We began with a question: what remains when a giant disappears? In deep oceans, a whale’s body sinks and becomes a living reef—life blooming from loss. We carried this quiet lesson to the city, asking how a public artwork might hold memory, invite care, and turn absence into a place to gather.

Working across time zones and disciplines, we listened to the site and its stories—water, trade, migration, tide. In Amsterdam, the installation settles beside Het Scheepvaartmuseum, where the city meets the sea. We mapped wind, pedestrian flows, and reflections on the water. Partners across continents helped refine structure, light, and assembly, so that what arrived was not a spectacle, but a conversation—open, steady, and shared.

The form—rib, spine, and void—frames a room of air. By day, the structure reads as a delicate skeleton, a drawing in space that children can run through and adults can pause within. By night, gentle light traces each line, turning the void into a lantern. The work asks for slower steps: to look up, to listen, to feel the scale of what is missing and the life that might return.

“Whale Fall” is not about a single animal; it is about legacy. It holds space for the city to remember the waters that made it, and to imagine futures made with more care. In this threshold between land and sea, the piece becomes a small commons—an invitation to stand together, to tell stories, and to leave the place a little softer than we found it. Legacy is decided by those who come after.

At first, we stand before a land shaped by ancient lava and time — dark, twisted towers rising without clear borders, caught between the calm waters of Mývatn and the quiet might of Hverfjall. Here, the challenge is to guide visitors into a place that offers no easy welcome. There are no strong signals, no clear thresholds, only the hushed grandeur of nature’s own design. We asked: How can we honor this landscape, help others see what lies before them, and let them feel the weight of its story?

We listened to the subtle cues of wind and stone, to the folk tales murmured through old paths, and to the quiet requests of travelers who need a place to pause, learn, and breathe. Step by step, the design emerged — sunk low into the earth, out of sight at first, so that one discovers it gently, as though uncovering a secret in the land. The building protects against fierce winds, yet opens to a sweeping view: from the shelter within, visitors can watch volcano and rock formations unfold before their eyes.

Inside, each turn is shaped by care. A curved wall separates the working heart of the center from the public spaces of gathering, sharing, and wonder. Simple materials — basalt stone, warm timber, subtle glass — mirror the surroundings, ensuring the building feels woven into the place rather than set apart. Light and texture guide the way. A gallery shelters quiet stories of the past. A café and children’s corner invite lingering, laughter, and learning. At the far edge, broad windows frame a panorama where nature’s drama plays out in real time.

Finally, visitors step through, drawn toward the “Dark Castles” themselves. As they move into Dimmuborgir, the center’s role slips into the background. It has done its part — offered understanding, comfort, and a gentle gateway. The landscape can now speak for itself, and each traveler departs carrying a richer sense of what these ancient formations mean, not just in form, but in spirit.

Here, in the quiet heart of Mata do Fontelo, a small crossroads appears between unpaved paths and ancient trees. A place where nature’s whispers mingle with echoes of distant human footsteps. The question we faced: How to invite people to pause, to stand at this gentle intersection, and recognize the bond we share with the living world around us?

We began by listening. We looked closely at the woodland floor and the patterns of light that shift through leaves. We thought about the city beyond, where streets and buildings form their own intersections. Each place, large or small, is a space of meeting—people with people, people with nature, and nature with time. We wanted this installation to reflect that ongoing conversation, a reminder that every path is woven into something larger.

Our proposal rises in four simple forms — four corners that mark out a space of dialogue. Their bright, flame-colored surfaces catch and reflect the changing daylight, and glow softly at night like embers guiding travelers in the forest. Within these four points lies a moment of pause, encouraging visitors to look up and listen, to sense how trees and air, soil and birdsong, all share a quiet story older than any human tongue.

Crafted from locally sourced timber and translucent fabrics, the installation blends with its surroundings and honors the earth it stands upon. Its shape and scale echo an urban crossroads, but here the intersection is open, fluid, and alive. This is a place to consider how we live with nature and how nature lives within us. It asks us to notice the forgotten questions, to rediscover common ground, and to remember that even at a simple forest crossing, we find the world waiting, ready to speak.

At first glance, it may seem that the hills and vineyards have held this place forever, steeped in old stories and quiet traditions. But something new stirs among them now: a distillery that does not whisper, but hums with life and possibility. Here, where the Swan Valley’s gentle fields touch clear skies, we asked: How can we share the craft of gin and vodka in a way that feels both rooted and thrillingly fresh?

We looked to the land and its history — its winding river carved by time, the ancient paths of the Whadjuk Nyoongar people, and a quiet colonial heritage. Then we reached for something else: a sense of play, a willingness to twist a familiar shape until it surprises. Out of a simple shed form, we’ve coaxed a space that feels alive, tipping and bending with a spirited nod to the craft inside. It stands as both a landmark and a friendly invitation, catching the eye from afar and asking visitors to step closer, to wonder, to taste.

As guests arrive, they move from sunlight into a series of small, attentive spaces — sheltered nooks that share glimpses of copper stills, shimmering equipment, and quiet corners where botanicals wait for their next chapter. Inside, the design meanders through layers of experience: a tasting room that hints at secret flavors, an open dining terrace that welcomes laughter and lingering conversation, and a hidden nook that feels like a whispered secret between old friends.

Each choice — of shape, material, window, and angle — honors the Swan Valley’s gentle rhythms. There’s no rush, only curiosity and delight. The building’s subtle skin, its gentle twists, its warm interplay of timber and light, all reflect the brand’s spirited character: honest and ambitious, ready to challenge the ordinary. Surrounded by vineyards and distant hills, the distillery becomes a place to gather and sip, to enjoy what has always been here and what is newly made. In every tasting glass and every open door, we welcome the world to discover a story still unfolding.