Cobar is in the country of the Ngiyampaa Wangaaypuwan people. In their language, it means “red earth” or “burnt earth.”

Cobar also means architecture to me. In a remote, silent landscape, a small, unassuming chapel gathers art, music, poetry, nature, desire, function, and technique into perfect harmony. Within its walls, a continuous musical composition resonates, shafts of light mark the passing hours, and the rawness of the land embraces its form.

The Cobar Sound Chapel, a small, humble, and inexpensive project in the middle of the outback, was for me an astonishing discovery and revelation. Created by Glenn Murcutt, one of the greatest architects in history, it is a work of absolute clarity. It does not seek to shout its presence to the world through image or spectacle, nor to make a statement of the self, but only to offer homage, respect, and transcendence.

Together with composer Georges Lentz, the Noise String Quartet, and other multifaceted collaborators, they gave form to a perennial creation that materializes everything I have learned and now believe about architecture after decades of practice.

I have been fortunate to work on extraordinary projects across the globe—colossal investments, unparalleled complexities—alongside some of the most renowned architects of our time, such as Richard Rogers, Norman Foster, Thomas Heatherwick, and Bjarke Ingels. Yet no words have conveyed with greater clarity what architecture is to me than the Cobar Sound Chapel.

For me, COBAR carries this discovery as its essence. It is not merely a name, but a reminder of what architecture was truly meant to be, and where I believe it must eventually return: simplicity, presence, and meaning. Toward works that are not loud but lasting. Toward spaces that embody art, science, memory, the soul of their occupants, and life in harmony with the world that sustains them.