Course lead by Chris Tucker

Studio 5 asked us to confront architecture at one of life’s most profound thresholds: the moment of death. The brief was not simply to design a medical facility, but to consider how architecture might hold grief, memory, ritual and dignity. From my perspective, it asked how space can support meaningful existence in time — how light, material and atmosphere might shape a person’s final experiences, and equally, the memories carried forward by those who remain. It presented a rare opportunity to design something deeply human: a place where the basic acts of living — resting, bathing, breathing fresh air, feeling sunlight on skin — are elevated and held with gravity.

My response was to approach the hospice as a sacred space. I became interested in the idea that death intensifies life, and that architecture should reflect that intensity through atmosphere. Pacific Park’s exposed coastal landscape felt central to this thinking. Its openness to sky, wind, rain and ocean carries a kind of heavenly quality, and I saw an opportunity for the building to yield to those elements rather than resist them. Patient rooms are oriented east to capture morning light, ocean views and sea breeze, allowing constant connection to sky, plants and weather. I think these sensory experiences — salty air, moving grasses, warm light, water, shadow — are sacred rituals in themselves, reminding us of nature as a divine life force and grounding people in beauty during their final moments.

Light and darkness became my main architectural language. Open eastern edges bring generosity, warmth and exposure to nature, while thicker western walls create shadow, quietness and introspection through carefully placed apertures of light. This contrast produces moments of wonder even in circulation spaces, where hallways become places for contemplation, mourning and pause. Water is also used as a spiritual element — in bathing spaces, therapeutic pools and the meditation room — where reflected light and flowing water create stillness and reverence. These moments were inspired by Le Corbusier, Tadao Ando and Peter Zumthor, whose work demonstrates how sacredness can be shaped through light, mass and atmosphere rather than symbolism alone.

Materially, I wanted the building to hold memory. Bush-hammered concrete, blackbutt timber and unfinished copper are chosen because they weather, stain, patina and soften over time, visibly recording climate, country and human occupation. Moss, rain marks, oxidisation and tactile imperfections become part of the architecture’s life, allowing it to age beautifully and absorb traces of those who pass through it. In that sense, the hospice becomes more than shelter — it becomes a vessel for memory, sacredness and connection, shaped by nature and by the lives lived within it.