By Catarina Ferreira, AIA

When people ask me what style of architecture I practice, I never quite know how to answer. Not because architecture has no visual identity, but because I don't believe style should be where architecture begins. The more fundamental question is whether architecture is primarily about image or about shaping experience.

I grew up in Portugal, surrounded by a vernacular architecture that was inherently minimalist: stone or tile floors, white walls, utilitarian service spaces, bright light washing across surfaces, views of hillsides and ocean. I learned from that the beauty of simplicity, the emphasis on purpose instead of artifice. The joy of stepping into the thickness of a stone wall to look out the window, or of walking barefoot on basalt stone floors and feeling their coolness during my childhood made sure of that. I had not yet seen a truly modern building, but I already understood what architecture could do. Fundamentally, it was about putting experience before decoration, before style. Looking out at the sea from deep within the stone wall of my bedroom brought me a thousand times more joy than fancy wallpaper ever could.

My childhood home had a tower at some point, meant to be used for whale watching back when whaling was a big industry in the Azores Archipelago, where I grew up. I would have really, really enjoyed climbing up to the top if it had not collapsed before I was born. Knowing that tower had once existed taught me, at an early age, that architecture could be a mechanism for experiencing nature—for seeing a familiar landscape differently.

The view from my childhood bedroom window. Photo by Catarina Ferreira, AIA

Contemporary Portuguese architecture has a strong Modernist tradition and I was exposed to that growing up, as well as during my university studies. One of the core principles of Modern Architecture was a rejection of decoration for its own sake and of the stylistic preoccupations of the past. Reducing architecture to appearance reflects a superficial understanding of it—one that is literally skin-deep and leaves out much of what makes architecture powerful. Modernism itself, of course, developed a strong aesthetic identity, but its underlying ideas are much bigger than its appearance.

My childhood experiences and my Modernist education in architecture school reinforced each other, forming the basis of my convictions as an architect.

Why is there such a fixation with appearance/style in the US? Part of the answer is simple: style sells. Visual appeal sells. Celebrity sells. All of it is seductive—and remarkably easy to market.

This fixation on style fits comfortably within the consumer culture of contemporary America. Choosing to build a new house in a Victorian style rather than in a contemporary language is treated as a consumer choice, not unlike choosing one product over another at the supermarket. After all, there are so many choices—but are they really equivalent? The question isn't whether Victorian architecture is valid. Of course it is. The question is what it means to reproduce its language today, under entirely different cultural, technological and construction conditions, as though architecture were simply a style selected from a catalog.

Talking about architecture in terms of style is common, especially in the more familiar residential architecture world. You see it done in publications often, and it is even done by architects themselves, especially those whose work focuses on residential architecture and interiors, and I understand the appeal. Style is easy to package, photograph, name and sell. Experience is harder to market. A room's relationship to morning light, the way a sequence of spaces unfolds, or the feeling of a cool stone floor underfoot doesn't fit neatly into a product category.

As a practicing architect in the DC metro area, I have more than once lost potential projects over questions of style compatibility. I am a Modernist at heart: whatever I do will belong to the present day. But contemporary architecture doesn't have to shout. When appropriate, my interventions can be subtle, even almost invisible. In a traditional house, a contemporary intervention can augment the qualities already there rather than compete with them—improving how the building functions, how it feels and, ultimately, how beautiful it is. We have materials, technologies and ways of living available to us today that didn't exist a century ago. Architecture should be free to incorporate them.

I find this understanding of architecture as experience throughout contemporary Portuguese architecture, and particularly in the work of Eduardo Souto de Moura. Some of his work falls into a category I think of as “Invisible Architecture”: architecture so subtle, so lightly placed on its site, that it almost disappears. The building becomes less an object than a way of capturing a series of experiences.

His House in Moledo is an example of this. In essence, it is little more than a roof connecting stone walls, with glass stretched between them. Built into a hillside, from a distance you can barely tell it's a house, let alone a building. Inside, one side puts you literally against a stone wall; the other opens completely to the surrounding hills.

House in Moledo. Photo by Luis Ferreira Alves

That's it. It's a functioning house, but above all, it is a mechanism for experiencing the beauty of its site. It goes beyond “form follows function.” Here, form follows purpose and intent—an idea that guides my own work.

In my work, I try to prioritize what I believe is the fundamental driver of beauty in architecture: the quality of the experience of being in a place. If someone wants to paint a wall hot pink, or prefers a more or less traditional atmosphere, that's fine with me—as long as it doesn't compromise that experience. My residential work is always a reflection of my clients' wishes and desires, but I also try to give them more than they knew to ask for: not simply a house that is beautiful to look at and beautifully built, but one that changes the experience of everyday life.

So, does style matter? Of course it does—but perhaps much less than we think. Style is something we see. Architecture, at its best, is something we experience.

By Catarina Ferreira, AIA

Architextual’s work is clearly not traditional in style. Having grown up in Europe, I’ve always understood that old homes can be given a new life through careful, thoughtful interventions. Lack of stylistic compatibility between old and new is not something I’ve ever believed to be real. European architecture is full of examples that prove otherwise. When cities and buildings have been around for centuries, change is seen as inevitable and embraced.

Practicing architecture in the US, especially in a city like Washington DC, I have come across many projects that attempt a more literal ‘stylistic compatibility.’ Tastes can differ. Style aside, for me what has always mattered is the quality of the space/project I generate, and how much it improves its occupants’ quality of life.

A lot of our projects are interventions in existing buildings, often homes, many of which are around 100 years old or older. In these projects, we focus first and foremost on solving functional problems. Let’s face it, the way people lived 100 years ago is not the way we live today. As the container of our lives, architecture, especially homes, needs to reflect how we live today to be enjoyable.

On a project completed a couple of years ago, we had the opportunity to reinvent a classic center hall colonial home, likely the most common house type in the DC metro area. Located on a very desirable site, facing Rock Creek Park, the cookie cutter home did little to engage with its site conditions. Like many spec homes built nowadays, spec homes built 100 years ago were no better… they were repeated throughout entire neighborhoods with little recognition of site conditions, no matter how beautiful. As architects, we know that addressing/responding to site conditions is one of the ways a mere home can become architecture instead of mere construction.

Early on, we identified several problems/missed opportunities:

Compartmentalized spaces limited access to natural light and views.
Kitchen was small and disconnected from other living spaces.
There was no mudroom, entry from driveway led directly into kitchen.
Sunroom space was oddly shaped and unusable, disconnected from other spaces, and blocked views of park from living room.
There was only one bedroom on entire second floor.
There was no laundry room on bedroom level.

Our interventions needed to be both precise and effective. The pivotal decision in this case was moving the kitchen to the prior dining room area, something that was not immediately obvious would be the right move to our clients, as it required the dining room to be moved to the unappealing sunroom. In order to improve relationships between spaces several interior walls had to be removed, as well as a portion of the exterior wall separating the sunroom from the living room.

The rest of the layout fell into place easily. We created a mudroom where the kitchen had been previously located, added a second door to the powder room to make it accessible from both the mudroom and entry hall sides, enlarged/added windows in the new kitchen and living room areas, added a new pocket door connecting the living room and library spaces. Now we had a layout we could ‘roller skate around in,’ as is often my goal. There was improved functionality, flow, access to light and views. From the front door, we now had an unobstructed path to the windows facing the park on the opposite side of the house.

On the second floor, what had been an enormous, labyrinth-like primary suite became a primary suite with private bath and dressing room, two additional bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a laundry closet.

On both levels, the house’s history is still legible. Some of the original elements were maintained and refurbished, altered slightly without erasing their character completely: the main stair and balustrade, the fireplace, some of the original decorative trims.

The end result has a slight Scandinavian/Japandi flair, with a composed yet informal, inviting quality throughout. The new dining room is everyone’s favorite space in the house.