Kehai House by HW Studio

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HW STUDIO：墨西哥莫雷利亚，2026 年 4 月 16 日 – 日本人认为，房屋的灵魂不在于其墙壁，也不在于其屋顶，而在于其所包含的空间。Kakuzo Okakura写道：“空间的力量绝对强大，因为它能容纳一切。”它让我们得以呼吸、移动、思考、生活。从一开始，这座房子最核心的理念就是：它的中心不是某个物件，而是一个空无一物的当下。

这是我的家，一位建筑师的家——我的工作是为他人的梦想赋予形态——如今面临着一个更为质朴的问题：如何构建一种与自己多年来所说的话相一致的生活？

预算有限，所以这些决策更多关乎生存而非审美。每一枚硬币都必须清晰地传达信息；每一厘米都必须有其意义。但除了经济上的限制，真正塑造它的，是我漫长而缓慢地走向禅宗、走向佛法、走向日本的历程。

HW STUDIO：Morelia, Mexico, 2026-04-16 -The Japanese believe that the soul of a house does not lie in its walls, nor in its roof, but in the void it contains. “The void is absolutely powerful because it can contain everything,” wrote Kakuzo Okakura. It allows us to breathe, to move, to think, to live. That was, from the beginning, the deepest idea of this house: that its center would not be an object, but rather an empty present.

This is my house. The architect’s house—the one accustomed to giving form to other people’s dreams—faces here a much barer question: how to build a life that is coherent with the words one has spoken for years?

With a limited budget, the decisions were less aesthetic than vital. Every coin had to speak with clarity; every centimeter had to make sense. But beyond economic constraints, it was my long and slow path toward Zen, toward the Dharma, and toward Japan, that truly shaped it.

从外面看，这座房子似乎不过是个盒子——就像我职业生涯中一直在做的那种-安静、封闭、像城市景观中的一块石头。然而，一旦跨过门槛，人们就会明白，这个盒子不是用来封闭的，而是用来容纳的。看似密不透风，实则保护着一些脆弱的东西：一座无人触碰却又能触动一切的石头花园。

From the outside, the house seems like nothing more than a box—like the ones I’ve been making throughout my career. Quiet. Closed. Like a stone in the urban landscape. However, upon crossing the threshold, one understands that this box does not enclose, but holds. What appears hermetic actually protects something delicate: a stone garden that is not touched, but touches everything.

就像京都的寺庙一样，这里的石头被精心布置，不是为了表现什么，而是为了唤起一种感觉——甚至是一种情感。而连接在这片灰色的砾石之上，漂浮着两块木制的平台，他们也如同寺庙里的一样，不是地面：它们是停顿，是让人驻足、凝视、仅仅存在片刻的空间。这个花园并非为了装饰：它是组织者。它是核心，周围的空间围绕着它有序排列，就像卫星围绕着静谧的中心运转。

一边是厨房和用餐区，层高两倍。其上方是一个集烟的结构，这不仅是为了怀旧，也是考虑到有一天城市可能不再能提供我们所需。另一边是客厅：一个供人沉思的空间，巨大的石块像静海中的岛屿般安卧。两个空间之间没有遮盖的走廊。如果下雨，从客厅去用餐区——会被淋湿……或者等着雨停。

门窗上用的是米纸，这并非是审美上的妥协。它们才是室内外之间真正的过滤器。光线穿过它们时变得柔和，直至化作柔光。白天不会匆匆闯入——它悠然躺卧。阴影并非是光的缺失，而是光最细腻的形态。

As in the temples of Kyoto, the stones are carefully arranged, not to represent something, but to evoke a sensation—perhaps even a feeling. Upon this bed of grey gravel float two wooden platforms, as in that temple. They are not floor: they are pause. Spaces for stopping, for looking, for simply being. The garden does not decorate: it organizes. It is the heart around which the spaces are ordered like satellites orbiting stillness.

On one side, the kitchen and dining area, with double height. Above it, a volume that gathers the smoke from the fire, thinking not only of nostalgia, but of the real possibility that, one day, the city may no longer provide what we need. On the other side, the living room: a space for contemplation, where large stones rest like islands in a quiet sea. There is no covered hallway between both spaces. To go from the living room to the dining area—if it’s raining—you get wet… or you wait for the rain to stop. Architecture here does not protect from the world: it reconciles you with it.

The shōji doors, made with rice paper, are not an aesthetic concession. They are the true filter between inside and out. Light, as it passes through them, softens until it becomes time. The day doesn’t rush in—it reclines. Shadow is not the absence of light, but its most delicate form.

最后，位于上方的卧室是一个简约而私密的空间。一扇圆形的窗户朝向花园中央一棵树的枝叶敞开，宛如一只凝视的眼睛。

这个项目设计简约。没有多余的走廊，也没有刻意的装饰。整座房子几乎看不到玻璃。只有三扇小窗，将真正值得一看的景色引入眼帘：一座山，一棵邻近的松树，还有位于中心位置的那棵树。其余部分都内敛自持，仿佛一个音箱，将自身的乐音深藏不露。

入口并非向上而是向下。人们需走下台阶才能进入，仿佛在向某种神圣之物鞠躬。楼梯通向石块稳固之处，省去了不必要的地基费用。但这也是一种精神姿态：要住进这所房子，必须在门外放下些许骄傲，怀着谦逊之心进入——就像穿过一座看不见的神社的鸟居。

Finally, the bedroom, placed above, is a minimal, intimate space. A single circular window opens to the foliage of a tree planted at the center of the garden. It is an eye that contemplates.

The program is austere. There are no unnecessary hallways or grand gestures. The house is almost entirely devoid of glass. Only three small windows open to what is truly worth seeing: a mountain, a neighboring pine, the tree that lives at the center. Everything else is contained, inward-looking—like a sound box that keeps its own music secret.

The entrance, instead of ascending, descends. One enters by going down, like someone bowing before something sacred. The staircase reaches the place where the stone offered stability, avoiding unnecessary costs in foundation. But it is also a spiritual gesture: to inhabit this house, one must leave a certain pride at the door, and enter with humility—like someone passing through the torii of an invisible shrine.

在日本，人们珍视的是不完美、不完整和稍纵即逝的事物。美并非永恒闪耀之物，而是即将消逝之物。这座房子并非为了给人留下深刻印象而建，而是为了在静默中长久存在；为了承载一种朴实生活的轻盈重量。

In Japan, what is valued is the imperfect, the incomplete, the ephemeral. Beauty is not what shines eternally, but what is about to disappear. This house was not made to impress. It was made to endure in silence; to bear the light weight of an honest life.