It's a jungle out there
If architects build houses for others for a fee, what do they build for themselves?
I found the answer when Mr Y kindly invited us over to his house one evening to discuss the plans, making the rare exception that he only sees clients on Mon to Sat, 10 am to 4 pm.
It was innocuously tucked next to a well-patronised coffee-shop selling roti prata and teh tarik, giving no hint of its identity as a dwelling place. The neighbourhood itself, is colourful, bustling with street life, with karaoke joints and hotels operating at 300% occupancy just down the road for the perky.
Entering the doorway, we were gently led by the host into a labyrinthian maze of winding stairways, split levels of living space, opening up into an urban oasis of a roof terrace, resplendent with lush foliage of tropical plants that seem to claim their right of residency with their imposing presence. Cocooned high up there, looking over the stark contrast of bare roof-tops surrounding this space, coupled with a light breeze and soft lighting, the atmosphere was subtly intoxicating. The place was alive, abuzz with the almost audible whispers of the plants as their leaves sway in a rhythmic flow.
It is awkward to interrupt a serious discussion to answer a call of nature, but when one has to go, one HAS to go...I was shown an open-air sort-of scantily screened by creepers "enclosure" to do the deed. It's not easy to pee when you are wondering whether your family jewels are in someone else's roof-top view. Anyway, later I discovered there were other less exotic powder rooms in close proximity. Very funny, Mr Y!
The furniture was recycled, original creations all, made from found things ranging from driftwood, trunks, discarded metal, and almost anything else that creativity can put to form.
There was a piece of hanging artwork making a bold statement. The frame extended beyond the boundaries of the wall and the picture appeared to be a work in progress. The space inside is still evolving, transforming itself as if being worked on by the potter's hand, revealing its layers, bit by bit, piece by piece.
On another level is an art gallery depicting the sensitive and softer side of Mr Y when he is not otherwise into hard lines, steel and concrete. There is an impressionable painting of an equatorial rainforest taking centerstage, art depicting life.
There are no pictures in this post as Mr Y has unsportingly refused to have his house photographed. A picture will paint a thousand words, but for now, we have to let the imagination rule.
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