(EN)
The first thing one notices about this house is its undulating fins, a row of curved concrete blades on its facade, slicing through the view to the trees standing between them. But these curves are not the remnants of ambition. The initial design was much wilder, amorphous, twisting in all directions, full of movement. These fins are what remained after much was let go: not the boldest form, but the calmest. On a curving corner plot in The Green Precinct, Bumi Serpong Damai, this house began as something much busier than its present manifestation.
And so we “let go” during the design process, and truthfully, we were the ones who learned. The owners of this house are stable and realistic people, and from them we learned two principles we hold to this day: order on the inside, and just enough expression accommodated on the outside.
We simplified the excessive curves until all that remained were the edges of its envelope—the expression was not discarded; it was pushed to the periphery, while the interior of the house became calm and orderly. The flowing concrete roof remained, but its movement is now controlled. We shaded the most scorching western and southern sides; the north-south faces were opened up to the wind and light. In every discussion, the owners were appreciative and entrusted the stewardship to us down to the matter of cost—a trust that demanded we be realistic from the very first line.
That realism permeated right down to the skin of the building. We coated the concrete roof with a membrane at the owner’s request; he did not want a house whose future operations would be burdened by leaks. From the outside, the concrete is unpainted: it was trowel-finished by hand, surface by surface, demanding consistency from start to finish, and the score lines on the top floor were not an easy task to execute. This house stands not because of a single skilled hand, but because of a solid team doing the exact same thing in the exact same way, for months.
When we asked a professor of architecture for his opinion on this house, he offered a comparison that has stayed in our minds ever since. There is the Balinese dancer who dances in the rice fields, he said, spontaneous, at one with nature, unpredictable in their movement. And then there is the ballet dancer, graceful, trained, every movement already in its place, predictable. This house, according to him, is a ballet: not a wild dance, but undulating curves that have been disciplined until every fin falls perfectly into place. We never called it that, but he was right; that is what happens when expression is not discarded, but ordered.
At the heart of the house, one large room accommodates almost the entirety of this family’s life: the kitchen, dining table, living room, and a grand piano, united beneath a void. It features three wide steps where people lounge on Tulungagung marble floors, and a centerpiece lamp designed by a Central Javanese artisan. Above it all sits a tumpang sari (a traditional Javanese vaulted ceiling), simplified, crafted using gypsum for the sake of cost and simplicity, with a skylight that still casts light down from its peak. We are not ashamed to name its material: this is the tumpang sari of a realist, a revered Javanese form, crafted with what was viable, without pretense. This house is inhabited by two cultural roots—the husband from Java, the wife from Padang—and this room is where the two meet; it is also on those very steps that, every time they visit, the owners and their friends would sit and discuss with us for up to three hours. We did not design this space to symbolize anything; it simply, in the end, became the place itself.
The house was completed in 2017, and for us, it was a beginning we were unaware of at the time. Prior to this project, our lines were straight; it was here that the “curve” first entered our architectural vocabulary, ironically in the very house that taught us to restrain it.
Even the name of this house was a compromise. We named it the Dancer House—because the wife is a dancer, and its original form did indeed want to move. But the owner named it Kampono, after the husband’s family name. We let go of our name, and let theirs remain. Thus it became Kampono—a house whose name we returned to its owner.
That attitude, actually, had been there since our very first conversation. The owners contacted us through a message, and their question was simple: a matter of cost. We answered calmly that it could be adjusted, and that the most important thing was that they would be happy in that house. This entire house, ultimately, grew from that sentence: it is not our expression that serves as the measure, but the life that will be lived within it.
And perhaps that is why the final meaning of this house was not given by us. After they had lived there for a while, they were the ones who found it: the curving fins on the facade of the house, consistently facing the line of sight, to them resembled two hands raised upward, praying. What remained after all excess was stripped away, as it turned out, took the shape of a prayer. We designed its form; they found its meaning. Perhaps that is indeed how the most honest houses work: the architect lets go, and the inhabitants make it complete.
(IDN)
Yang pertama dilihat dari rumah ini adalah sirip-siripnya yang meliuk, deretan bilah beton melengkung di mukanya, membelah pandangan ke pohon-pohon yang berdiri di sela-selanya. Tapi lekuk itu bukan sisa dari ambisi. Rancangan awalnya jauh lebih liar, amorf, meliuk di segala arah, penuh gerak. Sirip-sirip inilah yang tertinggal setelah banyak hal dilepas: bukan bentuk yang paling berani, melainkan yang paling tenang. Di plot pojok yang melengkung di The Green Precinct, Bumi Serpong Damai, rumah ini bermula jauh lebih ramai daripada wujudnya sekarang.
Maka kami “melepas” dalam proses desain, dan sejujurnya, kami yang belajar. Pemilik rumah ini orang yang stabil dan realistis, dan dari beliaulah kami belajar dua hal yang kini kami pegang: keteraturan di dalam, dan ekspresi yang cukup diakomodasi di sisi luar.
Lekuk-lekuk yang berlebihan kami sederhanakan sampai yang tersisa hanya ujung-ujung selubungnya — ekspresinya tidak dibuang, ia dipindahkan ke tepi, sementara di dalam rumah menjadi tenang dan tertib. Atap beton yang mengalir tetap ada, tapi gerakannya kini terkendali. Sisi barat dan selatan yang paling terik kami naungi; muka utara-selatan dibuka bagi angin dan cahaya. Dalam setiap diskusi, pemiliki apresiatif dan mempercayakan pengawalannya pada kami sampai ke soal biaya — kepercayaan yang menuntut kami realistis sejak garis pertama.
Realisme itu meresap sampai ke kulit bangunan. Atap betonnya kami lapisi membran atas permintaan pemiliknya, beliau tidak ingin rumah yang operasionalnya kelak dibebani kebocoran. Dari luar, betonnya tidak dicat: ia diaci dengan tangan, bidang demi bidang, menuntut konsistensi dari awal sampai akhir, dan nat di lantai teratas bukan pekerjaan yang mudah dieksekusi. Rumah ini berdiri bukan karena satu tangan yang mahir, melainkan karena tim yang solid mengerjakan hal yang sama dengan cara yang sama, berbulan-bulan.
Ketika kami meminta pendapat salah seorang profesor guru besar arsitektur tentang rumah ini, ia menawarkan sebuah perbandingan yang tinggal di kepala kami sejak itu. Ada penari Bali yang menari di sawah, katanya, spontan, menyatu dengan alam, tak terduga geraknya. Dan ada penari balet, anggun, terlatih, setiap gerak sudah pada tempatnya, terprediksi. Rumah ini, menurutnya, sebuah balet: bukan tarian yang liar, melainkan liukan yang telah didisiplinkan sampai setiap siripnya jatuh tepat di tempatnya. Kami tidak pernah menamainya begitu, tapi ia benar, itulah yang terjadi ketika ekspresi tidak dibuang, melainkan ditertibkan.
Di jantung rumah, satu ruang besar menampung hampir seluruh hidup keluarga ini: dapur, meja makan, ruang duduk, dan sebuah grand piano, menjadi satu di bawah void , dengan tiga anak tangga lebar tempat orang duduk-duduk di lantai marmer Tulungagung, dan sebuah lampu di tengahnya yang dirancang artisan dari Jawa Tengah. Di atasnya, sebuah tumpang sari , disederhanakan, dikerjakan menggunakan gypsum karena soal biaya dan kesederhanaan, dengan skylight yang tetap menurunkan cahaya dari puncaknya. Kami tidak malu menyebut materialnya: inilah tumpang sari milik seorang realis, bentuk Jawa yang dihormati, dikerjakan dengan yang mampu, tanpa berpura-pura. Rumah ini dihuni dua asal budaya — suami dari Jawa, istri dari Padang, dan ruang inilah tempat keduanya bertemu; di anak-anak tangga itu pula, setiap kali datang, pemiliknya dan teman-temannya berdiskusi dengan kami sampai tiga jam lamanya. Kami tidak merancang ruang ini untuk menyimbolkan apa pun; ia hanya, pada akhirnya, menjadi tempat itu sendiri.
Rumah ini selesai pada 2017, dan bagi kami ia sebuah permulaan yang tak kami sadari saat itu. Sebelum adanya proyek rumah ini, garis-garis kami lurus; di sinilah garis “lengkung” pertama kali masuk ke kosakata arsitektur kami, justru di rumah yang mengajari kami untuk menahannya.
Nama rumah ini pun sebuah kompromi. Kami menamainya Dancer House — karena sang istri seorang penari, dan bentuk awalnya memang ingin bergerak. Tapi pemiliknya menamainya Kampono, dari marga keluarga sang suami. Kami melepas nama kami, dan membiarkan nama mereka yang tinggal. Jadilah Kampono — sebuah rumah yang namanya kami kembalikan kepada pemiliknya.
Sikap itu, sebetulnya, sudah ada sejak percakapan pertama. Pemiliknya menghubungi kami lewat sebuah pesan, dan pertanyaan mereka sederhana: soal biaya. Kami menjawabnya dengan tenang, bahwa itu bisa disesuaikan, dan yang paling penting adalah mereka bahagia di rumah itu. Seluruh rumah ini, pada akhirnya, tumbuh dari kalimat itu: bukan ekspresi kami yang menjadi ukuran, melainkan hidup yang akan dijalani di dalamnya.
Dan mungkin itulah sebabnya makna terakhir rumah ini bukan kami yang memberi. Setelah mereka tinggal beberapa waktu, merekalah yang menemukannya: sirip-sirip melengkung di muka rumah, yang konsisten menghadap ke arah pandang, bagi mereka menyerupai dua tangan yang menengadah, berdoa. Yang tersisa setelah semua kelebihan dilepas, ternyata berbentuk seperti doa. Kami merancang bentuknya; mereka yang menemukan maknanya. Barangkali memang begitu rumah yang paling jujur bekerja: arsiteknya melepas, dan penghuninya yang melengkapi.
April 9, 2025
