Tag Archives: Michael-Jantzen

Fold the Corners of This Wooden Cube Lamp and Watch the Light Change

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Most contemporary lamps are adjusted with a dimmer on the cord, a touch sensor on the base, or a slider in an app. That makes light feel like another setting in a menu, slightly detached from the object itself. There is something satisfying about changing light by physically moving parts, as if you are sculpting both the fixture and the atmosphere around it, which is what smart bulbs and app-controlled RGB strips quietly leave out.

Michael Jantzen’s Interactive Folding Lamp is a small, painted wooden cube that quietly invites that kind of interaction. Four corners of the cube have been cut into different geometric shapes and hinged, so they can swing open and closed. When you start to move them, you aren’t just revealing the light but also changing how much of it escapes. At the same time, you are also changing what the lamp looks like from every side, turning the adjustment into a compositional act.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

A single energy-efficient bulb sits at the center, wrapped in a light-diffusing shield and surrounded by six horizontal yellow planes, evenly spaced like a tiny louvered tower. As you open the hinged corners, more of those yellow planes come into view, catching the light and turning it into a warm, layered glow that spills out through the gaps you have created, contrasting with the cool white painted exterior.

This plays out over a day. The lamp closed down to a near-solid cube with just thin seams of light when you want a soft background presence. One corner folded out to throw a slice of light across a book or keyboard. Multiple panels opened wide when you want the object to become a small, glowing sculpture in the room. Each adjustment is a quick, tactile decision rather than a number on a scale, making the ritual feel manual and deliberate.

Jantzen sees the lamp as part of a larger exploration into re-inventing the built environment through unexpected interactivity. The cube can be read as a piece of micro-architecture, its hinged faces acting like tiny façades or shutters that you reposition to modulate light and form. It compresses the logic of folding pavilions and responsive buildings into something that fits on a side table or desk, letting you interact with architectural ideas at hand scale.

The Interactive Folding Lamp gives you a direct, analog way to tune your space, asking you to touch wood, feel hinges, and watch how light responds. It turns a basic act, turning on a lamp, into a small moment of play and composition. In a time when so much interaction is mediated by screens and voice commands, a lamp that responds only to your hands, opening and closing its own geometry to let light out or hold it in, feels like a quiet reset worth keeping in a corner.

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Michael Jantzen Just Turned Solar into a 16-Arm Moving Sculpture

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Most renewable energy systems hide in plain sight. Rooftop solar panels blend into shingles, batteries sit in containers behind fences, and wind turbines spin in distant fields. They quietly do their jobs without helping anyone understand what happens inside them, which feels like a missed opportunity when you are trying to build support for systems that might keep the planet livable for another generation or two.

Michael Jantzen’s Solar and Gravity Powered Art and Science Pavilion treats that visibility problem as a design challenge. The conceptual structure combines a public exhibition space under an umbrella-shaped roof with a tall central tower supporting 16 long, weighted steel arms. Those arms lift and lower throughout the day, creating shifting silhouettes while demonstrating how solar power and gravity work together as a functional energy system rather than just theoretical concepts.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The cycle works simply enough. A solar cell array at the top powers 16 winches that pull the weighted arms upward, storing potential energy. When the pavilion needs electricity, or when someone wants to change its shape, the arms fall back down under gravity. Their descent drives 16 generators that feed power to the building or local grid, turning stored height into usable electricity without batteries or other complex systems getting in the way.

Arriving on a sunny afternoon, you would see the arms at different angles around the tower, sometimes clustered vertically, sometimes fanned out like a mechanical flower. The shifting positions are not just decorative but are the visible result of energy being stored and released. You can read the building’s energy state in its skyline without needing a diagram, which turns out to be a surprisingly rare thing for infrastructure to offer at any scale.

Inside, the umbrella roof shelters a large floor for exhibitions, lectures, or performances. At the center, 16 cables drop through holes in the floor, each marked with an orange spot matching the orange-tipped arms outside. Those cables connect to winches and generators below, making the mechanical core part of the exhibition rather than something hidden. Visitors can track which arms are up or down by watching cables move, turning passive observation into something closer to active participation.

Of course, the setup means the building becomes a working model while hosting events about climate or technology. People walk through exhibitions while the structure demonstrates solar capture and gravity storage without needing to explain every detail. The pavilion functions as a tourist attraction, classroom, and public art that teaches through motion instead of asking you to absorb paragraphs about conversion rates nobody remembers afterward.

Jantzen’s proposal might never be built as drawn, but treating energy flows as choreography feels worth exploring. It hints at a future where infrastructure does not just work efficiently behind walls, it performs visibly in ways that invite people to understand systems that usually stay hidden until something breaks. Making those processes watchable might matter more than squeezing out another efficiency percentage point, which is something worth considering the next time we design places meant to teach.

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This Solar Pavilion Powers the Grid and Charges Phones from Its Seats

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The typical park pavilion or bus-stop canopy offers shade but little else. A roof on posts that sits in the sun all day, casting shadows, is treated as background infrastructure that is purely functional and visually forgettable. Michael Jantzen’s Solar Electric Pavilion is a response to that missed opportunity, turning a simple shelter into a piece of functional land art that also makes power for the community around it.

Jantzen has spent years exploring sustainable architectural experiments where structures are expressive about how they work. The Solar Electric Pavilion is conceived as a public gathering place and shade structure that generates and stores electricity from the sun for the local community, celebrating the relationship between form and renewable energy instead of hiding the technology behind walls or burying it on rooftops where no one sees it.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Approaching the pavilion on a hot day, you are drawn under its open steel shell to escape the sun. Underneath, a circular field of cylindrical seats and tables invites people to sit, talk, or work, with a large ceiling fan overhead moving air. The space behaves like a familiar pavilion, a place to meet or rest, but everything around you is quietly tuned to capture and use sunlight.

Sixty photovoltaic panels are mounted along the curved and straight steel box beams, converting sunlight into electricity. Most of that power is sent into the local grid, while some is stored in batteries hidden inside the cylindrical seats. That stored energy runs the pavilion’s lighting at night, powers the ceiling fan, and lets visitors charge phones or laptops, turning sitting down into a direct connection with the solar infrastructure.

A raised circular platform accessed by a spiral stair lets people step up into the middle of the structure and look out over the landscape. From there, the pattern of beams and panels reads as a solar sculpture, framing sky and horizon. The pavilion is no longer just a roof but a small observatory of its own energy system and surroundings.

The pavilion sits within Jantzen’s body of work, which often uses modular steel, bold geometries, and renewable technologies to propose new public infrastructure. He treats solar panels, batteries, and structural steel as equal parts of the composition, designing for both performance and public engagement. The pavilion is conceived from the start as a cohesive amalgamation of shade, power, and sculpture that does not hide what it does.

The Solar Electric Pavilion suggests a different future for everyday public structures. Instead of passive shelters, they become small power stations that feed the grid, cool the air, and charge devices. Jantzen’s pavilion shows that sustainable architecture does not have to hide in technical rooms. It can stand in the open, invite people in, and make the work of clean energy part of the shared experience of a place.

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This Building Is Designed to Look Like a Molecule Exploding at 100x Scale

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Most cutting-edge science happens in anonymous lab buildings that could be anything from offices to data centers. Fields like protein folding, which quietly underpin medicine and biotech, rarely get a public face. Architecture could act as a billboard or sculpture for that work, making invisible processes more legible to everyone outside, but most research centers settle for glass boxes with vague names on the lobby wall.

Michael Jantzen’s Folded Protein Molecule Research and Exhibition Center is part of his Fantasy Art, Architecture, Science series and proposes a facility where scientists researching protein folding could work and exhibit findings. The twist is that the entire complex is shaped like an exploded protein diagram, using the same coils, arrows, and rods that researchers use to visualize molecules. The building becomes its own subject matter, scaled up so you can walk through it.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Protein folding is how a linear chain of amino acids twists into a three-dimensional structure that lets it function. Scientists represent these structures with bright symbols, coils for helices, arrows for sheets, bent rods for turns. Jantzen takes those flat symbols and imagines walking through them at architectural scale, turning abstract science into something you approach, enter, and move around inside instead of staring at on a screen.

The three black cubes house research spaces, and the large silver sphere forms the exhibition hall, but they sit entangled in bright red arrows, white coils, green spheres, and smaller cubes. The functional rooms are inside these solids while symbolic elements wrap around and pierce them, so the working building is literally knotted up in its own subject matter. You would approach across an open landscape and see a giant folded molecule rising from the ground.

The arrows and coils arch over the complex like a frozen moment in a folding process, creating a canopy you move under. A long ribbon-like path leads toward an opening at the sphere’s base, suggesting a main entrance that feels more like entering land art than a museum. Visitors experience protein folding as a spatial journey, wandering through loops and under arrows before reaching labs or galleries inside.

Portions of the black cubes and smaller cubes attached to arrows are clad in solar panels, helping to power the center. It ties a facility dedicated to molecular science to renewable energy in the landscape. The same surfaces that read as abstract protein domains also quietly collect sunlight, merging symbolism and function in one set of geometric volumes without needing separate infrastructure or signage.

This proposal blurs the line between research campus, sculpture park, and science museum. It is unlikely to be built exactly as shown, but the idea, that a research center could wear its subject matter on the outside and invite people to wander through a giant protein, is compelling. For a field as abstract and important as protein folding, architectural storytelling might be what pulls it out of the lab and into public imagination.

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Observation Pavilion Sends a Camera Up While You Stay on the Ground

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Climbing an observation tower involves a lot of steel and concrete just to stand a few dozen meters higher and take in a view. The ritual is familiar, the ascent, the vertigo, the panorama, but the infrastructure demands are massive for what amounts to a few minutes of elevated looking. Michael Jantzen’s Telepresence Observation Pavilion asks whether we always need to build big vertical structures to get that feeling, especially when most distant experiences already come through screens and networks.

Instead of lifting people into the air, the pavilion lifts a 360-degree camera on a tall telescoping mast, then brings the view down to ground level. Inside a circular room, a ring of high-definition screens shows a live panoramic feed from the camera, synced with sound, so visitors see and hear exactly what they would if they were standing at the top of a traditional tower, without leaving the ground or climbing a long staircase.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Walking into a round, open space where the walls behave like windows wraps you in a continuous horizon of forest, water, or city. A circular bench sits around the central mast, the floor stays open, and a guardrail keeps you a step back from the screens, so you are aware you are in a room, but your eyes are convinced you are somewhere higher and more exposed.

The camera sits on top of a tall series of telescoping pipes anchored to the pavilion floor, rising far above the roof. The module captures real-time sights and sounds in every direction, then sends that data down to the screens. The only tower you need to build is this slender mast, not a full structure sized for people, which drastically cuts material and engineering demands.

Eight solar panels ring the central skylight on the pavilion roof, feeding the camera, screens, and lighting. This connects to Jantzen’s goal of using information technology to replace or reduce physical building materials. The pavilion becomes an environmental argument, suggesting that if we can satisfy the desire for elevated views with data and light, we might not need to pour as much concrete into the sky.

Jantzen imagines many camera modules installed on existing structures, communication towers, mountain lodges, and skyscrapers. Those feeds could be sent over the internet to any pavilion, letting visitors switch channels between live elevated views from around the world. You could stand in a field and look out over Tokyo, then switch to a mountain ridge in Patagonia or a coastal city, turning a local building into a global observatory.

This changes the idea of an observation tower. You still make a trip to a specific place and share a room with other people, but the view is no longer tied to that exact spot. It can be curated, rotated, or scheduled, and multiple pavilions can share the same remote vantage point without crowding fragile sites. The architecture becomes as much about routing information as it is about shaping space.

The Telepresence Observation Pavilion will not replace every lookout or mountain hike, and there is still value in feeling the wind and height directly. But as a thought experiment, it points toward a future where we build less mass to get more experience, using cameras, networks, and solar-powered rooms to give people elevated perspectives without the environmental and structural cost of traditional towers, or the bottlenecks that come when everyone wants to see the same sunset from the same narrow platform at once.

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This House Makes Climbing Between Rooms the Main Attraction

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The typical vacation rental is a cabin or beach house sitting on the ground with a yard, a deck, maybe a hot tub, and a hammock scattered around it. Those amenities are usually background, things you walk past on the way to the main house or visit once during the stay. Michael Jantzen’s Elevated Leisure Habitat flips that logic by pulling everything off the ground and turning circulation into the main event, so moving through the complex becomes as much the attraction as the rooms themselves.

The Elevated Leisure Habitat is a functional art structure meant to be rented as a very special vacation place. This first version is designed for two people and consists of a small central house surrounded by a series of elevated platforms, each dedicated to a single leisure activity. Instead of one building with a yard, you get a loose constellation of outdoor rooms in the sky, linked by stairs and landings.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The central house is a compact volume with sleeping space, a desk, a toilet, a shower, and a small food-preparation area. Around it, the elevated amenities include a garden, a hot tub, a picnic pavilion, a porch-swing pavilion, a hammock platform, and a solar-cell array for electricity. All sit on their own stilts at different heights, connected to the house and to each other by a network of stairs, two of which descend to the ground.

Jantzen leans into archetypal forms. The house is a classic gable-roof silhouette, the pavilions echo that same pitched profile, the garden is a simple tray, and the solar array is a dark plane tilted like a roof. He writes that the aesthetics evolved from using a symbolically conventional, conventionally shaped house and amenities that symbolically refer to their conventional counterparts, turning the complex into a three-dimensional diagram of domestic life.

Simply elevating elements we are used to seeing on the ground and forcing us to climb from one to another creates an unexpected experience. Every trip to the garden, the hot tub, or the hammock becomes a small ascent and crossing. The stairs and platforms choreograph how you move, making the journey between activities as much a part of the stay as the activities themselves, which shifts the feel from a passive rental to an active exploration.

Lifting everything on slender white columns reduces the footprint on the landscape, leaving the ground largely untouched beneath the habitat. The dedicated solar-panel platform hints at off-grid potential, while the garden tray suggests controlled cultivation instead of sprawling lawns. The all-white structure against a green site reads like a deliberate insertion, a piece of land art that happens to contain a working vacation program with real utilities and shelter.

Jantzen describes the Elevated Leisure Habitat as basically a large interactive sculpture that explores new and exciting ways in which to have fun. It sits somewhere between house, artwork, and playground, using familiar icons and a simple structural language to reframe what a holiday stay could be. Instead of retreating into a single enclosed volume, guests would inhabit a small network of outdoor rooms in the sky, climbing and crossing between platforms as if moving through a three-dimensional diagram of leisure itself.

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This Footbridge Has 3 Paths That Rise and Fall Through Steel Waves

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Most pedestrian bridges are neutral pieces of infrastructure, straight spans with railings that get you from one side of a road to the other. A few projects treat bridges as public art, but often as surface decoration rather than structural idea. The Wave Formed Footbridge is a proposal that starts from movement itself, imagining people as waves that literally reshape the bridge as they cross it.

The concept visualizes people walking across the bridge and, in doing so, forming waves of energy that could conceptually deform the structure in space and time. In this case, three people walking on three different paths are imagined as three overlapping waveforms, and those waves are frozen at the center of the span to become the model for the final steel geometry. The bridge becomes a physical record of motion before anyone has even stepped on it.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The basic layout uses four primary steel channels running the length of the bridge, each deformed into a different wave shape at mid-span, and three separate red paths weaving through them. The two outer paths curve up where the channels distort into waveforms, while the center path curves down. The result is a multi-level crossing where pedestrians can choose to crest over the waves or dip into them, experiencing the same structure in different ways.

As you reach the middle, the outer paths rise into gentle hills that give you a higher vantage point over the highway, while the center path drops into a kind of canyon formed by the looping steel ribbons. Openings in the waves frame views of sky and landscape, and the red deck threads through peaks and troughs, making the act of crossing feel more like moving through a sculptural field than walking a straight line across a gap.

From the driver’s perspective, the underside of the bridge becomes the main event. The four channels loop up and down, casting complex shadows and creating a silhouette that looks like a waveform drawn in steel. As you pass underneath, the bridge acts as a gateway or landmark, not just a slab overhead. It is meant to function as a tourist attraction for the city as much as a safe way to cross a two-lane highway.

The Wave Formed Footbridge proposes that a pedestrian bridge can be a physical record of movement, a wave of steel shaped by the imagined footsteps of those who cross it. Instead of treating people as loads on a diagram, it treats them as the authors of the form. The highway crossing stops being a simple gap to span and starts being a chance to turn everyday movement into something sculptural, visible from both above and below.

The post This Footbridge Has 3 Paths That Rise and Fall Through Steel Waves first appeared on Yanko Design.

192 Sliding Blocks Let Anyone Sculpt This Pavilion Into New Shapes

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Most architecture, even the wildest parametric forms, is fixed the day it opens and stays that way until it is renovated or demolished. Michael Jantzen points out that exciting spaces are often “fixed in time” while people’s needs and desires keep shifting. The Malleable Space Pavilion is a small, clear argument for buildings that can change as easily as furniture, where space becomes something you can push, pull, and rewrite whenever you want.

The Malleable Space Pavilion is an experimental interactive structure made from a very simple kit of parts. Two tall gray support columns anchor the design, and 192 white horizontal elements, 96 per side, are mounted on tracks between them. In the default state, they form two opposing blocks with a narrow canyon between them, a calm, almost minimalist object sitting in a field that reads more like land art than a building you can enter.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Every white element can slide in and out independently, letting visitors pull pieces to create steps, ledges, and overhangs. Jantzen describes configurations ranging from symmetrical simplicity to chaotic complexity, and the same hardware can read as a tunnel, a grotto, or a solid bar depending on how far the elements are extended. Space is literally carved out of the blocks in real time, turning a static object into a responsive spatial machine.

One moment, you walk into a symmetrical canyon with terraced walls and a rectangular skylight, the next you find yourself in a jagged, pixelated chamber where light leaks through irregular gaps. The elements double as benches and low roofs, so you can pull out a seat or shade with the same gesture. The pavilion becomes a place to sit, play, and experiment rather than just pass through, with every configuration suggesting new ways to occupy the same footprint.

Pushing and pulling the elements is performative; visitors become visible agents of change. The stepped profiles feel like editing a low-resolution 3D model, but at a human scale and with your hands instead of a mouse. The pavilion records those actions as a temporary composition, so every group leaves behind a different spatial drawing until someone else comes along and rewrites it, turning the structure into a constantly evolving collaboration between architect and occupants.

Jantzen believes that a more advanced architecture is one that can be changed in time, and this pavilion sits within his series of transformable structures. Questions remain about full-scale mechanics, durability, and accessibility, but the value here is conceptual clarity. The project makes adaptability tangible and playful, turning a big conversation about flexible buildings into something you can push, pull, and sit on, rather than leaving it abstract and theoretical.

The Malleable Space Pavilion treats architecture less like a finished sculpture and more like an instrument waiting to be played. Instead of a single author deciding what the space should be, every visitor gets to compose their own version for a while. For a design culture used to talking about responsive environments in abstract terms, there is something refreshing about a pavilion that simply hands you the handles and lets you reshape it yourself, making change the default rather than the exception.

The post 192 Sliding Blocks Let Anyone Sculpt This Pavilion Into New Shapes first appeared on Yanko Design.

Concept House With 5 Segments Rotates to Catch Sun and Wind

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Imagine waking up in a home that changes shape with the sun, rotates to catch the breeze, and adjusts its silhouette at your whim throughout the day and night. The idea of a house that adapts to its environment and to you sounds like science fiction, but it’s at the heart of the Interactive Segmented House of the Future by Michael Jantzen, a concept that reimagines what home can be.

This visionary concept explores what happens when architecture becomes kinetic, modular, and deeply responsive to natural forces and human desires. The house offers a glimpse into a future where homes are as dynamic as the people who live in them, constantly adjusting to weather, light, and personal preference without requiring you to adapt to static architectural decisions. The design challenges every assumption about residential architecture.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The house is built around five identical, curved steel segments that rotate around a central glass-floored living space like petals around a flower’s center. Each segment can pivot independently or together in coordinated movements, allowing the home to catch sunlight for passive warming, funnel wind for natural cooling, collect rainwater for storage, or frame the best landscape views throughout changing seasons.

Photovoltaic panels on the exterior generate electricity for internal needs, while rain-catching forms and wind scoops make the house self-sustaining and potentially off-grid in remote locations. Each segment is carefully shaped with formations that serve as windows, ventilation scoops, or water collectors. The occupants can fine-tune the building’s environmental response by positioning segments to meet immediate needs or simply experimenting with different visual configurations.

Inside, the glass floor creates a sense of floating in open space, with air and light circulating freely through openings without visual obstruction from opaque surfaces. All essential furniture is hidden in semicircular cabinets beneath the glass floor, rising up and unfolding only when needed for sleeping, eating, or working throughout daily routines. The result is a space that can be left completely open or configured for specific activities.

The absence of fixed partitions and the ability to clear the floor completely make the interior endlessly adaptable, supporting everything from quiet solitude to lively gatherings with friends. The glass floor provides an uninterrupted 360-degree view of the space and the segments rotating around it, enhancing the sensation of living inside a responsive, almost organic structure that breathes with environmental conditions.

While the Interactive Segmented House of the Future is a stunning vision worth celebrating, it faces practical challenges worth acknowledging honestly and thoughtfully. The mechanical complexity of rotating large structural segments, potential maintenance needs for motors and bearings, and the demands of glass flooring and custom fabrication could make real-world construction costly and require ongoing professional care and specialized expertise that may not be readily available.

Living in a house like this would mean waking up to new views daily, adjusting your home to match the weather naturally, and enjoying a space that feels alive and ever-changing. For anyone dreaming of a home that’s as flexible and imaginative as their own life and aspirations, this concept offers a bold proposal that blurs boundaries between architecture and living machine.

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