This home was never just about architecture. It was about people—about the quiet rhythms of a family, the way they move through space, the way they gather, the way they are alone together.

‍

Built in the 1980s, the house stood with a raw kind of honesty—brutalist, bold, and built to last. Its structure was solid, its language clear. We didn’t want to erase that. We wanted to build on it—to let the house grow into something softer, more connected, more alive.

‍

The transformation began with a simple idea: to open the house from within.
We carved out long, uninterrupted sightlines—running from one end to the other, and from side to side—drawing light and life through every room. Space is no longer a series of separations, but a continuous thread. A conversation between places. A home that now sees itself. At the very center of these lines, where all views meet, we placed something small but full of meaning: a bespoke bed for the family dog. From this quiet perch, the dog watches everything. The comings and goings. The stillness and the mess. The heart of the home, held by its most loyal observer.
‍

Materials follow the same logic: honest, tactile, and thoughtful. Galvanized steel, raw concrete, finely joined timber. There is no ornament, only care. Brutalism remains—confident and clear—but it is softened by detail, by scale, by human presence.

‍