Sophie Hamer Volume 3.

To me, time here in the Swiss mountains always feels slower. The crisp sunlit air, the immensity of the surrounding landscape and clarity of the ever-changing seasons allow me to breathe more deeply, to soften into my creative practice, to find rigor and ritual in my daily work. Lately I’ve spent the mornings among the wildflowers on our steps, watching the morning light slowly illuminate the folds of the mountains across the valley from us, taking in the barely perceptible shifting forward of time each day. 

This approach lends an unmistakable sense of purity to the resulting buildings. I draw on light, proportion and material qualities to define architectural spaces that feel effortlessly precise, but remain anchored by atmosphere and tactility. Much of the sensory richness I explore in my projects draws on the specifics of place and in particular the natural landscapes and craftsmanship of the local area. For me, a building should have an honesty of expression,  balancing the sense of openness and intimacy, refinement and richness, luxury and quiet ease. 

This year in particular, with my partner being terminally ill, the fragile beauty of time, material change and the making of places in architecture and the natural world have been set plainly alongside our own human mortality. I’ve been thinking a lot about architecture as an act of care, about the rhythms and responsibilities of tending to one another and to the world around us. In this season, in both my architectural practice and my everyday life, I’m searching for a lasting serenity, a quiet sense of elegance and ease, a way of creating spaces that sit well now and into the future, for us, and for those who will be here long after we are gone.