The Threshold in a traditional Maltese townhouse

In traditional Maltese town houses there is a wide threshold defined by the main door, antiporta, lace curtains, door-steps and chairs on the street outside. This blurs the boundary between the interior and the exterior of a house, between the public realm and private realm.

It's difficult to define the moment of entering a person's private space. Is it when you look into their hallway from across the road? When you wind around them as they sit on a chair on the pavement? When you place one foot on their doorstep to ring their bell? When you talk to them through the lace curtains? When you enter the space between the wooden door and antiporta? Or when you walk in through the antiporta and curtain and take off your coat?


The private space doesn't end at the front door, just as the public space extends into the hallway, and so the threshold space gives people a sense of ownership and pride of their 2 meters squared of pavement (this is reflected in the custom of washing one's section of pavement when one washes their house).

current back up plan #1

I don't have a plan, I never do, and when I fool myself into thinking that I do I never stick to it. There are, of course, exceptions - I have a back-up plans, countless back-up plans, I invariably do. And so, the exceptions prove the rule.


My current back-up plan is inspired by a tiny, remote volcanic island.

Every 15 minutes the volcano erupts leaving a beacon of black smoke overhead. Occasionally it roars to remind its inhabitants of its power. Half the island is covered in molten lava, unreachable, uninhabitable, whilst the other half is extremely fertile, inhabited by a tiny population of madmen - people who chose to live on a tiny island volcano, surrounded by deep rough seas (especially deep and rough because the volcano extends down into the depths of the sea) and shores of black sand.

On this strange place of unstable, ephemeral beauty, beautiful piano playing fills the streets. A man sits in a bookshop playing the piano, the back door half open behind him.

A few paces away in the backyard of the bookshop sits a screen and chairs. An outdoor cinema screen with a volcano looming, erupting every 15 minutes, behind it.


And so I dream of going back to the island, on a one way journey. Working in the bookstore, listening to the piano playing, watching outdoor movies interrupted every 15 minutes by volcanic eruptions. Feeling the presence of the volcano, the sea, the wind. Making black sand-castles on sunny days.

Autumn in London

My daily cycle route takes me through Highbury Fields and these last few weeks this pretty little park has been glowing in autumnal oranges and yellows against its bright green grass - beautiful! This part of my cycle has been the best part of every day.

In search of Home

On returning to London, I find myself homeless, sleeping on floors and sofas - my back broken, tip-toeing around other people’s schedules, my internet borrowed, my belongings in boxes. I struggle to find a space in which to be creative, a house to shelter my daydreams and begin to question what it is I need to feel ‘at home’.

In the midst of all this I face the dreaded London flat hunt; hours spent wading through listings, faking laughter at the jokes of unfunny estate agents, contemplating windowless bedrooms and neighbourhoods that do not exist in my pocket sized A to Z. 
I begin to view the whole experience as an education in notions of home. I take on a duality: that of intellectual-detached-observer and homeless-person-in-need-of-a-flat. In the guise of a flat hunter, I venture into private realms, looking down into alleys and back gardens, catching glimpses into the lifestyles of unknown people. Every unsuitable flat in my search for shelter is at the same moment a treasure-chest full of clues to its past inhabitants and their ideas of home.

I begin to notice myself warming to cold tiles and high ceilings whilst finding English cosiness oppressive and claustrophobic - the fitted carpet my worst nightmare. These instinctive impulses towards spaces, materials and objects stem from nostalgic emotions and memories of my childhood Mediterranean home.

Whilst flat hunting I begin to notice remnants of other people’s nostalgias; a grape vine and an olive tree in a garden, a semi-circular arched opening between a kitchen and a dining room, a bedroom covered in embossed green and gold wallpaper, thick flowery pastel curtains and matching wicker sofas, packets of incense on a window sill, a kitchen painted pink. 
These fragments of culture, memory and personality are left behind to be removed, repainted, remoulded and recycled into a new tenant’s home.

I finally find a flat and begin to dream of filling it and shaping it into something that feels like my home. It is not just nostalgic trinkets of my childhood that I will fill it with, but souvenirs of holidays, gingham tablecloths, photographs of friends, inherited kitchen appliances, posters that represent feelings I cannot describe, books that I have come to love, furniture recalling eras I have never known, plants that have accompanied me year after year. 
Rented accommodation only allows for temporary inhabitation, and so the rented home is created as an impermanent collage of items. And so mine becomes a museum of fragments, of happy moments in my life, sheltering daydreams.

Goodbye Placa de Sant Felip Neri

Dear Placa de Sant Felip Neri,
you drove me to my limits, and yet I miss you.
Funny how often I contemplated leaving you but couldn't. And now that I finally have I am filled with sadness.

BCN Saturday Adventures 04

number 04 - Igualada Cemetery


When I think of Enric Miralles and the legacy he left I feel that Architecture suffered a great loss when he died at the age of 55 in 2000. This feeling was driven deep on a visit to Igualada Cemetery, designed by himself and Carme Pinos, where he is buried.


The cemetery is in a sad state of unfinished and aged disrepair - it has been awaiting completion since 1994, when the second phase of construction was stopped, and has since started to weather, rust and emulsify...

Scars and bruises in the concrete give testimony to an abandoned existence... A dilapidated beauty, but a sad one nonetheless, it wouldn't have been any less beautiful had it been completed and properly looked after.


There are countless lovely details to find, sketch and photograph. Curves and lines that shout Miralles' name...



Even on All Saints' Day (when most Catholics visit the dead) the place is very quiet, with no supervision, you can even walk around the autopsy theatres which are left open, unfinished...


Miralles' tomb is a homage to the great man.
Architecture enthusiasts from all over the world have scribbled messages in all languages and drawn little sketches for him. It is amazing, especially when you consider the fact that there is nothing much else to see in Igualada, and it is a long journey from Barcelona, which is presumably where most people came from.

Lesser mortals are buried in large retaining walls, as they do in other Spanish cemeteries. I find the idea of being sandwiched between other graves, in all directions, for all eternity a bit disturbing and claustrophobic. But it does make for some nice repetition...


And repetition is another of the Architects' fortes...

This is why I feel sad when I'm in Malta