Gorizia is a city carved by history, where every façade carries memory and every street resists change. Working within such density of tradition meant learning to listen before drawing—to understand how transformation could occur without erasure. This project was born in that spirit: conceived and built in very early years, through the fragile courage of self-construction, with more determination than means.

Everything unnecessary was stripped away. What remained were the shapes and gestures that guide the gaze, allowing the visitor to recognize what truly matters. The space awakens the perspective of those who inhabit it—women and men whose daily lives breathe new cycles into a place long defined by its past.

The design molds voids rather than volumes. It creates a multifunctional environment where art, food, and human presence converge. Materials are raw, affordable, and honest—concrete, wood, lime—each one chosen not for prestige but for its capacity to tell the truth of making.

The place unfolds through three rooms, each defined by its own ceiling, light, and rhythm.

The central hall is the heart: an open space where people meet around a long concrete bench that seems to divide, yet quietly connects. Its austerity frames the beauty of the old brick arch, now revealed as a threshold.

Beyond it, the second room grows more intimate. A series of wooden slats trace the curve of the arch, shaping a continuous, enveloping canopy that gathers warmth and sound. A discreet panel conceals a passage leading to the services—a quiet choreography of movement and pause.

Finally, the third room, entirely white, is dedicated to groups and shared experiences. Here the wooden strips return as a luminous vault, channeling light like a soft current.

Every piece of furniture was designed to belong, to merge with the architecture rather than decorate it. The palette—black, white, raw material—becomes a frame where the colors of food and art can emerge freely. Nothing is fixed; temporary elements move, reconfigure, reinvent.

What began as a youthful experiment has become a small manifesto: that architecture can be both humble and transformative; that building with one’s own hands teaches precision and empathy; and that even in a city bound by its past, new life can grow—quietly, truthfully, from within.