We met in the morning, before the city had fully entered its noise. Cars were already moving outside, cafés were opening, people were following their routes, yet the room held a rare sense of quiet.
For an architect, space is not only a matter of walls, light, and proportion. It is a way of organizing attention. A good room, he says, does not force a person to become someone else. It gently returns them to themselves.
When speaking about Dharma, he is careful. He does not call his work a spiritual practice, but he admits that every project requires presence. One has to listen to a place, sense the rhythm of people, understand where tension appears and where release becomes possible.
For him, silence is not emptiness. It is the condition in which things become visible. In silence, one can notice how light falls, how a person enters a room, how breathing changes when space stops pressing against the body.
In this sense, architecture becomes not only a craft, but also a form of care. It does not explain the path, teach, or preach. It simply creates the possibility of stopping.