Interviewe mat Nicholas Alencar

The realization that the building should emerge from the topography came when we understood that the site already possessed an intelligence of its own.There is a tendency in architecture to assume that a project begins when the architect arrives. I believe the opposite. A project begins long before us. It is already present in the geography, the vegetation, the water, the winds, and the history of a place.At Mátria Flower Park, the landscape was so extraordinary that any attempt at architectural protagonism felt misguided. The question was no longer how to design a restaurant, but how to allow people to experience that landscape more intensely.That is why the building does not simply sit on the land. It appears to emerge from it.Not as a formal gesture, but as a philosophical position. Architecture did not need to compete with nature. It needed to help reveal it.Perhaps one of the greatest responsibilities of contemporary architecture is precisely this: to create presence without creating domination.

São Francisco de Paula has a climate that demands respect. Harsh winters, significant temperature variations, constant winds, and a very close relationship with nature.Rather than fighting these conditions, we sought to learn from them.The building’s placement, solar orientation, the thermal mass of the concrete, the overhangs, natural ventilation, and integration with the topography were all designed to reduce dependence on artificial systems.But the most important lesson was not technical.It was understanding that sustainability is not a collection of technologies. It is a form of intelligence.When a building works with the climate rather than against it, it consumes fewer resources, provides greater comfort, and creates a more meaningful connection to place.Perhaps the most sustainable architecture is the one that makes what required immense effort to conceive appear completely natural.

A project does not transform only a site. It transforms people.The construction process at Mátria taught us that architecture, economics, and community are not separate subjects. They are parts of the same system.By engaging local labor, technical training programs, and regional suppliers, we realized that the project's impact extended far beyond the physical boundaries of the building.The restaurant was built by people who began to see new professional possibilities for their own lives. That profoundly changed the way we think about architecture.Architecture should not be measured only by what it builds. It should also be measured by the knowledge it leaves behind, the opportunities it creates, and the human networks it strengthens.Perhaps the most important outcome of a project is not the completed building itself. Perhaps it is the invisible transformation that remains after it.

The greatest risk when confronted with an extraordinary landscape is believing that it requires an extraordinary building.At Mátria, we chose a different path.We tried to create a quiet building.Its scale was carefully controlled. The materials were selected to resonate with the tones of the landscape. The siting minimized earthworks. The architecture was conceived as a continuation of the park itself.There is a phrase I particularly like: when everything shouts, nothing is heard.In a place like Mátria, nature was already the protagonist. Our role was to create a frame capable of enriching that experience.We knew we had found the right balance when many visitors remembered the landscape first and only later the architecture.For us, that is not a failure.It is exactly the goal.

Witnessing the transformation of people was perhaps one of the most meaningful experiences of my professional career.We often speak about the impact of buildings. Rarely do we speak about the impact of processes.Throughout construction, we watched workers learn new techniques, take on new responsibilities, and develop a genuine sense of pride in what they were creating.Gradually, the project ceased to belong solely to the client, the architect, or the technical team.It became something that belonged to the community.And when that happens, architecture acquires a much greater dimension.It stops being merely a commission and becomes a source of collective identity and emotional connection.Mátria taught me that the best projects are not the ones people simply visit.They are the ones people feel they are part of.

The large openings were not born from a search for transparency. They were born from a search for framing.The landscape at Mátria is vast. Precisely because of that, it needed to be edited.We spent a great deal of time studying circulation paths, views, eye levels, solar exposure, and the relationship between the building and the water, gardens, and hills.Each opening functions almost like a lens.Architecture selects, organizes, and intensifies the experience of the landscape.There is something cinematic about this process.We do not reveal everything at once. We create sequences, discoveries, and layers of perception.Architecture is not only about creating spaces.It is also about creating ways of seeing.

Receiving an international award is a great honor. But I believe the most important aspect is not the recognition itself.What truly matters is seeing themes such as integration with nature, environmental performance, and social impact becoming central to the global architectural conversation.Mátria reinforced a conviction we already held: buildings must generate benefits that extend beyond their own boundaries.In the coming years, we hope to deepen our work on environmental regeneration, green infrastructure, community building, and the creation of spaces capable of improving collective life.The architecture of the future will be less about objects and more about ecosystems. Less about isolated buildings and more about relationships.

There is an aspect of Mátria that perhaps still receives less attention than it deserves.People often see the finished building, but rarely the network of human relationships that made it possible.The project endured a pandemic, economic uncertainty, logistical challenges, and an extremely complex construction process. Yet it moved forward—not because it was a building, but because there was a shared sense of purpose behind it.If there is one thing I would like architects, clients, and communities to understand, it is that architecture is a collective endeavor.No meaningful work is the result of a single author.It emerges from the collaboration of hundreds of people who believe in a shared vision of the future.

Restraint was a conscious decision.We live in an era in which many buildings seek attention at any cost. Mátria attempted the opposite.When a building occupies only a small portion of such a vast territory, it must embrace a certain humility.But humility does not mean a lack of intention.It means knowing where to concentrate energy.Rather than expanding its physical presence, the restaurant seeks to intensify the experience itself.It occupies little space, yet it organizes views, paths, encounters, and relationships with the landscape.The strength of architecture is not always found in what it adds.Very often, it lies in what it chooses to preserve.

The main lesson I learned during the development of Mátria is that relinquishing control can sometimes lead to better outcomes.Architects are trained to design, organize, and define.Yet some of the most valuable moments of the project emerged when we chose to listen.To listen to the land.To listen to the climate.To listen to the community.To listen to natural processes.No book can teach this completely, because it is not merely a matter of technical knowledge.It is about developing humility in the face of the world's complexity.Perhaps the highest level of maturity an architect can achieve is understanding that we are not designing upon nature, the city, or people.We are designing with them.And that changes everything.

The design decision I am most proud of is probably the one that is hardest to capture in photographs. It is not found in the building’s form but in what it gives back to the city.For decades, Brazilian vertical housing has been shaped by a logic of separation. Walls, fences, setbacks, and barriers have created buildings that engage very little with public space. With Kaiserstraße, we sought to move in the opposite direction. We opened the ground floor. We allowed the landscape to flow through the site. We created a building that begins not at the apartment door, but at the sidewalk.Architecture should not exist solely for those who live within it. It should also generate value for those who pass by.If there is something the jury may not be able to fully appreciate through drawings and photographs alone, it is precisely this urban dimension. The building was not conceived as an object. It was conceived as part of a larger system called the city.

Urban densification is inevitable. The question is not whether we will build denser cities. The question is what kind of city we choose to build.For a long time, vertical living has been associated with a loss of quality of life: less nature, less space, and less connection to the outdoors. Kaiserstraße emerged from an attempt to challenge that assumption.I believe that living at height should not require giving up the qualities we traditionally associate with a house: natural light, cross ventilation, vegetation, privacy, and a connection to the sky.Perhaps the role of the contemporary architect is precisely this: to ensure that increasing density does not come at the expense of quality of life.The cities of the future will need to accommodate more people. But they will also need to become more humane.

The trees at Kaiserstraße are not decoration. They are infrastructure.There is a tendency to view vegetation as a complementary element of architecture. I believe exactly the opposite. In many cases, it is just as important as the structure itself.To make this vision possible, we developed structural studies, adequate soil volumes, drainage and irrigation systems, and carefully selected plant species. Yet the most interesting aspect is not the engineering required to plant the trees. It is the acceptance that they will continue shaping the building long after construction is complete.Concrete ages. Trees grow.Over the coming decades, the façade will be transformed by life itself. Perhaps that is one of the project’s greatest lessons: understanding that architecture is not static. It is a living organism that evolves alongside time.

I hope international audiences recognize something that I consider deeply Brazilian: our ability to build in dialogue with nature.Kaiserstraße is located in Blumenau, a city shaped by its landscape, its mountains, rivers, and the historic settlements that helped form its urban identity.We did not attempt to reproduce that tradition literally. Instead, we sought to reinterpret it. The presence of gardens, terraces, vegetation, and the relationship between built and open space are contemporary ways of continuing a conversation that began long before us.Architecture only becomes truly universal when it remains deeply rooted in its local context.

I believe every good project begins with a constraint.When we studied the mandatory setbacks, we realized they did not have to be seen as a loss of buildable area. They could become an opportunity to create something that would be unlikely to emerge on a site without limitations.The stepped terraces, the integration of vegetation, and even the building’s overall massing grew out of that interpretation.Constraints have an interesting quality: they force architects to abandon ready-made solutions.Very often, the problem itself contains the seed of the solution.Perhaps design is ultimately about learning to recognize opportunities where we initially see only obstacles.

Intuition remains fundamental to architecture. But it becomes more powerful when it can engage with evidence.Parametric tools allowed us to better understand the behavior of sunlight, wind patterns, and the microclimate surrounding the building. This directly influenced the depth of the terraces, the positioning of openings, the integration of vegetation, and the geometry of the façade.The data did not design the building.But it helped validate decisions aimed at improving environmental comfort and reducing dependence on artificial systems.To me, technology does not replace sensitivity. It expands our ability to make more responsible decisions.

Cities need encounters. Homes need refuge. Kaiserstraße seeks to balance these two seemingly contradictory needs.At ground level, the building opens itself to the city. It invites participation and becomes part of urban life. As one moves upward, the spaces become more intimate, quieter, and more protected.This transition is not only spatial; it is also social. I believe good architecture should be capable of creating different degrees of belonging. Some spaces are collective, while others are individual. What matters is the harmonious relationship between them.The city does not end when we step inside our homes. And our homes should not deny the existence of the city.

Every project is a negotiation between intention and reality.When we began Kaiserstraße, we had certain expectations. Over the years, new lessons emerged, new technologies became available, and our awareness of environmental issues deepened.The final building became more mature than the original idea.Less concerned with asserting a formal language and more interested in delivering performance, comfort, and urban quality.I believe this evolution is healthy.Projects that unfold over many years must remain open to learning. After all, the world changes—and architecture should be capable of changing with it.

There is something profoundly special about living alongside something alive.The façade of Kaiserstraße changes in color, density, and texture throughout the seasons. It responds to climate, to the growth of the trees, and to the passage of time.I hope residents develop a relationship with it similar to the one we have with a garden.Not a relationship of ownership, but of care.The vegetation provides shade, thermal comfort, and privacy. But it also creates something more difficult to measure: emotional well-being.Perhaps this is one of architecture’s essential roles: to reconnect people with natural processes that contemporary cities often encourage us to forget.

The main lesson of Kaiserstraße is that innovation does not necessarily depend on extraordinary forms.There is a tendency to associate innovation with the creation of striking images. I believe it can emerge from something much simpler: improving the relationship between buildings, cities, nature, and people.Many of the strategies employed in the project are highly replicable: more permeable ground floors, habitable terraces, green infrastructure integrated into architecture, improved environmental performance, and more generous relationships with public space.The future of cities will not be built by a handful of iconic buildings.It will be built through thousands of seemingly small decisions that, together, make urban life better.Architecture is not merely the construction of buildings.