Siza and the Echoes of Time - Reflections from the visit to his studio in Porto

By Gabriel Barba

I didn’t really know what I expected when going to meet Siza. We always assume we are going to find answers, or at least some kind of architectural clarity. I thought that someone who had lived through so many eras would have the tools to clarify any project, teach us to think with more precision, and give us a masterclass. But when the moment came, I understood that such an expectation had been naive from the start. 

Siza takes out a cigarette with the calm that only those who no longer compete with anything or anyone seem to have. The calm of someone who knows time no longer demands that he prove anything. He began speaking about architecture, of course. But very quickly, I realized I hadn’t gone there for theories: I had gone to meet a man. To understand - if only for an instant - what someone who has spent an entire lifetime creating might have left to say. 

Bouça, Piscina de Marés, and the Question of Home 

The trip to Porto began the day before. We departed from Bologna, with the sloped streets and that heavy summer heat reminding us that the season wasn’t ready to leave. We had one purpose: reaching his studio. First, we visited some of his works. The day before, we went to Bouça - almost 50 years old now - and yet still offering a silent lesson on housing. A  place that receives, shelters, and gathers. And above all, a lived-in place, with residents who probably don’t know - and don’t need to know - what that project means in architectural history. They remain there, calm, unmoved; they live there because it’s their home, not because Siza designed it. The fact that the project still works after decades might be the most honest proof of success: generations raised within those walls,  turning the neighborhood into their own refuge. 

The next day, before meeting Siza, we visited the Piscina de Mrés. More than 60 years have passed since he designed it, before even turning 30. The genius was already there - unpolished but inevitable. We walked through the closed site, stopping with that obsessive instinct architects have: the materials, the angles, the traces. Weathered stones, the pool’s edge, and small signs of life: forgotten sandals, a towel, a shampoo bottle. That mix of nostalgia and vitality. A place eroded by time, yet alive. And then hearing him say he no longer likes that project. Not because he wanted to sound humble, but because it was pure honesty: he had grown tired of one of his most photographed works, or maybe, with age, one becomes more critical, more restless. That comment felt more human than any beautiful sentence about architecture. 

Later, we visited his parents’ house, also designed when he was very young. It reminded me that, sometimes, an architect’s first clients are the closest ones - the ones who trust without hesitation. That house is full of detail: windows, doors, textures, proportions. And there, a question that has obsessed me for years resurfaced: how do you design a home? Not a house - a home. A place one returns to, where one feels they belong. Lately, I have come to think that a home is built through memories and objects. But that house forced me to admit something uncomfortable: perhaps we can influence that feeling, but not as much as we believe. Not because we don’t want to, but because not all architects can. There is a limit. A limit that can be humiliating for the ego, but it’s real. Maybe only geniuses can approach that edge without falling. 

Waiting, Meeting Him, and the Weight of Presence 

With all of that in mind, we had two hours left before heading to the studio. We sat on a terrace by the river. Between anxiety and excitement, I had some beers. It was time. On the doorbell: “Álvaro Siza Arquitecto” and “Souto Moura Arquitecto.” How many places in the world have two Pritzker winners working inside what looks like an ordinary house? No corporate office - just a home. 

Inside, we waited because he was still getting ready. His team adjusted the camera, the audio, everything. They told us he liked to check those technical details himself. How many interviews has Siza given? How many lectures? And still, he prepares, as if it mattered. Does he not know that we just wanted to see him? Or - knowing that - does he want to offer his best self anyway? 

When he finally spoke, nothing he said couldn’t be found in an old book, in one of the hundreds written about his work. And yet there was something magnetic in watching him: someone who had lived through all eras, all loyalties, all the betrayals of time. He was no longer speaking from enthusiasm; he was speaking from survival. From the experience of someone who created for decades, knowing time distorts everything. 

Throughout the entire talk, he smoked one cigarette after another. I was sitting beside him, wondering what smoking meant to him. It seemed that with each exhale, he was reviewing his own life - a long, full life - searching for answers or inventing them. Or maybe nothing at all: just smoke, just the present moment. 

Then came the signing: books, notebooks, sketches. Photos. And there I understood something else. Everyone takes care of him. But not like a boss or a star. They care for him like an immense grandfather: the one who hugs you, listens, the one who has lived too much and knows more than he says. Those people who are larger than life. 

Bouça housing. Resident from the early years

It took me weeks to process that visit, and honestly, I’m still not done. In the end, what stayed with me wasn’t the architecture - it was him. The way he held silence, the softness in his eyes, that deep, patient voice of someone who lived through times that simply don’t exist anymore. The kind of era Camus talks about in Create Dangerously, when creating meant exposing yourself to criticism, judgment, failure, and still choosing to create anyway. Siza kept going in that world, and he keeps going now: staying authentic, taking risks, being loyal to his own genius. And as Camus says, that kind of faith is the purest faith there is. 

Siza crushed his last cigarette and barely gave us a small gesture. Nothing solemn. Nothing special. And yet, in that moment, I understood something I still struggle to name: that sometimes meeting a human being weighs more than meeting their work. 

And accepting that was far harder to process than any architectural theory.