yinjispace

ARCHITECTURE
Aires Mateus Architecture
INTERIOR
Aires Mateus Architecture
PHOTOGRAPHY
BIJISPACE边界人
WORDS
Fynn
EDITOR
Jinjie
Collection

Between 2003 and 2006, architect Manuel Aires Mateus undertook the transformation of this old house. It was not a restoration in the conventional sense, but a rebirth of space. As our fingertips brushed the marble arch carved with centuries of wear, we entered a quiet refuge at the foot of the old city—Manuel's home, nestled on the ground floor of this ancient structure. “ The house designs itself. ”For Manuel, this is not metaphor but principle. When he first encountered the dwelling, its weathered structure no longer aligned with any existing drawings. The design therefore began with excavation—uncovering buried stone, clarifying the fragmented original structure, and awakening spatial memories sealed by time.

As we moved through the entrance corridor, the density of history slowly unfolded, like walking through a passage connecting past and present. The rough stone beneath our feet bore traces of the last century; the thick load-bearing walls, arches, and vaulted ceilings had all been carefully restored. The walls, meanwhile, carried the studio's signature: clean openings and expanses of white. Rooms once isolated by heavy doors have been transformed into open, flowing spaces, allowing daily life to unfold with greater lightness.

Light is Manuel's most intuitive collaborator. Sunlight pours in from the garden-facing windows, with shadows of plants lightly brushing the white walls and furniture, giving rhythm to the interplay of rough stone and smooth surfaces. When a doorway opens, the vault's shifting shadows move with each step, and the alternation of light and shade marks the cadence of the day. This space is neither a “living room” nor a “hallway”—it is more like a corridor of time, where people, daily rituals, light, and air flow together effortlessly.

The dining area is subtly elevated, its floor paved with limestone unearthed from the garden. A French fountain that once sat off-axis was dismantled and repositioned to align with the entrance view. These gestures are not aesthetic theatrics, but acts of reorientation—bringing space, material, history, and daily life back into alignment. To meet contemporary needs for privacy, a “white box” was added in the rear courtyard. This restrained, modern volume houses the bedrooms and private spaces; large glass openings draw the city and river into the interior, allowing daily life to converse quietly with the landscape.

The dining area is subtly elevated, its floor paved with limestone unearthed from the garden. A French fountain that once sat off-axis was dismantled and repositioned to align with the entrance view. These gestures are not aesthetic theatrics, but acts of reorientation—bringing space, material, history, and daily life back into alignment. To meet contemporary needs for privacy, a “white box” was added in the rear courtyard. This restrained, modern volume houses the bedrooms and private spaces; large glass openings draw the city and river into the interior, allowing daily life to converse quietly with the landscape.

The basement holds the home's most poetic accident. During construction, a stone fell and broke through the floor, revealing a long-sealed staircase and an ancient cistern. Manuel chose not to erase this event but to give it new purpose. Today, the space has become a “second living room,” illuminated by a skylight and finished with tile; soft seating dissolves the heaviness of being underground, creating a quiet gathering place. This downward extension opens yet another dimension of possibility for the house.

Standing in the center of the garden, we recalled Manuel's words: the “endurance” of architecture is never stillness, but the capacity to absorb time and accommodate the changes of life. From the time his children were three to their adulthood, the house has grown with the family, becoming a quiet chronicle of their everyday history. Between ancient stone slabs and new white walls, between the white box and the old arches, there is no visual competition—only calm dialogue. You can feel the warmth of Roman ruins under your hand, and the same warmth of sunlight settling on a contemporary sofa.

By the time we left, night had fallen. Light spilled gently from the arches of the old house, merging with the scattered glow of Alfama in the distance. Manuel's work is neither a revival of history nor a proclamation of modernity. Instead, he allows architecture to become a vessel for time: where old textures continue to breathe and new life quietly takes root. The air of two eras mingles within the space, settling into a tender, understated continuity. Perhaps this is what makes good architecture so moving: it does not speak of itself—it simply makes room for life and for time.

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