From the Commuter to the Creator: What a Curved Tile in Porto Teaches Us About Architectural Dedication

From the Commuter to the Creator: What a Curved Tile in Porto Teaches Us About Architectural Dedication by Isabella Souleimanov

Imagine a subway full of people rushing around. Ten people have stopped near a corner, all intently watching one man pointing at the curved tiles while his students touch the surface in complete awe. For most, this behaviour would seem strange, but for architects and designers, it is completely normal. 

This little thought crossed my mind while attending a special tour at São Bento station in Porto. We were there to meet Álvaro Siza the very next day and were  touring his works across town. My colleagues and I were examining a masterpiece with the awe of young designers encountering the great work of one of the world’s greatest architects. Yet, that observation persisted: no one else in that bustling station could possibly understand the situation; they simply saw ten people staring at a wall in shock. I kept analyzing the scene, but the full meaning eluded me until weeks later. If you look a little deeper, you understand that that curved tile means caring. It is the clearest material representation of the architect’s commitment to seeing the project through to the very last detail. What’s more, in those walls, Siza had found a way to preserve the rhythm of the tile pattern, even where the wall’s direction shifted. It was a subtle masterpiece of collaboration between him and the artisans who crafted each tile, one by one, with precise curvature. But we were the only ones who truly appreciated it. 

I believe that architecture has many levels of understanding, each one as important as the next. 

The first level is that of the user — the people rushing to catch a train or slowly pacing back home after a hard day. They are the true target of the design and the reason for most design choices. How do we make their commute better, even easier?  How do we make them feel comfortable? It’s often in simple questions that our job finds its meaning. To answer correctly is to work for those who truly matter:  humans and their needs. 

The second level belongs to people with the capacity to open their eyes and be aware of the space they inhabit, they register the colours, the textures, and the patterns that surround them. Some count the tiles and get annoyed when the pattern stops  suddenly. I believe that in a space like São Bento, these individuals can find a sense of quietude and comfort within the environment that welcomes them. 

The last level is for people like us: those who make space their entire world. We notice and criticize spaces because we are the ones facing the same spatial problems. We struggle to make a project work until exhaustion, and sometimes I worry that we  are so intensely involved that we forget to take a step back. 

The next day, when we visited Álvaro Siza’s studio, I wanted to absorb everything he said, but honestly, I hardly remember the lecture. We walked into his quiet  space and I looked around: there were some handmade tiles — which I assumed  he was testing — alongside archives of books, models, and sketches attached to the walls. And, on a small table, there he was. At 93 years old, he still cared enough to personally give us a lecture, making sure everything was meticulously in place and ready. I thought once more about that junction in São Bento... and everything  became absolutely clear. He cares about what he does, right up until the last tile. 

That’s dedication, the dedication I hope the world won’t forget. Even in an age where speed is paramount, as architects, we must remember that our work shapes lives. Sometimes that means slowing down, taking a moment, and trying again and  again for those who will inhabit our spaces. Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the curved tile, but it certainly is about the care.