Can architecture reconcile the objective and the subjective? Can we,
simultaneously, build to utilize the unchanging principles of the movement of the sun, and to respect the particular topography, and the unique patterns of wind, rain and fog, of our chosen location?
Above a valley outside Jerusalem, an endlessly expanding cemetery sprawls. A fast-train route shoots across -- its tracks alternately cut through the hills and raised on concrete bridges. The main highway to the capital winds up and down, in and out, criss-crossed by narrow bike trails. Along the valley bed, I imagined a dual construction -- two buildings that cross each other. One, erected East to West, all straight lines. The other cutting across it, shaped according to a simulation of the valley’s wind patterns, and held by metal bands, fuselage-style. Seen from anywhere along the floor of the valley, the buildings are as non-obtrusive as possible -- with their opaque supporting frameworks angled out of the line of sight, and heavy reliance on glass exteriors. Even the inside staircases are slats that do not block the view. The sun moves across; the fog swirls through. A construction designed, at once, according to traditional principle, and to nestle within the contours and conditions of this place alone.
This projects was born from a master plan, a thought process that began with a full construction for the whole valley. Planning top-down and slowly zoning in on a smaller fragment and enriching its detail and reusing the master plan thought process on each fragment.