In Taiping, a storied Taichung family has taken root for generations. Carrying forward land inherited from her ancestors, the owner honors both a family ethos of thrift and simplicity and a quiet promise made to her mother — transforming the land into a place for the community to share and gather. The project takes its name, Fengming, from the courtesy name of her great-grandfather, Lin jui-Peng, as a tribute to his memory.
Walls should be vertical. Floors should be level. Yet what seems self-evident is not always so: two vertical lines will ultimately converge at the earth’s core, while what we call level is never a true straight line, but a curve tracing the earth’s own curvature. Through this building, I wanted to raise a quiet question about the things we take for granted.
Conceptually, it reconsiders what vertical and horizontal truly mean; tectonically, it returns to the most elemental geometry. The triangle — simple yet inherently stable, with absolute planarity — becomes the fundamental unit from which complex forms can ultimately be resolved. The building within the park grows from this logic, its form unfolding like a tent thrown open to people, light and unguarded.
Architecture is more than shelter. It can also be a reminder — that what we assume to be fixed is worth questioning again. Perhaps people are the same: paths that appear to run parallel may, through some unseen connection, eventually meet somewhere along the way.