BEHIND TCA DESIGN
STRUCTURE
Year
2003
A House on the Rock – A Palimpsest of Connection – ELEGMOI
For millennia, humans have built houses to protect themselves—from weather, animals, others. Yet protection is not isolation. On the contrary, architecture always marks a relationship—to its surroundings, to history, to the future. A House on the Rock, at the threshold between land and sea, between stability and change, between weight and flow, becomes a site of deep semantic layering. It is a palimpsest—in the sense Umberto Eco describes: a text made of layers that do not erase but rather generate meaning through their interplay.
The rock stands for permanence, for geology, for the immovable. The house that inscribes itself upon it must acknowledge its resistance. It cannot simply sit; it must engage, respond, adapt. It does not drill in, but rather leans, like a second skin. The first layer of this architectural text is thus the geological: the rock as carrier of memory, the original archive.
Yet beneath—or perhaps above; the order blurs—comes the water. The sea is not just backdrop; it is an active participant. It advances, retreats, reflects, floods, soothes. For centuries, it has drawn forms, laid traces—like an author writing again and again over the same sentence, altering but never erasing. The house on the rock responds by rewriting the path to the water: not as a direct descent, not as separation, but as a choreographed approach. The path becomes a litany, a repetition with variations. It opens space for interpretation, for shifts in meaning—a semantic gesture.
Thus, a house emerges that knows no final form. Different cultures, times, inhabitants continue writing upon it. They do not erase, they revise. A window becomes a door, a room becomes a threshold, a roof becomes a lookout. What remains is a structure of thought: the house as an ongoing translation of the relationship between human, rock, and water. Each new layer comments on the last, affirms or contradicts it—like in Eco’s open work, never finished, always to be read, interpreted, lived.
This house on the rock is not a solitary figure. It is a sentence in a long dialogue. An echo of earlier dwellings, a premonition of future forms. Its architecture is not a style but a posture: attentive, responsive, interpretive. In it, the site is not used, but understood. The path to the sea—once purely functional—becomes a semantic act. A new meaning emerges: connection, not conquest; resonance, not control.
In this idea lies its future: not as monument, but as manuscript. Continuously rewritten, but never erased.
Behind every design lies an unspoken truth: architecture is not simply about creating spaces; it is about creating life. It is about offering a sanctuary for thought, for action, for the heart.
Year
2003
“A Crystal Facing the Sea”
There is a stone house leaning toward the sea,
built upon a cliff,
its face turned south—
to the wind, to the salt, to the sun.
Once, it was the eye of the customs officers;
now, it is a family’s weekend joy,
a home of old ledgers and new dreams.
But every home needs a bathroom.
And sometimes,
stone is not enough.
Earth is not enough.
So you turn to the sky.
You build with air.
You write architecture in light.
The bathroom designed by TCA—
gently attached to the old stone house,
like a child curling beside its mother in sleep.
When the rock offered no more room,
they reached out into space.
And there,
they suspended a space
like a crystal.
Three walls and the roof made of glass blocks.
Light breaks.
Waves reflect.
The scent of soap dissolves into the sky.
And the bathroom is no longer merely a place to bathe—
it becomes
a landscape, a dream, a poem.
Here, one meets not just water,
but oneself.
Facing the sea,
stripped not only of clothes,
but of words, of cities, of form.
Behind transparent walls, unseen—
yet seeing everything—
the gaze opens to infinity.
That crystalline extension from the stone house
becomes a bridge
between the past and the future.
Once a place to monitor taxes,
now it
sets time free.
No longer stopping anyone—
only
multiplying moments.
This bathroom
is where the silence of stone
falls in love
with the transparency of glass.
And here,
like the sea,
like the sky,
we are cleansed.
Year
2010
THE CAMELLIA – AN ESSAY ON SPACE, NATURE, AND MEANING
In a time when landscape itself has become the stage of humankind, the act of design is no longer merely a question of function or form – it becomes a question of meaning. Landscape architecture is not the simple arrangement of paths, grasses, or volumes. If it is to be taken seriously, it is an act of interpretation – a text to be read.
The Camellia, designed by TCA, is such a text. A sentence set into nature – not against it, but alongside it. It is not simply an object or a structure, but a sign, a semiotic fabric that gives voice to the landscape without silencing it. A gesture that does not withdraw from its surroundings, but elevates them.
What is it? A space. Open, yet sheltered. A place for pause and reflection. An in-between – between path and destination, between light and shade, between architecture and vegetation. The Camellia is not the endpoint of a walk, but its quiet climax. It does not define; it suggests. It does not close; it opens.
Formally, it is clear: geometry, transparency, materiality. Stainless steel meets wood – a combination that may appear cool at first glance, but in its union radiates warmth, durability, and dignity. The steel reflects the sky, the wood breathes with the earth. Nature is not enclosed but invited. The shade that the structure casts throughout the day is not a byproduct, but part of the design – fleeting, alive, like nature itself.
But what transforms the Camellia into a bearer of meaning? It is its attitude. The way it exists. Not as a monument, but as a possibility. It resists monumentality in favor of attentiveness. It does not impose – it accompanies. Its presence is an invitation to contemplation: of the landscape, of the light, of our relationship to the natural world.
In a world where speed has become the new normal, the Camellia insists on slowness. On observation. On pause. Perhaps even – on gratitude. For within it, an idea is made manifest that reaches beyond architecture: that design is responsibility. And that every intervention in the landscape is, ultimately, an ethical act.
Thus, the Camellia is not an object – it is an attitude. An attitude toward the world, toward nature, toward human presence. A sign within the fabric of the landscape – quiet, but clear. And for that very reason: indispensable.
Year
2010
IN THE SHADOW OF THE SUN: A SEMIOTIC REFLECTION ON AN ARCHITECTURAL FILTER
From a certain point of view, the sun is a paradox. It gives life — and yet threatens to burn us. It reveals the world — and yet compels us to seek shelter. In this tension unfolds not only the history of humanity but also the history of its architecture.
The sun, that primeval deity rationalized into a celestial constant, is not only a source of energy but the very condition of visibility. Without light — no form, no space, no architecture. And yet: light alone is blind, piercing, relentless. It is shadow that gives us perception. Shadow that enables difference, depth, meaning.
It is therefore no coincidence that architecture has always sought to draw a veil between light and darkness, between exposure and protection. From the pergolas of antiquity to the delicate mashrabiya of Islamic architecture — the history of the architectural shadow is the story of a cultivated balance.
In this context, the architectural proposal by TCA is more than just a terrace. It is a choreography of light and shadow, a semiotic gesture, a piece of theatre written in segments. By day, a stage of translucent presence; by night, a silhouette dancing with the moonlight.
This design operates not with mass, but with gesture. Wooden slats — seemingly suspended, as if held aloft by invisible fingers — form a light structure that is neither fully a roof nor mere ornament. They become filters — and filters are never neutral. They determine what passes through: light, air, time.
Thus, the terrace becomes not merely a space to inhabit, but a dispositif — a device that defines thresholds, generates meaning. The varying levels of shadow are not merely functional — they are signs. They point to an idea of space that shifts, that differentiates, that responds.
And the building itself? It wears several crowns — like a mythological figure, adorned and yet marked. In this layering of function and symbolism, of lightness and monumentality, architecture becomes text. A text that demands to be read.
To live in the shadow of the sun is not to hide. It is to create a space that understands light — and filters it so that it does not blind, but reveals.
With this terrace, TCA has created a semantic space — a stage upon which life itself is performed.
Or, to put it with a smile, as Eco might have: sometimes, the shadow is the cleverest form of light.
Year
2009
A House Like an Armor, a Haven Like a Womb — Reflections on a Design for Safety
From the outside, it might appear paradoxical at first: a building that must serve both as a place of refuge and a bearer of meaning cannot merely erect walls — it must tell stories. As I have written before, our buildings are never merely stone, concrete, or steel — they are signs. And signs that carry no meaning crumble into mere debris.
Thus, in this design, a circular structure rises — an architectural gesture that recalls the eternal validity of geometry. The circle, 360 degrees, an endless continuum: it cradles the team that rests, watches, and lives within its embrace, ready at every hour. An embrace of concrete and steel that defies the elements and grants humans shelter when the unpredictable flares outside.
Yet this is no bunker that entombs its inhabitants in darkness. Inside, a small courtyard opens — a catcher of light, an oasis. It pierces the monolithic wall; the windows become membranes between inside and out. Here, in the heart of the circular bastion, nature may flourish, the eyes may find rest. It is a gesture of reconciliation between the rigor of protection and the softness of life.
The steel framework envelops the structure like a delicate veil, softening the rigidity of the reinforced concrete. It is not a mere structural element but a semantic filter: the veil allows glimpses while shielding from overly intrusive gazes. It evokes the image of a parchment through which sunbeams seep like ink, tracing lines on the walls that shift with each passing hour — a living palimpsest of time.
For every sign, as semiotics teaches us, lives in ambivalence: it is never only what it appears to be. Thus, this building is not merely a fire station, not merely a security outpost, not merely a dwelling for a team. It is a promise. It speaks of the reliability of those who serve within — and of the necessity to create spaces that preserve the human within functional rigor.
May its walls be strong, its windows wide, its courtyard green — so that the people who inhabit it will always know why they keep watch.
