#a threshold

[perikali]

Terra Comb Residential Building / A Threshold

Completed in 2022 in Bengaluru, India. Images by Anand Jaju, Studio Recall, Akhil, A Threshold. The 70’ x 40’ plot is in a dense urban neigh

Check out this Façade for a residential building in Bangalore.

[redwolf]

A Threshold designed Subterranean Ruins in Kaggalipura, India -- via ArchDaily

[perikali]

Ineffable Light House / A Threshold

Completed in 2022 in Jigani, India. Images by Atik Bheda. Architecture is about blurring boundaries between the inside and outside and estab

A verdant and bright home in Karnataka.

"Drawing inspiration from the quality of light in traditional Indian temples, the intensity of darkness increases as one moves from outside to inside. This creates a sense of transition. Additionally, a skylight strategically placed within the central volume of the house brings in streams of light, reminiscent of the Garbhagriha (sanctum sanctorum) in a temple. This infusion of light adds a meditative quality to the space, where light itself becomes a significant material. The play of light and shadow creates a dynamic quality within the house that evolves with time and seasons."

[perikali]

Breathing Enclosure / A Threshold

Completed in 2021 in Bengaluru, India. Images by Vivek Muthuramalingam. The site for this multifamily housing is located in JP Nagar, Bangal

A planterbox facade makes all the difference in this project.

[summerbrennan]

A Threshold

Every now and then I am reminded that I came to writing through poetry. That is what I studied in undergrad, after all (along with painting). I don't really write poems anymore, but I am still sometimes affected by poems in the way that, once upon I time, I thought meant I needed to be a poet, or was one, against my will, or however that calling works.

I read every New Yorker magazine from 2015 in the month of December (essay to follow), and I picked ten poems that were my favorite. Here's one that made me cry and gave me nightmares:

A Threshold, by Don Paterson

Where have you gone, my little saving grace? Iona or Iola of the laugh like falling silver . . . Now nothing’s in its place, and all’s as light and cold as that blue scarf I lost or left without, or I don’t own. Everything shames me. Every card declined. You slid between the stalls and you were gone though I scoured the field for hours, hoping to find you sat with “the silent children of the fair” or some such nonsense, though I always knew you’d taken another hand, the way kids do, not looking up. This place again. It’s where I wake up and recall I have no daughter or fall asleep and dream I have no daughter.