The moment the black pen touches the paper everything is decided.

The fate of a building is to be born. The drawing and the draft are the only single way for spatial conception. Only mature ideas have the right to reach the paper. There is no need for crumpled up drafts ending up in wastepaper baskets, too many forests are destroyed for nothing.

The birth of the first sketch is intimate, like the first sexual act. Therefore, the environment of a creative act must be secluded and inspiring.

I ignore every rule. My cross-section overlaps with my perspective; the site plan is waging war on the paper with the corner of a key blown-up detail. I want them to mix, struggle, and fight to justify their existence.

The power of the initial sketches boils down to the later phases. The cobweb of the idea reappears in half-finished drawings, sketchily printed computer perspectives and in the middle of drawings in the form of people, furniture, lamps or railings drawn with one line.

I like the first sketch, the first musical score, recordings of the first rehearsal, uncut diamonds. Paintings executed in anger, the sculpture-sketch of a torso waiting for its fate. There is no room for torsos in architecture; only completed works are valuable.

I have been collecting hand-drawn calligraphic first sketches for some time. Everything I ever made began with a concept sketch no bigger than the palm of my hand. If I lost my right hand, I would try to draw with my left. If I lost both…?