A couple and their child choose a sloping plot of land on which to build their house and raise their family. There is an initial desire to be buried underground expressing the attraction of living in the secret of a subterranean base. The other desire displays a suspension of the flesh in the sky. Architecture takes these libidinal collisions as its object.
Underground, compressed spaces have found their place by occupying the smallest meanders of void and geological weakness. Stairways will negotiate the slightest topographical ups and downs to link everything together, while the organs slipping between the masses cling on to these distributive innards. This organic whole is thoroughly watertight, sufficient unto itself, but ready to support other things.
The second organic set is placed on the submerged part and against the white saliences above ground. Its composition is subordinate: the international dimension of the shipping container recycled as a dwelling unit follows a logic of stacking determined by its particular structure. Self-supporting, the containers are set on the subterranean base; indestructible, they are broken up to obtain large openings, and the presence of matter fades. If using containers expresses an ecological wish, this recycling becomes a poetic recycling: the use of the container goes beyond its physical and functional properties to give a particular perceptive consistency.
The Pegasus House functions like an interface between earth and sky with its two organic ensembles. By accident, a new unpredictable thing happens between the two systems: a diagonal. A loop of circulation is imposed, and organizes the house’s different rooms. Stairway for one, corridor for the other, sometimes becoming a room crossed. A heterogeneous atmospheric field made up of flows of light and sound, expanses and masses, recurs in a rhythmic way which is different at each moment.
