I was studying architecture, but every day I became more obsessed with philosophy. I constantly read Wittgenstein. This obsession with him began when I saw the house he designed in Vienna for his sister. I constantly wondered if he could do architecture because I couldn’t understand philosophy. Blue notebook, brown notebook, the Tractatus. I read his works and I was fascinated by his personality. Who he was and what he was like. I began to understand his theories about logic, about linguistics. But what really captivated me was understanding that the limits of language were the limits of the world. That was what led me to delve into philosophy and thought.
Of course, I continued to work on architecture—student residences, interventions in city walls, even a residential tower. But if my architecture became increasingly obsessed with the idea that screens would destroy the concept of architecture, I became more immersed in the study of philosophy. My fascination with Wittgenstein not only led me to create a reflection on contemporary housing and living in my studio for a workshop, resulting in a curious and strange design of a cone standing on its head in the middle of the Left Forest. The cone in the Kobernauss forest. Little by little, I understood that the problem of living was not an architectural problem but more of an existential philosophical problem. The limits of the world in language migrated my idea of how we inhabit the world. We inhabit language, and to be in language is to be in the world. Understanding this would lead me on a new philosophical adventure through various thinkers: Spinoza and ethics, Leibniz and infinity, Saint Augustine and his confessions. Greek, Latin. Frankfurt School. Husserl and the English School. Hegel, Kant, and the German tradition. The more I read, the more I distanced myself from others. Understanding made me lonely, and I began to remember the happiness of the idiot. Understanding the question I once asked myself didn’t lead me to live in peace and harmony with my surroundings but instead turned me into a bitter solipsist. Nothing made sense anymore.
I inhabited a language and felt like Hugo von Hofmannsthal in his letter to Lord Chandos. If nothing remained to be said with words, what was the creative possibility of inhabiting the world?
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