During a trip to Barcelona, following an intense period of completing an important project in Antwerp, Belgium, I visited the Jardines de Mossèn in Montjuïc. Sitting there, I found myself imagining what it would be like to live in this city. Whenever I travel, I like to take small moments to reflect, and take time to feel the atmosphere of a place.

After returning home to my daily routine, I couldn’t stop thinking about my thought about moving to Barcelona. So, I started to reach out to almost every architecture studio that exists in Barcelona, with my number one on the list: Studio Andrew Trotter.

There are moments in life when everything seems to align, when opportunities unfold, and the people around you genuinely believe in you. I felt deeply grateful and supported during that time, surrounded by encouragement from friends, family, and colleagues. It was the perfect moment to grow, to take a leap, and to embrace the next chapter of my journey.

Working in this international studio in Barcelona, with projects worldwide, learned me how to face new challenges. The use of different materials, and seeing how projects are managed, working with people from various cultures and backgrounds, in different languages. Being able to travel for work and absorbing like a sponge. 

A few years after settling in Barcelona, a new feeling began to emerge. I started receiving requests to design plans, images, and layouts, and share my vision for spaces. Projects began to find their way to me, both in Belgium and Spain. Even though I was still adjusting to my new life, it felt as though a greater force was guiding me toward the next step, urging me to embark on a new adventure into the unknown.

Chapter 01
Foundations of a vision

I decided to take the leap and embrace whatever opportunities came my way. During the years working on various projects I started to created a holistic view on architecture and life. Looking for the key elements that make my work unique, a vision that continues to evolve every day.

- Nature: every architectural change is an intervention. Where there is now a building, there once was nature. I approach each project with this principle in mind, always building or renovating with the utmost respect for the environment and the natural surroundings.

- Authenticity: I focus on creating bespoke, custom-designed spaces that truly reflect the people who live in or use them.

- Timeless: the use of natural, honest, and durable materials: In a world driven by trends, my designs are both contemporary and timeless. Each space is made to last.

Chapter 02
Nature as a guide for architecture 

My deepest inspiration comes from nature. It offers a counterbalance to the intensity of the city, a place where the pace softens and clarity comes. During long walks in the forest I am reminded that simplicity and stillness lets us reset from action and change.

The seasons show us how everything moves in cycles. Winter strips the landscape to its essence and in spring life returns quietly, without urgency or force. Nature doesn’t try to grow, it just grows. Water doesn’t try to flow, it just flows.

I recognize this same rhythm in work, in love, in friendships, and in spiritual search. There is continuity, but also a surrender to forces greater than ourselves.

Nature learns us to slow down and look at a larger scale. Today, we consume more than ever: fast furniture, short-lived trends, materials that are replaced before they have time to age. This kind of overconsumption is putting pressure. 

Timeless thinking beyond trends is an integral part of my design process. Instead of asking “What’s popular right now?” I ask “What will still feel right in fifty years or even hundred years?” Natural materials like solid wood, natural stone, and lime plaster are great examples. A wooden table that gets scratches over time doesn’t lose value, it gains character. Stone floors become smoother under years of footsteps. These materials age with us and tell a story. 

Honoring tradition and craftsmanship doesn’t mean copying the past. It means learning from it. Old techniques often exist because they worked well: they were durable, repairable, and respectful of nature. When we combine this knowledge with modern ideas and hidden technology, we create spaces that feel both rooted and forward-looking.

Nature itself shows us how sustainability works. Nothing is wasted. Everything has a purpose. In design, this can mean choosing fewer materials, using them well, and finding new uses for what already exists. For example, reusing old wood beams in a new home, or designing furniture that can be repaired instead of replaced.

When design respects materials, the environment, and the people who live in a space, it becomes more than just beautiful. It becomes meaningful. Spaces like these don’t fight time they grow with it, offering calm, warmth, and a sense of belonging for years to come.

On a silent evening at home, I sat down alone with just a candlelight, reflecting on life, my past journey and the way ahead. After this short moment of reflection, I opened my computer and somehow ended up (very impulsivly) buying a ticket to Tokyo. The route was clear: Tokyo, Kanazawa, Takayama, Kyoto, Osaka, Naoshima but what I was really tracing was a way of living: how space, material, and focus can form something both simple and deeply sophisticated.

From the beginning, Japan revealed itself not through showing-off, but through precision. In Tokyo, the city feels endlessly contemporary, yet never detached from ritual. If you look closer, you can find a lot of magic walking around in the city. Even in the most unexpected places you find a hidden bar, restaurant or store. Japan is a place where you have to go with an open mind and allow the places that come your way.  (I have to admit I also had a endless list of things to visit, but always traveling with room for spontaneity).

As I moved toward Kanazawa and Takayama, the pace lowered. Traditional wooden houses, not preserved as museum pieces but feel very lived-in These homes are modest in size yet expansive in feeling. Tatami floors, sliding shoji screens, exposed timber structures, slow living.

What supprised me most was how contemporary these centuries-old houses still feel. They are adaptable, humane, and intelligent. Natural materials wood, paper, stone, clay are used not for nostalgia, but for their honesty. They age, they change, they carry time. Living with less is not an aesthetic gesture; it is a practical philosophy. Objects are chosen with purpose.

Kyoto became the emotional center of the journey. Here, the tension between modern life and deep tradition feels especially present. The city does not carry the urgency of Tokyo or Osaka, yet it remains closely connected to the surrounding landscape. I visited places such as Ryōan-ji, the Garden of Fine Arts, Shisen-dō, Kawai Kanjiro’s house, and Tenjuan and still felt there was so much left unseen. Kyoto asks you to return.

One moment stays with me above all others. At Ryōgen-in, a subtemple of the Daitoku-ji complex built in 1502, I found myself alone at sunset. No voices, no movement only the evening light resting on stone, wood, and the raked garden. The architecture was almost absent, yet everything was present. Time slowed, and beauty revealed itself quietly. It took a moment to return from that stillness.

Osaka reintroduced energy into the journey, while Naoshima offered a sense of completion. On the island, architecture, landscape, and art exist in quiet dialogue. Concrete meets the sea, light enters through carefully measured openings, and buildings become instruments for experiencing nature rather than objects competing with it. In the work of Tadao Ando, the contrast between raw concrete and surrounding greenery reflects what I encountered throughout Japan: a constant balance between opposites.

This journey strengthened a conviction I hold deeply as an architect. The most powerful spaces do not seek attention; they allow life to unfold within them. Japan does not build to impress, but to endure to adapt, and to support living.