​​​"...These photographs took fifteen years. I was born in Cuiabá, Brazil, where heat is a constant—thirty degrees on average, forty at the height of summer. In January 2011, I arrived in Switzerland to stay. Already upon arrival, a vision took hold of me: a building designed by Angie and me, white and still, fully covered in snow.

I began as a trainee at SAM Architekten, facing a steep learning curve alongside professionals I admired deeply. Later, Angie and I worked side by side in Lucerne. Desks became places of trust. Colleagues became friends—the kind that last a lifetime.
 

In 2015, we set out on a world journey from Europe to Australia that opened our hearts to the differences of our planet. That same year, my parents passed away in Brazil. We were in Sydney then—four months of architectural exchange, distance, and discovery about Australian culture and architecture. After returning to Switzerland, I spent the following years at Walker Architekten, working on large multifamily projects, designing buildings from scratch, and creating spaces for families in places like Würenlos, Hausen, and Wohlenschwil. An opportunity that shaped me as a professional and one I will always carry with gratitude.

In 2021, our daughter was born—the best day of my life. Angie and I founded estudio kmmk in Zurich. In 2023, the Winkelhaus began to rise. That same year, our son was born. How can the best day of your life happen twice—and still feel entirely new?

In 2025, the Winkelhaus was completed together with Atelier Rosinus and several outstanding professionals and companies. The family we designed it for—patient, generous, and deeply connected to the process—moved in that autumn. A house became a home.

On 9 January 2026, snow fell in Winkel. A long-planned meeting finally took place. I hadn’t brought my camera. I hadn’t anticipated what the day would offer. With only my phone in hand, I stepped into the falling snow. Angie was at home, working, the children nearby. I was alone on a white surface. I felt my parents’ presence so strongly. My heartbeat quickened. I looked around, almost expecting to see them there—yet only my own footprints marked the snow. They are no longer here, but they live within me, as they have since the day they left.

I took the photographs. Silence. A building held by a white landscape. Winter light. Peace. The long fifteen-year journey is over. What a ride it has been..."