The Architecture of Process
Architecture is not a moment; it is an unfolding. A house does not exist solely in its final form but in the traces of its making—the excavation of the land, the raw assembly of materials, the quiet evolution of its surfaces over time. The process is inseparable from the result. In a world driven by immediacy, architecture often succumbs to the pressure of speed. We celebrate the finished product, the curated image, the illusion of effortlessness. What is lost in this obsession with finality is the very thing that gives architecture its meaning: the act of making, the intentionality behind every decision, the acceptance that a building is never truly finished but always in transition.
To design through process is to acknowledge that architecture is an iterative act. It is not about control, but about navigation—reacting to site conditions, material behaviors, environmental forces, and the inevitable unpredictability of construction. Our success comes from testing, researching, evaluating, and repeating—until the desired result is found. This process of design and method iteration is critical in creating work that is unique, timeless, and functional, ensuring that our architecture has a deep relationship with the clients we serve. It begins with a detailed evaluation of the site and analysis of the needs and desires of our clients—establishing a framework within which meaningful architecture emerges. The Dune House, like all projects that embrace process, was shaped not just by design intent but by the realities of construction—the resistance of concrete to the formwork, the grain of the wood imprinting itself into the walls, the way light shifts through the central void at different times of day. Each of these elements, rather than being imposed, emerged through process.
The search for materials is not an act of selection but an act of discovery. True architecture does not simply borrow from material palettes; it defines them. Pictured here is a series of monoliths—testing performance, chemistry, formwork, and placement methods—in a collaborative effort to define a concrete mix and method that both performs in extreme conditions and exudes the desired architectural aesthetic. This is the essence of process-driven design: a willingness to test, fail, refine, and redefine until the material itself begins to guide the outcome. In cast-in-place concrete, the forming becomes a memory embedded in material. In handcrafted joinery, the slight imperfections reveal the presence of the maker, a human element embedded into the precision of geometry. Even in weathering, the process continues—the slow oxidation of metal, the softening of wood underfoot, the patina of age telling a story of use. A house that erases its own making, that seeks to conceal the history of its assembly, is a house without depth. True architecture is not only about permanence but about the visible presence of time. When a building is conceived only for the moment of completion, it begins its decay the day it is finished. True endurance in architecture does not come from excessive reinforcement or industrial permanence but from an awareness of how a building lives over time. A home should not resist change; it should anticipate it. Materials should be selected not just for their initial appearance, but for how they will evolve—how stone will darken, how wood will silver, how concrete will collect the stains of rain and salt. Spaces should not be static but adaptable, allowing for transformation as lives unfold within them.
The Dune House, positioned within a shifting coastal landscape, was designed with this philosophy in mind. Pocketing doors dissolve the threshold between inside and out, creating a house that is neither fully enclosed nor fully exposed. The central lightwell shifts in function throughout the day, filtering light, guiding airflow, and framing the open sky. Even the mass of the house—its monolithic concrete shell—is not an assertion of permanence but a vessel for change, accepting the gradual softening of its edges, the slow accumulation of its environment. This is the essence of process in architecture—not the pursuit of a fixed form, but the acceptance that the building, like the landscape, like the people who inhabit it, is always becoming. To reclaim process is to reclaim the role of the architect as more than just an image-maker. It is to return to a way of working that values slowness, iteration, and deep material engagement. It is to design with the awareness that a building is not a product, but a conversation—between site and structure, between maker and material, between past, present, and future.
The Architecture of Resistance and Adaptation
The built environment is constantly engaged in a silent negotiation with the forces of nature. Wind, water, fire—each tests the resilience of architecture, demanding a response beyond any consideration of architecture as pure shelter. To design for permanence is to design for survival, not through defiance, but through understanding. The Dune House stands as an embodiment of this philosophy: a monolithic form shaped by its context, positioned not against nature but within it.
Too often, contemporary construction is obsessed with the immediacy of aesthetics—smooth surfaces, perfect lines, materials that appear untouched by time. Yet, architecture that does not anticipate its own weathering, its own aging, is architecture that fails. Homes designed to endure must be conceived as organisms rather than objects—able to absorb impact, resist decay, and adjust to the cycles of nature rather than succumb to them.
The Dune House was designed in dialogue with its environment, responding to the hurricanes that sweep across Florida’s Emerald Coast, the encroaching salt air, the endless shifting of sand beneath its foundation. Its concrete mass does not merely resist these forces; it absorbs them. Like sedimentary rock accumulating layers over time, the building's surface records its exposure—deepening in patina, roughening under the hand of wind and water. Material selection is the first and most important act of endurance. Too often, modern homes are built from disposable elements—thin skins stretched over vulnerable frames, timber too young, finishes too delicate. In disaster-prone environments, this approach is not just short-sighted; it is dangerous. The Dune House stands in contrast. It is cast in formed concrete, a surface that recalls the texture of sand drift but resists its erosion. Unlike traditional stucco or siding, which peel and deteriorate under the relentless Gulf storms, concrete is both monolithic and porous, holding its ground while allowing breathability. It embraces weathering and resists the relentless power of waves and storms. The relationship between glass and exposure is equally critical. Large openings are essential for light, for connection to the horizon, for the psychological expansion of space. Yet, glass is also vulnerable—susceptible to hurricane-force winds and the projectile debris they carry. The solution lies in pocketing storm-resistant glazing, where reinforced glass disappears into thickened walls, transforming an exposed pavilion into a secure bunker. The glazing is tucked into the structure, below cantilevering concrete forms, and surrounded by impenetrable walls. Wood, in this context, plays a different role. Where concrete is dense and immovable, wood is warm and tactile, a counterpoint to the house’s weight. The white oak finishes of the interior are not simply aesthetic choices; they are part of a strategy of balance—materials that offer both strength and comfort, endurance and impermanence. The exterior siding is accoya - a prefinished material that endures the sun, heat, and moisture and is selected to evolve over time.
Hurricanes and wildfires are visible in their destruction, but the forces that weaken a building over time are often invisible. Thermal expansion, salt crystallization, moisture infiltration—these elements do not announce themselves in sudden catastrophe, but in slow degradation. For this reason, passive design strategies are as crucial as structural reinforcements. The Dune House breathes through its massive lightwell, a void carved into its core that channels air upward, reducing reliance on mechanical cooling. Its overhangs protect against sun exposure, extending the lifespan of interior materials. These details are not just about comfort; they are about longevity, reducing the long-term stress on both the architecture and its occupants. To build for resilience is to take responsibility—for the materials extracted, the energy consumed, the impact left behind. A house designed to last is not just a shelter; it is a philosophy, an acknowledgment that architecture is an imprint on the landscape, one that should be deliberate, necessary, and enduring. The Dune House is not a prototype—it is a proposition. A home should not simply exist within its environment; it should endure alongside it. It should carry the weight of time, withstand the tempests that will inevitably come, and remain—unchanged in purpose, yet transformed by its place.
Lessons from the Palisades Fire
The Palisades Fire - ignited in the rugged canyons of Pacific Palisades, is a stark reminder of Los Angeles’ vulnerability to wildfires. Fanned by dry conditions and unpredictable winds, the fire threatened multimillion-dollar homes perched along the hillsides, exposing the shortcomings of conventional residential design in high-risk zones. In a region where fire is not an anomaly but an inevitability, architecture must evolve to meet the challenge—not just through compliance with codes, but through a holistic design approach that anticipates disaster and mitigates its impact. Designing homes in these conditions requires an understanding of fire behavior, material performance, and the delicate relationship between the built and natural environments.
Resilient architecture in the Palisades and similar fire-prone areas begins with materiality and form. Traditional wood framing and flammable cladding give way to concrete, steel, and fire-rated glazing, which resist ignition even under direct exposure to embers and radiant heat. Homes are designed with defensible space strategies, integrating low-fuel native landscaping, non-combustible terraces, and ember-resistant venting to prevent fire penetration. Passive protection strategies—automated metal shutters, deep roof overhangs, and operable openings that control airflow—allow homes to seal themselves against incoming flames while still engaging the landscape. This balance between protection and openness is critical, ensuring that homes remain livable and deeply connected to their surroundings without compromising safety.
Beyond the individual home, fire-conscious design must extend to the urban scale, creating neighborhoods that are inherently resilient rather than reactive. The Palisades Fire demonstrated how poor access routes, lack of defensible perimeters, and highly flammable vegetation amplify risk. In response, architects and planners must advocate for fire-resistant zoning regulations, decentralized water storage for suppression, and fuel breaks integrated into residential developments. The future of architecture in Los Angeles’ wildfire zones is not about resisting nature, but designing with it—embracing materials and strategies that acknowledge fire’s role in the landscape while ensuring that the built environment remains enduring, adaptive, and responsive to the realities of climate change.