Kabootar Khaneh Villa

the basic concept of the design was to create a space for co-existence between humans and birds. After visiting the project site, the architecture team noticed the widespread presence of birds there. they decided to design a house where people could live next to them. inspired by Iranian historical dovecotes, a part of interior space that acts as a patio due to the use of glass material and the transparency around it. The interior spaces is formed around the patio. the Kabootar Khaneh is also inspired from sections, voids and stairs of traditional architecture.

Perhaps what sets this building apart is its new look at biophilic architecture, Architects have always paid attention to the use of plants and light and water. But this house has become a place for more interaction; birds. This is a house for humans and birds. In this respect, inspired by Iranian historical dovecotes, a part of interior space was dedicated for this purpose.The interior spaces is formed around the patio where the birds live, by creating cross-sectional play and level differences in the spaces, as well as the special design of the stairs and the holes inside it.

This villa has been sold out. therefore, the future plan is out of designer's hand.

Many contemporary interpretations of Biophilic architecture still focus primarily on bringing natural elements into buildings—plants, daylight, water, natural materials, or visual access to landscapes. While these strategies are undoubtedly valuable, during the design of Kabootar Khaneh I found myself asking a different question: *Can architecture move beyond representing nature and instead become an active participant in an ecological relationship?*The idea did not begin in the studio. It began during our first visit to the site. Before making any sketches, we spent time simply observing the place. What struck us was not the landscape itself, but the life already inhabiting it. Birds were everywhere. They were not occasional visitors; they were existing residents. That observation fundamentally changed the direction of the project. Instead of asking how to place a house within nature, we began asking how a house could respectfully enter an environment that was already shared by multiple living species.That subtle shift transformed the entire design process.In many developments, architecture unintentionally removes existing habitats in order to establish a new human territory. We wanted to reverse that sequence. Rather than replacing the birds' environment with a human one, we searched for a spatial framework where both could coexist without either becoming decorative for the other. The birds were never intended to function as aesthetic objects or visual attractions. They were considered independent inhabitants with their own patterns of life, movement, security and freedom.This thinking naturally led us toward the historical Iranian dovecotes. What fascinated us about these remarkable structures was not their formal language, but the philosophy behind them. They represent one of the oldest examples of architecture designed around a mutually beneficial relationship between humans and another species. They demonstrate that architecture can become a mediator rather than an instrument of domination. We were inspired by this cultural intelligence rather than by the physical appearance of the buildings themselves.Consequently, Kabootar Khaneh is not a contemporary reconstruction of a traditional dovecote. Instead, it attempts to reinterpret its underlying principles within a modern residential environment.One of the most important design decisions was to place the bird sanctuary at the conceptual heart of the house rather than outside it. This transformed the project from a conventional villa into an environment organized around coexistence. The transparent patio became both a spatial and philosophical center. Every major interior space develops a different relationship with this living core. Sometimes the interaction is direct, sometimes it is peripheral, and sometimes it is only sensed through sound, movement or changing light. This variety was intentional because coexistence should never become visual overload. Distance is as important as proximity.This approach also influenced how we designed circulation, sections, windows and levels. Instead of treating these architectural components as isolated technical elements, they became instruments for choreographing relationships. The movement of people through the house constantly creates new perspectives toward the birds, while the birds continue their own independent routines without interruption. Architecture therefore becomes a silent interface between two different worlds instead of forcing one to dominate the other.Another aspect that gradually became important during the design process was the role of time. We were not interested in producing a single impressive architectural image. We wanted the building to reveal itself slowly through everyday life. Morning light, seasonal changes, the arrival and departure of birds, shadows moving across the interior, the changing sounds throughout the day—these small events continuously redefine the atmosphere of the house. In that sense, the architecture is intentionally incomplete without life unfolding inside it. This perspective reflects a broader belief that has become increasingly important in my own architectural thinking. I believe the future of architecture should not be measured only by energy performance, advanced technologies or formal innovation. These are important, but they are not sufficient. The next generation of architecture should also be evaluated by its capacity to rebuild meaningful relationships between humans and the larger ecosystems to which they belong. Kabootar Khaneh was one attempt to explore that possibility.For me, sustainability is not only about reducing environmental damage; it is equally about cultivating empathy. When architecture encourages people to become more aware of other living beings sharing the same environment, it quietly changes everyday behaviour. Respect for nature cannot simply be taught through information; it can also emerge through lived spatial experience.Looking back, I do not see Kabootar Khaneh primarily as a house with a place for birds. I see it as an experiment in expanding the definition of home itself. A home does not necessarily have to be an isolated human territory. It can become a carefully balanced environment where architecture creates conditions for different forms of life to exist together with dignity.Ultimately, I hope the project suggests a broader possibility for architecture. Perhaps the role of architects is not only to design spaces for people, but also to rethink humanity's relationship with the living world. If architecture can help restore that relationship, even in a modest residential project, then it has already achieved something far more lasting than creating an attractive building.

One of the most valuable lessons I have learned from studying traditional architecture is that heritage should not be copied; it should be understood. Traditional buildings are not important simply because of their forms, but because they embody generations of accumulated intelligence about climate, culture, human behavior and spatial experience. My interest in Iranian dovecotes was therefore never about recreating their physical appearance. What fascinated me was the way they organized relationships—between void and mass, humans and nature, movement and stillness.This way of thinking gradually shifted our design process away from treating architecture as a composition of façades and plans. Instead, we began designing the project through its sections.For me, the section is one of the most powerful yet underestimated tools in architecture. A plan tells us where spaces are located, but a section reveals how life unfolds through them. It describes relationships rather than boundaries. It connects vision, movement, gravity, light and atmosphere into a single spatial experience. In Kabootar Khaneh, almost every important architectural decision emerged through sectional thinking rather than formal composition.The historical dovecotes inspired this approach because they were never experienced as flat objects. Their spatial richness came from vertical relationships, internal cavities, layered volumes and constantly changing perceptions as one moved through them. We translated that principle into a contemporary residential environment instead of replicating its historical language.As the project evolved, we intentionally abandoned the idea of perfectly stacked floors connected only by a conventional staircase. Real life is not experienced in isolated horizontal layers. We move continuously between moments, views and levels. Therefore, the architecture should reflect that continuity rather than interrupt it.This led to a sequence of carefully calibrated level changes that create gradual transitions instead of abrupt separations. Each shift in height subtly transforms the relationship between the inhabitant, the central bird sanctuary, natural light and the surrounding landscape. Sometimes the birds are at eye level; sometimes they are viewed from above or below. Sometimes they are clearly visible, while at other moments they are only perceived through movement or sound. These constantly changing perspectives create an architecture that is discovered progressively rather than understood instantly.This idea also influenced the staircase, which eventually became much more than a circulation device. I often believe that stairs are among the most overlooked architectural spaces. They are frequently reduced to engineering requirements, yet they possess extraordinary potential to shape perception. In Kabootar Khaneh, the staircase became a spatial journey where every landing introduces a slightly different relationship with light, volume and the surrounding spaces. Instead of simply connecting floors, it connects experiences.Equally important was the role of visual continuity. We carefully positioned openings so that views rarely terminate at a wall. Instead, they extend through multiple spatial layers. A small opening may frame another window, which in turn frames a tree, the sky or the bird sanctuary beyond. This layering of perspectives encourages curiosity. Rather than revealing everything immediately, the house constantly invites exploration. I have always believed that architecture should reward movement. A building should not reveal its entire identity from a single viewpoint. As people walk, climb, pause or turn around, architecture should continue offering new discoveries. This creates an emotional engagement that remains alive long after the novelty of a new building has disappeared.There is also a psychological dimension to sectional design that interests me deeply. Contemporary life is often characterised by speed, predictability and visual overload. We immediately consume images without truly experiencing places. Architecture has the opportunity to resist this condition by slowing perception. Changes in level, carefully framed views and gradual spatial sequences encourage people to become more attentive to their surroundings. The building quietly asks its inhabitants not only to move through space, but to notice it.In Kabootar Khaneh, this slower rhythm becomes part of everyday life. Morning light enters differently from evening light because each opening responds to a particular sectional condition. Shadows move across walls and stairs in constantly changing patterns. Seasonal changes alter the appearance of the central courtyard, while the movements of birds introduce an additional layer of unpredictability. As a result, everyday routines never become entirely repetitive because the architecture itself continues to evolve through time.Looking back, I believe the sectional organization of Kabootar Khaneh ultimately became a way of designing experience rather than designing form. The level differences are not gestures intended to create visual complexity. They exist because each one contributes to a richer dialogue between the inhabitants, nature, light and movement. Perhaps this reflects a broader architectural belief that continues to guide my work today. Buildings should not simply accommodate activities; they should cultivate awareness. They should encourage people to observe more carefully, move more consciously and reconnect with qualities of everyday life that often go unnoticed.If Kabootar Khaneh succeeds in creating memorable experiences, I do not think it is because of its geometry alone. It is because the geometry was always developed in service of human perception. Ultimately, architecture becomes meaningful not when people admire its form, but when the spaces quietly transform the way they experience ordinary moments. For me, that is the enduring value of designing through sections rather than merely designing objects.And perhaps we can even mention the concept of parallax in this sensory and psychological effect of the section game.

One of the recurring questions in architecture is whether a building should honestly express every technical requirement or whether technology can quietly disappear into the architecture itself. In Kabootar Khaneh, we deliberately chose the second approach. We wanted the technical performance of the building to remain highly effective without becoming visually dominant.The project is located in northern Iran, a region characterized by abundant rainfall, high humidity and climatic conditions that have shaped its vernacular architecture for centuries. Traditionally, steep pitched roofs are an essential response to this environment, and for very good reasons. They efficiently shed rainwater, protect building envelopes and contribute to long-term durability.At the same time, however, the conceptual language of Kabootar Khaneh was based on the idea of a calm, minimal and almost archetypal cubic volume. This purity was not pursued as a stylistic preference alone. We believed that reducing the visual complexity of the exterior would allow greater attention to be directed toward the spatial experiences unfolding inside the building and toward its dialogue with nature. The challenge, therefore, was not choosing between a pitched roof and a cubic form—it was finding a way for both to coexist. Rather than treating climate and architectural expression as competing priorities, we asked whether they could reinforce one another.This question led us to develop a concealed sloping roof system positioned behind the perimeter walls of the cube. From the outside, the building maintains a quiet and restrained silhouette. Yet behind that apparent simplicity lies a carefully engineered roof geometry that efficiently manages heavy rainfall while preserving the architectural concept.Although the solution appears visually effortless, it required considerable coordination throughout the design process. Every change in roof geometry affected structural relationships, waterproofing details, drainage routes and construction sequencing. The greatest challenge was ensuring that none of these technical necessities compromised the clarity of the overall architectural idea.For me, this reflects an important principle in design. Simplicity is rarely achieved by removing complexity; it is achieved by absorbing complexity.The cleaner an architectural form appears, the more carefully its hidden systems usually have to be resolved. In that sense, minimalism should never be confused with reduction alone. Genuine simplicity often demands a higher level of technical discipline because every detail becomes more visible and every imperfection more apparent.Rainwater management became another opportunity for integration rather than concealment. Instead of allowing water simply to leave the building, we considered it as part of a broader environmental cycle. The concealed drainage system collects rainwater and directs it toward landscape irrigation, allowing one of the site's most abundant natural resources to continue contributing to the life of the project after every rainfall. This strategy may appear modest, but I believe sustainability is often most meaningful when it becomes an ordinary part of everyday building performance rather than an isolated technological statement.The hidden roof also allowed us to create an accessible green rooftop that offers an entirely different spatial experience from the exterior image of the house. This contrast interested me greatly. From outside, the building presents a restrained and almost silent presence within its surroundings. Once inside, however, the architecture gradually unfolds into a sequence of unexpected spaces, culminating in a roof landscape that reconnects the inhabitants with the surrounding trees and sky.I have always been interested in architecture that reveals itself progressively rather than immediately. Contemporary visual culture often encourages buildings to communicate everything through a single photograph. Yet architecture is not experienced in one image. It is experienced through movement, discovery and time. In Kabootar Khaneh, concealing the roof became another way of rewarding exploration instead of instant consumption.This project also reinforced an important lesson for our practice. Innovation does not necessarily mean inventing completely new technologies. Sometimes innovation lies in reorganizing familiar knowledge in response to a specific context. The pitched roof itself is not new. The cube is not new. Rainwater harvesting is not new. What interested us was how these familiar architectural ideas could be combined into a coherent system that simultaneously addressed climate, sustainability, spatial quality and architectural identity.Looking back, I believe the hidden roof represents something larger than a technical solution. It embodies a design philosophy that continues to guide our work today: architecture should never force people to choose between beauty and performance. When a project is developed through an integrated design process, technical intelligence and architectural expression stop competing with one another. They become different manifestations of the same idea.Ultimately, I hope Kabootar Khaneh demonstrates that some of the most meaningful aspects of architecture are the ones people never immediately notice. A visitor may remember the purity of the white volume, but that visual calm is only possible because an invisible layer of technical thinking is working continuously in the background. To me, this is one of architecture's greatest achievements—not when technology asks to be admired, but when it quietly enables a richer and more enduring human experience.