Tom Kundig grew up in the Big Sky country of Washington State, far removed in distance and character from Seattle where he and his partners at Olson Kundig Architects now practice. He loved that landscape and is still, at age 57, an avid rock climber and downhill skier. As a youth he worked in a sawmill, hung out with a sculptor who taught him to make things, and transformed old cars into hot-rods. Those formative experiences, of the earth and machines, infuse the houses and cabins he has built on the lakes and islands around Seattle, and in the wild terrain of the northwestern United States. Raw and idiosyncratic, they move far beyond the classic modern dwellings that his father, a Swiss architect, designed. “They had big windows that pulled in views but couldn’t be opened,” he recalls. “I felt I was in an aquarium. All my architecture has a consistent attitude: I want to go outside. And when I’m inside, I want to be as snug as I am in a sleeping bag.” For Kundig, a house is a portrait that captures the spirit of the owner and place, but also incorporates a lot of the architect’s passions. As a result, there is no signature style, but rather a set of recurring themes that are carefully balanced. Houses hug the ground or float above it. Steel and concrete are employed expressively, their mass playing off the lightness and transparency of glass. Shadowy interiors open up to nature, and the pivoting doors and windows are hand-controlled by elaborate mechanisms. At their best, these locks and pulleys, hand-forged by a former Ferrari mechanic, achieve the status of art works. All of these elements are combined to achieve a poetic response to the site and the experience of inhabiting it. The Pierre is named for a massive rock that suggested a primitive shelter. The client wanted to feel protected, and that inspired a concrete mass that burrows into the earth and has a landscaped roof. The rock was partially excavated and employed as a quarry for the aggregate and terrazzo, gravel for the drive, and blocks for the carport. On the same small island in Puget Sound, Kundig designed Shadowboxx for Carol Bobo, an artist who had previously commissioned a studio near Seattle. She shares the architect’s love of nature and was impressed by Jun’ichiro Tanizaki’s classic essay, In Praise of Shadows. That inspired a crepuscular interior that Kundig likens to “the physical manifestation of a camp fire - a place where friends gather around and tell stories late into the night.” Along with the adjoining bathhouse it opens up to the outdoors, vertically and horizontally, as though one were shedding one’s clothes. “I listen to the client and walk the site, thinking hard about it, absorbing impressions and letting ideas jell,” explains Kundig. “Back in the office I start sketching. Intuitively you know when you’ve got it right - it can take an hour or months. I’ve always had a primitive response to the earth. In the few million years we’ve been around, home has usually been in, on, or just above ground level. The distance between a subterranean dwelling and a tree house isn’t that great; in a high rise you are in a different realm.” Delta Shelter is raised on stilts above the river flood plain and functions like a fire tower, surveying the surrounding countryside. It was commissioned by a Polish immigrant who wanted a weekend retreat that he could use year-round, with double-glazed windows and rusted steel shutters. Close by are his Rolling Huts. He was refused permission to build small cabins to accommodate guests, and circumvented the ban by raising them above the ground on wheels. The Montecito Residence (California) is also a direct response to the site. A mountain top had been flattened to create a building pad for a Spanish Revival mega-mansion. That project was abandoned and Kundig was inspired by the hawks wheeling overhead to design a mild steel house that will resist brush fires but sits lightly on the land. A perforated metal screen can be lowered to shield the west side from sun and the cantilevered roof evokes the wings of a bird of prey soaring into the empyrean. Weathered steel is a favorite building material for Kundig. It evokes the silos and miners’ shacks he saw as a child, as the corrugated metal roofs of the Australian homestead do for Glenn Murcutt. Both architects have refined humble materials without betraying their true character. Steel, concrete, and wood all take on a patina as they age. “Richard Meier’s buildings need to be maintained in their pristine state or they lose their poetry,” says Kundig. “I find beauty in things ageing - I’m not trying to arrest time. Prairies, forests, and mountains all have their own character and one has to use materials to complement that.” For Outpost, a live-work retreat for an artist located in the high desert of Idaho, he used concrete blocks to create a cube of living and studio space with a high-walled garden. The simple, monolithic form stands out from the bare, windswept plain, and frames the landscape through sharply etched windows. The blocks were easy to transport to the site and furnish a low-cost, low-maintenance shelter. Even here, and in small holiday cabins, Kundig tailors every detail to the specific tastes and needs of the users. “I’m working for a small fraction of the few people who can afford to hire an architect and are willing to take a chance on doing so,” says Kundig. “Some of the people who hire me are high risk takers. I’m currently designing a Manhattan penthouse in an old water tower, located atop a vintage apartment block.” He is also trying to extend his range and apply the ideas perfected in one-off houses to larger buildings. That’s proving a much greater challenge, though he has completed two innovative blocks of multiple housing in Seattle. In the meantime he is staying busy, despite the recession, building houses for clients as adventurous as himself. Michael Webb