The Living Habitat: From Static Construction to Organic Evolution
When viewed from a distance, the structure appears as a silent, monolithic outcropping of packed earth, a geological presence that seems to have weathered centuries of environmental erosion. Closer inspection, however, reveals a frantic and microscopic vitality: tiny green shoots pierce through the brown, desiccated crust, and an invisible network of roots begins to weave a living fabric within the soil’s stratified layers. This moment of observation—moving from the perceived stillness of the mass to the active vibration of the sprout—reveals a state of structural germination, where the boundary between the architectural and the botanical is no longer a line, but a porous zone of exchange. I advocate for a design philosophy that rejects the clinical isolation of the 20th-century "white cube" in favour of a site-specific, biological urgency. I frame this transition as a "Metabolic Turn," in which the interior is no longer a container for life but a life-form in its own right. I argue that the future of the habitat lies in blending technology and biology so seamlessly that the material itself takes an attitude—an ethical stance against the static permanence of traditional construction.
The project To Grow a Building (Soil & Seed 3D Printing) represents a radical departure from the "dead matter" that defined modern construction. The material—a mixture of local soil, organic compost, and dormant seeds—is extruded via a 3D printer, creating a form that is simultaneously a sculptural object and a functioning ecosystem. As the structure is printed, the soil erupts into life; the seeds germinate within the damp interior of the wall, their roots seeking out the structural voids to create a natural, subterranean reinforcement. The wall does not merely stand in space; it occupies it through a slow, rhythmic expansion of biomass that alters the room's air quality and thermal mass. For the viewer, the experience is one of multisensory confrontation: the scent of damp earth and the cooling sensation of transpiration replace the sterile, chemical odour of industrial drywall. The body is forced to retreat from the "friable" reality of the soil while being pulled in by the visual curiosity of its growth.
I cite it to develop the context of the "Metabolic Interior," positioning architecture not as a finished product but as a continuous state of becoming. The material method forces a change in the body’s relationship to the enclosure, as the inhabitant is no longer a passive consumer of space but a gardener of their own shelter. The paragraph returns to its core tension: the soil is both the hand of the machine and the breath of the seed, proving that the wall is not a barrier but a lung.
To Grow a Building by Elisheva Gillis, Gitit Linker, Danny Freedman, Noa Zermati, Adi Segal, Rebeca Partook, Or Naim, and Nof Nathansohn
If the soil wall provides the skeletal foundation of this new habitat, the Lapso – Celium (Bacterial Cellulose) provides its living skin. This material is produced through a controlled fermentation process, in which bacteria spin cellulose nanofibers into a translucent, leather-like membrane. The material permeates the space with a soft, diffused light, its surface patterned with the unique, fingerprint-like grain of its biological growth, which remains visible even after the material has been harvested. In the form of acoustic panels or translucent lighting fixtures, the cellulose engulfs the surrounding atmosphere, dampening sound through its fibrous density while visually dissolving the room's hard edges. The viewer is pulled toward the surface, compelled to touch a texture that feels uncannily like human skin yet is entirely vegetal in origin.
I cite it to use a word as a lever: ephemeralization. This concept, famously explored by Buckminster Fuller, helps to refine the observation that as our materials become more "alive," they also become more precious and prone to decay, forcing us to confront the mortality of our objects. I cite it to point out what existing arguments have missed: that sustainability is not just about recycling but about the "transparency" of the growth process itself. The cellulose is a "manufactured" product that nonetheless retains the "grown" autonomy of its bacterial origin, forcing a reconciliation between the industrial lab and the forest floor. The viewer's body is surrounded by this organic veil, experiencing a sense of being "within" a biological organ rather than a room.
Lapso – Celium by Polybion™ with Natural Urbano
Organicism in the living habitat is not restricted to the high-tech laboratory; it also resides in the "returned" material of the Mok-04, Rice Straw & Jige project. Utilising rice straw and the traditional Korean Jige carrier structure, this work reclaims agricultural waste to create furniture that serves as a tactile anchor in an increasingly digital world. The straw is woven and compressed into a dense, fibrous mass that stages a sense of historical groundedness within the modern interior. It does not float or glow like the translucent cellulose; instead, it occupies the floor with a heavy, earth-scented presence that demands physical respect. The viewer’s body is forced to adjust to the "rough" honesty of the straw, a sharp sensory contrast to the frictionless surfaces of glass and aluminium.
I cite it to fill gaps in existing bio-design arguments, which often overlook the role of "material memory" and indigenous knowledge in the transition toward sustainable living. I also cite it to develop the context for "tactile interrogation," as described by Alex Potts, in which the medium itself becomes the subject of the viewer's physical inquiry. The work functions as a physical bridge, where the ancient method of weaving agricultural byproducts becomes a contemporary act of ecological resistance. By placing a "rough," earth-scented stool in a high-tech glass apartment, the designer disrupts the line of sight, forcing the viewer to look down and acknowledge the ground from which all materials ultimately emerge. This paragraph brings us back to the knot: the furniture is both an ancient carrier and a modern seat, generating a sense of "time-depth" within the immediate present.
Mok-04, Rice Straw & Jige by Sukchulmok Studio
To prevent the living habitat from becoming a mere romanticized return to nature, it requires the "hard" connectivity of the &omni chair. Crafted from high-polished, medical-grade stainless steel, its form is a series of clinical, geometric lines that sever the organic softness of the straw and soil. The steel disrupts the visual field, reflecting the green shoots of the walls and the translucent cellulose lamps in its mirror-like surface. This material acts as the "nervous system" of the space—sleek, cold, and infinitely connective. The viewer experiences a sharp, sensory shift: the warmth of the rice straw gives way to the icy, uncompromising precision of the metal.
I cite it to use a word as a lever: connectivity. This allows us to see the chair not as a static object, but as a synapse that allows the "grown" and the "made" to communicate. I cite it to point out what existing arguments have missed: that for a "living" building to be habitable, it must contain elements of the "clinical" to provide structural and psychological boundaries. The &omni chair provides the structural "click" that allows the metabolic room to function as a modern home, ensuring that the living habitat remains a place of utility as well as beauty. It acts as the "tension" that keeps the organic materials from dissolving into formlessness. The body is "pulled" into the ergonomic curve of the steel, finding a point of stability amidst the constant growth of the surrounding environment.
&omni chair by Boyeon Kim and Jaehan Choi
The living habitat is not a choice between the garden and the machine, but a seamless integration in which the chair breathes and the wall pulses. We have moved from observing materials as "information"—mere data points in a building's spec sheet—to understanding them as "evidence" of a new ethical stance towards the planet. By upgrading the viewer's "feelings" into reasoned "evidence" of metabolic design, we see that the environment is no longer something we build in, but something we grow with. The future of design lies at this blurred boundary, where the hand that touches the cold stainless steel also feels the vibrating vitality of the root.
This is the ultimate aim of the research, one of my goals, in collaboration with the Art & Materials Lab, where the alchemy of substance meets the rigour of design. Ultimately, the habitat settles into a final, tangible detail: a single green line of a sprout, emerging from the dark soil of the partition, leaning quietly towards the artificial light of a cellulose lamp, its weight supported by a frame of polished steel. It is here, at the junction of the line and the leaf, that the living habitat finds its pulse.
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Responsible Editor
Isabel Pavone
