This project emerges as a continuation of my ongoing inquiry into the principles of Zen and their relevance to artistic and spatial practice. Over the past months, I’ve been exploring concepts like śūnyatā (emptiness), ma (interval), and the role of ritual and slowness in holding space. Rather than approaching Zen as a fixed theory, I see it as a lived orientation—one that can be translated into gestures, materials, and architectural presences. 

The idea of emptiness in Zen is often misunderstood as absence or void. In my research and practice, I have come to understand it as active openness; a space of potential, receptivity, and transformation. This proposal attempts to bring that insight into form, or rather, into a form that holds and dissolves simultaneously.

 Intentions 

This is not a project about building something new in the traditional sense. Instead, it is an invitation, to stand still, to listen, to be with what is not yet defined. I want to explore how emptiness itself can become the foundation for holding space; physically, emotionally, and communally. Through subtle architectural gestures, sensory elements, and participatory stillness, I hope to create a space that doesn’t fill, but unfolds. 

Research Questions 

o How can emptiness be held as a form? 

o What does it mean to shape space through what is not there? 

o Can emptiness become a material for design, encounter, or ritual? 

A Zen space does not impose movement but allows for it. Traditional Zen temples, teahouses, and gardens are not designed to dictate action but to offer a framework where movement becomes mindful. Walking in a Zen garden, sitting in a meditation hall, or moving through a dimly lit teahouse, the body becomes acutely aware of space rather than distracted by form. 

How does a body move differently in a space that emphasizes emptiness? 

What does it mean to occupy a space without claiming it?

Can emptiness be felt, not as a lack, but as a presence? 

In Zen calligraphy, for instance, the empty paper is as significant as the brushstroke. Likewise, in zazen (seated meditation), posture and breath interact with the surrounding emptiness, making it not just background but an active participant in the experience. Emptiness is not neutral—it holds, frames, and shapes without dominating. 

Unlike Western architecture, which often emphasizes solidity and enclosure, Zen-influenced spaces embrace impermanence and permeability. Shoji screens shift the relationship between interior and exterior, walls become suggestions rather than barriers, and negative space (ma) is given as much importance as built form. 

How does space become material in Zen design? 

What happens when structure arises from emptiness rather than imposing form? 

The concept of ma — the interval between things — is central. A tokonoma alcove in a Japanese room, often left nearly empty except for a single scroll or a flower arrangement, doesn’t display objects — it holds space. 

If contemporary art installations or performances became more attentive to this kind of negative space, how might they re-organize themselves? Could it lead to presenting less, or to consciously choosing spaces that carry a certain atmosphere — spaces that breathe with the work, rather than merely hold it? What if we began to consider the space itself as a poetic presence, not just a container, but a second voice? Two poems — the work and the space — meeting one another, and becoming a new one. 

These questions and ideas have influenced my visual processes. Please keep this vision in mind while continuing through this file.