fluid and alive into a permanent relief. Organic, fragmented bricks are arranged in a rigid form, like a body in a place of rest. The frame is severe yet protective, reminiscent both of architectural foundations and of bones within a body. 

 

Bodies in motion, moving with tedious struggle. Yet moving still

 

Skin-like material offers an uncertain familiarity: much like a protective layer, a garment.

 

Exposing what lies underneath, a certain transparency. 

A door and then a window – an invitation into a seemingly private yet collective memory. Exposure, then protection. Uncertainty, then certainty. Discomfort, then comfort.