The space that remained

I still often think about the room in the house where I was born, in a small village in Iran.

Architecturally, there was nothing particularly remarkable about it. The room had one small window and virtually no view. In a climate where you have to protect yourself from the heat, large windows weren’t appealing at all. The house wasn’t designed by an architect. My father and his brother built it out of necessity, using the resources and knowledge they had at the time.

And yet, after more than thirty years, it is precisely that space that keeps coming back in my memories. 

There was a Persian rug on the floor. Wainscoting ran along the walls, ending exactly at shoulder height when you sat on the floor. Because there were hardly any windows, the room didn’t feel dark or stuffy, but rather cozy and secure. At least, that’s how I remember that room. The last time I was there was well over thirty years ago.

Everything I’ve learned as an architect would probably lead me to advise against redesigning that space. Not enough natural light. No view. Barely any connection to the outdoors. And yet I look back on it with fondness. That both fascinates and frustrates me.

As architects, we like to talk about program, materials, sustainability, and context. All of these are essential. But apparently, the meaning of a space doesn’t arise solely from what we can measure, draw, or justify.

Years later, when I read Gaston Bachelard’s *The Poetics of Space*, something clicked. Not because he taught me how to design, but because he put into words something I had unconsciously felt all along: that spaces are not etched into our memory as perfect images, but as feelings, rituals, and memories.

At the same time, we live in an era where architecture competes with thousands of other images. Every day, new, seemingly perfect homes and interiors appear, increasingly designed by AI. Technically impressive, aesthetically nearly flawless. Sometimes I wonder if an algorithm could ever design a space that responds to the soul of the person living in it.

I, too, want a design to be seen—to move people and capture their attention. I’m just as much a part of this world of powerful images and grand gestures.

But what happens after that?

The room from my childhood wasn't designed to impress. Yet it has always stayed with me—not because of its beauty, but because of the sense of security it offered.

I believe that, in the end, we will lose the battle for the most beautiful image. To algorithms. To artificial intelligence. To a world in which perfection is generated at an ever-faster rate.

But that isn't the battle we should be aiming to win, either.

Our value as architects does not lie in creating the most beautiful image. Our value lies in designing spaces that only reveal themselves years later—spaces that become part of someone’s life, spaces that hold memories.

Because architecture doesn't end when a building is completed. Architecture only begins when a space becomes a memory.