In any creative journey, the early work holds a particular kind of weight. It may lack the polish and resources of later commissions, but it is where the foundation is laid—where instincts are tested, approaches are formed, and convictions begin to crystallise. As I’ve revisited some of my first architectural projects now featured on our website, I’ve been struck by how deeply these formative experiences have influenced the DNA of the practice today.
At the time, those projects often felt like uphill climbs: working with limited budgets, navigating complex constraints, and pushing against practical and conceptual boundaries. But those very conditions demanded ingenuity. They required an economy of thinking, a hands-on sensitivity to materials, and above all, a clarity of purpose. Each decision mattered more, and every compromise came with a lesson. Looking back, I can see how this sharpened my design instincts and embedded a problem-solving ethic that still defines how we work.
What stands out most about these early commissions is how they forced a kind of directness—designs had to be distilled down to their essence. There was no room for excess, and every element had to earn its place. Whether it was a modest residential extension, an infill structure on a tight urban plot, or a small community facility, the limitations were often the catalyst for the most thoughtful solutions. These constraints didn’t restrict creativity—they redirected it, making us more strategic, more inventive, and more attentive to the nuances of context.
In hindsight, the early projects also became testing grounds for the values we now uphold as a studio. A commitment to clarity and simplicity. A belief in the social impact of architecture—no matter the scale. A deep interest in how buildings relate to their surroundings, both physically and culturally. These values were not theoretical ideals; they were forged in the realities of each project, through conversations with clients, hands-on collaboration with builders, and the slow, sometimes messy process of making architecture real.
Importantly, those first projects taught me how to listen. When you’re starting out, you don’t have a signature style or a legacy to fall back on. You learn by paying close attention— to the needs of the people you’re designing for, to the particularities of each site, and to the lessons embedded in each phase of construction. This listening became a foundation for how we continue to work: prioritizing dialogue, inviting multiple perspectives into the process, and allowing each project to evolve from its own unique set of conditions rather than from a predetermined aesthetic agenda.
There’s also a kind of freedom in early work. Without the weight of precedent or expectation, you’re allowed to be more speculative, more open to experimentation. Some of our most enduring design moves—strategies around light and space, approaches to materiality and detailing—first appeared in these early explorations. They emerged not from trying to define a “style,” but from honest attempts to resolve particular problems. That sense of integrity—of design arising from need, not ego—is something we continue to strive for, even as the scale and complexity of our projects has grown.
Publishing these early works on our website is not just an archival gesture; it’s a way of tracing a line from where we began to where we are now. It’s an invitation to see the continuity of thought and the evolution of craft. For those who are just encountering our work, it offers a fuller picture of how our design approach has developed over time. For others—especially young architects or students—it’s perhaps a reminder that strong practices don’t emerge fully formed. They are built, project by project, on the back of hard lessons, small victories, and relentless curiosity.
