Tag Archives: Michael-Jantzen

This Pavilion Works Like Giant Venetian Blinds That Anyone Can Adjust

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Every garage door opener sitting in a car visor does one boring job: raising and lowering a single panel between a car and the weather. The Garage Door Pavilion takes that same reliable, forgettable mechanism and multiplies it across dozens of steel panels woven into a public structure, letting anyone walking by reshape an entire building with the press of a button they’ve used a thousand times before.

Each door in the cluster gets its own dedicated opener mounted just in front of it, so a visitor doesn’t need any special instruction to participate. Pressing a button raises or lowers that single panel to any position between fully open and fully closed, turning a solid wall into a shaded opening or a covered passage into open sky within seconds, entirely on the visitor’s own terms.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Most of those panels are solid, painted steel, borrowed straight from standard garage door manufacturing rather than custom fabricated for a one-off art piece. Others swap in perforated metal instead, letting light and air filter through even when fully shut. Mixing solid and perforated surfaces across the same structure means no two configurations look or feel quite the same, depending on which doors a visitor chooses to move.

Structurally, the whole assembly relies on a series of support frames sharing the same width but varying in height, woven together at different orientations rather than stacked in a predictable grid. That irregular weaving is what gives the pavilion its dense, clustered silhouette, closer to a jumble of oversized shipping containers caught mid-shuffle than any conventional roofline a visitor might expect walking up from a distance.

Walk underneath once a few doors lift overhead, and covered passageways start to appear between the raised panels, offering shade in an otherwise open desert setting. Close a few doors nearby instead, and those same passageways seal into private, boxed-in rooms. The structure never settles into one fixed identity, since every visitor’s button presses leave it slightly different from how they found it.

That instability is deliberate rather than an engineering compromise. Treating a public structure as something visitors actively reshape, rather than a fixed backdrop, reframes what adaptability actually means in architecture. A door lifted for shade at noon can drop shut by evening, all without a maintenance crew or a redesign, just the same mechanical reliability people already trust in their own homes.

The project ties this physical flexibility to a larger argument about what buildings owe the people using them. A pavilion that can’t be adjusted asks everyone to accept its default state, whatever the weather or crowd size happens to be that day. One built from reconfigurable panels instead treats a changing climate and shifting social needs as ordinary conditions to design around, not exceptions worth ignoring.

Placing that logic in an exposed desert landscape only sharpens the point. Conditions shift dramatically between morning shade and afternoon heat, and a structure that can’t respond to that shift in real time asks visitors to simply endure it instead. The Garage Door Pavilion answers with something closer to a responsive shell, changing shape at the same speed a driveway door already does every single day.

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A Backyard Greenhouse That Moonlights as an Outdoor Living Room

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Most backyard greenhouses ask you to choose a side. Either you’re hunched over seedlings in a cramped glass box, or you’re lounging on a deck somewhere else entirely, disconnected from whatever you just planted. The Eco-Oasis Pavilion concept refuses that split. It’s a prefabricated wood structure meant to sit near the main house, pairing a working greenhouse with a shaded deck built right alongside it, so growing food and doing nothing at all finally share the same address.

The tunnel-shaped greenhouse sits at the center of the design, built from curved sliding panels that swing open like ribs along its length. Clear glazed sections let sunlight flood the plants inside, while a second layer of shading panels slides over the same tracks whenever the sun turns hostile. Both layers tuck away into storage bays on either side when not needed, keeping the structure’s profile clean rather than cluttered with hardware.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Growing food outdoors in variable weather has always meant chasing the right amount of light without cooking whatever you planted. This design solves that with mirrored interior walls on the east and west sides, bouncing low-angle morning and evening sun deeper into the greenhouse instead of letting it slip past the crop shelves. Water-filled tubes lining the north wall store solar heat during the day and release it after dark, so the greenhouse never fully goes cold overnight.

Ventilation follows the same passive logic. Sliding glazed panels, a north-facing entry door, and built-in exhaust vents work together to keep air moving through the greenhouse without a single fan running. On a hot afternoon, opening a few panels does the job that mechanical cooling handles in most other backyard structures, cutting the energy bill down to whatever the rooftop solar panel already covers.

That solar panel does double duty on the roof, generating electricity for the pavilion while its angled surface also funnels rainwater into two steel tanks mounted on the deck. Instead of running a hose out to water the garden, the structure quietly stockpiles its own supply overhead every time it rains. Planting containers wrap around the greenhouse’s north wall and trace the pavilion’s perimeter, turning what would be empty siding into more growing space.

Step outside the glazing and the deck takes over as the payoff for all that food production. A long table, a set of seats, and a couple of lounge chairs give the space a reason to linger, not just pass through on the way to check on tomatoes. Flowering planters line the deck’s edges, blurring the line between the ornamental garden and the food-growing structure a few feet away.

What makes this concept worth paying attention to is how little it separates function from comfort. The greenhouse isn’t hidden behind a fence, and the deck isn’t disconnected from the plants that make it worth sitting there in the first place. Everything runs on sunlight and rainwater already falling on the roof, proving a backyard structure can feed a household and still look like somewhere you’d actually want to spend an evening.

The post A Backyard Greenhouse That Moonlights as an Outdoor Living Room first appeared on Yanko Design.

Open-Plan Offices Killed the Private Desk, and This Pod Brings It Back

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Most office furniture solves privacy by sealing someone off completely: four walls and a door that shuts out everyone else, along with any sense of connection to the room. The Seed Pod skips that tradeoff. It wraps a single desk and seat inside a radiating fan of white wooden slats, open enough to see through, dense enough to feel like a room of your own.

That slat pattern isn’t just decorative. Vertical wooden ribs curve outward from a tall arched spine at the back, fanning shorter toward the open front, so the whole structure reads like something caught mid-bloom rather than a static box. Gaps between each slat let light and sound pass through freely, creating enclosure without ever fully cutting the occupant off from whatever’s happening around them.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Step inside and a bright green bench seat waits at the center, paired with built-in storage tucked into the lower walls on either side. Small wedge-shaped shelves hold whatever a workday requires nearby, papers, supplies, a bag, without eating into the already compact footprint. The contrast between crisp white slats outside and that saturated green interior gives the whole thing a distinct, almost botanical identity rather than reading as generic office equipment.

A sliding desktop surface handles the actual work. Sized specifically for a laptop, it can be repositioned to different spots under the main desk, adjusting to whatever posture or task someone needs at that moment rather than locking them into one fixed arrangement. Slide it back, and the same space clears out for someone to step in or out without maneuvering around a stationary tabletop.

Mobility matters just as much as the seating arrangement. The entire structure sits on wheels and plugs into any standard electrical outlet nearby, meaning it can roll into a corner of a shared office floor one week and relocate to a quiet spot at home the next. Nothing about setup requires special wiring or a dedicated room built around it.

Picture an open-plan office where video calls and side conversations blur together constantly, or a home where the only quiet corner left is also the one everyone walks through. Rolling a Seed Pod into either space carves out somewhere to actually concentrate, without requiring a renovation or a door that locks. Multiple units can sit side by side too, each occupant getting their own pocket of focus inside a shared room.

What makes the design work is restraint rather than enclosure. The slats do the job walls usually do, marking a boundary, without asking anyone to give up daylight, airflow, or the sense of still being present in the room they’re sitting in.

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This House Makes You Sweat, Then Harvests That Energy to Power Itself

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Most houses ask you to sit still. The Staircase House asks you to climb. This small, unbuilt concept wraps 180 wooden steps around a simple 1,000 sq ft cube, turning the entire building envelope into a piece of exercise equipment that also happens to keep the lights on. It’s a house shaped by staircases and about them.

Every one of those steps hides a piezoelectric tread plate underneath the surface, converting the weight of a footstep into a small charge of electricity. That energy gets stored in onsite batteries and folded back into the house’s power supply, a modest amount per step, but multiplied across 180 treads and however many trips residents make up and down them. The building quietly rewards the exact behavior it was designed to encourage.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Climb high enough, and the stairs deliver you to an open rooftop deck built with benches and storage cabinets tucked into the framing. Four wooden decks wrap the ground floor as well, so the house offers outdoor space at both its base and its summit, connected by the staircases running up its exterior walls. You could start a morning on the roof and end an evening on the ground, using the same climbing structure to bridge both.

Down at ground level, four oversized sliding glass doors mark the entry points at two corners, letting the interior breathe and stay naturally ventilated without mechanical assistance. Inside, a large central skylight repeats that same logic overhead, pulling daylight down through a stepped shaft that echoes the stair motif one more time before it reaches the floor.

Practical rooms get folded into the leftover space beneath the exterior staircases rather than competing with them. An office, food preparation area, storage, and entertainment space are all built into the walls under those stair volumes, while a compact bathroom module stands apart in one corner with a guest bed positioned on top of it. Nothing about the layout wastes the odd geometry the stairs create.

Even the furniture inside carries the theme forward. Every piece was shaped to visually reference climbing in some way: benches that step down like miniature staircases, tables whose legs echo the same stacked rhythm found on the exterior. It’s a small detail, but it keeps the concept from feeling like a gimmick bolted onto an otherwise ordinary house.

Built entirely from sustainably grown, painted or stained wood, the structure treats sustainability as something achieved through use as much as through materials. A retreat, studio, office, or guesthouse could all fit comfortably inside this footprint, and the house doesn’t really distinguish between those uses and the act of physically moving through it. The whole structure works like a machine built to be lived in and worked out on at the same time.

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Someone Designed an Off-Grid Modular Home From a Farm Equipment Catalog

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The search for affordable, sustainable housing tends to produce two kinds of proposals. The first involves entirely new materials, new manufacturing processes, and supply chains that don’t yet exist at useful scale. The second starts with what’s already available and asks a different question of it. The latter approach is rarer, and when it works, it tends to produce something far more buildable than even the most elegant custom solution.

The Homestead House belongs to that second category. This conceptual design takes the prefabricated steel arch building system ordinarily found on agricultural properties, and reorganizes it into a modular, off-grid residential structure. The system is already commercially available, already engineered for structural strength, and already fire-resistant. The concept doesn’t ask for anything to be invented; it simply redirects what already exists.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The arches and straight panels are formed from thin, recyclable steel sheets that bolt together with simple tools, requiring no skilled labor and no secondary support structure. The resulting shell is extremely strong despite using very little material. More usefully, it comes apart the same way it goes together. A structure built this way can be fully disassembled and reassembled somewhere else for an entirely different purpose, which makes the material itself far more durable in the life-of-a-building sense than most conventional construction.

Modularity is central to how the Homestead House adapts over time. The individual arched modules cluster in different configurations to suit different needs, and the footprint isn’t fixed at the time of construction. A household that grows doesn’t have to move; rooms can be added one module or even one arch at a time. The structure can equally be reduced if circumstances change, making it genuinely responsive to the way life actually shifts over the years.

Insulating the steel shell involves erecting a second, lighter-gauge structure inside the outer one and blowing cellulose insulation, made from recycled newspaper, between the two layers to whatever depth the climate demands. The thickness is entirely adjustable, which means the same structural system works for a mild coastal site and an exposed inland location where winters are more severe. It’s a low-tech solution that works with the building’s logic rather than against it.

The concept is designed to operate completely off the standard utility grid. Electricity comes from photovoltaic cells and a vertical-axis wind turbine. Passive solar design handles heating and cooling, domestic water is solar-heated, and rainwater collected from the roof arches feeds above- or below-ground storage. More advanced options, including solar- and wind-powered hydrogen production, are also part of the broader energy framework the concept envisions.

What holds the design together philosophically is the idea that a new manufacturing facility isn’t required to produce affordable, sustainable housing. The arch building system already exists, already has infrastructure behind it, and already serves an industry that needs strong, low-cost structures assembled quickly. Borrowing that system for a different purpose avoids the resource cost of starting from scratch, which is one of the less-discussed obstacles in alternative construction.

The Homestead House raises practical questions that most sustainable housing proposals never have to answer. It doesn’t ask for new materials, new tools, or new supply chains. It asks instead what happens when you apply a different kind of imagination to what’s already sitting in a farm equipment catalog.

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The Luxury Hotel Concept That Works Like a Food Truck for Wilderness

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Luxury hotels have always had a location problem. The kinds of places that would make the most extraordinary backdrops, remote desert plains, rolling highland meadows, dramatic canyon edges, are almost never the places where a hotel can legally or practically be built. Extending infrastructure to those sites, from power grids to road access to permanent foundations, tends to either cost too much or damage the very landscape that made the location worth visiting.

The Mobiltels concept approaches hospitality from a completely different direction. Rather than building a permanent structure and hoping the location is compelling enough, each Mobiltel unit is designed to fold into a compact, truck-towable trailer, be driven to wherever the landscape is most remarkable, and then unfold into a functioning luxury accommodation. When the stay is over, it packs up and leaves without leaving much evidence behind.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Three distinct unit types make up the proposed resort ecosystem. The first is the guest accommodation module, which deploys into two full hotel-style rooms, each with a private bath and its own private deck. The roof extends into a communal deck shaded by solar panels that generate the electricity to power the unit, while a second panel mounted on the exterior heats the water. The entire structure, decks and all, folds back into a trailer tight enough to tow down a highway.

The second unit is a solar-powered café and coffee shop that unfolds to reveal four outdoor dining decks with full kitchen and restroom facilities. The third is a large shade structure intended for gatherings, private events, and communal lounging, built as a striking open lattice that collapses into a flat-load trailer for transport. Additional unit types can theoretically follow the same logic, meaning a full resort amenity list could be assembled and disassembled as needed.

The off-grid energy system is what makes the location independence real rather than theoretical. Every unit generates and manages its own power and heated water from the sun, which means no connecting to local utilities and no requiring a serviced campsite. A Mobiltel cluster can go where a road exists and terrain is flat enough to level a trailer, which is a much lower bar than conventional construction.

The environmental argument is also embedded in the temporariness. A permanent hotel in a wilderness setting modifies that setting permanently. Roads are built, foundations are poured, and the land around the structure gradually changes to accommodate the infrastructure. A Mobiltel unit lands on a site for a season, its occupants absorb the specific quality of that place, and it leaves. The landscape recovers. The next location gets the same treatment.

There’s something quietly subversive about applying a mobile home chassis to a luxury hospitality concept. Mobile homes occupy a very specific cultural position, one that doesn’t usually include rooftop communal decks and solar-heated private baths. The Mobiltels concept borrows the transport logic of one and applies it to the aesthetic ambitions of the other, with the result that a high-end resort becomes as relocatable as a food truck. The result sits somewhere between architecture and expedition equipment, which is probably exactly the right place for it.

The post The Luxury Hotel Concept That Works Like a Food Truck for Wilderness first appeared on Yanko Design.

Funnels That Harvest Rain and Solar Power While Shading a Public Plaza

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Water scarcity and urban heat are two separate crises that public infrastructure rarely addresses together. Most public spaces are designed primarily for social use, with sustainability features treated as additions bolted on during planning approvals. The result is civic furniture that looks environmentally conscious on paper but often functions in ways that keep each system largely isolated from the others.

The Solar Rain Funnels propose a different model. Each funnel-shaped structure is a prefabricated, modular unit made from galvanized steel that collects rainwater, generates solar electricity, and provides shaded public seating, all from the same form. Rather than treating harvesting and gathering as separate programs, the design bundles them into a single object that does each job without architectural compromise.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The form does most of the work. Each funnel is wide at the top and narrows toward the base, which means its surface naturally directs rainfall inward and downward into collection channels. Solar cells line the top edge, capturing sunlight from the same surface that intercepts rain. A bench is mounted around the perimeter at the base, completing the third function without requiring a separate structure.

What’s collected below the surface matters as much as what happens above it. Rainwater storage containers, or diversion channels connecting to off-site containment, are installed under the plaza to hold water for later community use. The solar electricity powers the pump that moves water from storage and lights the funnels after dark. Excess power feeds into the local grid, and on-site batteries let visitors charge devices.

The prefabricated and modular nature of the design means installation doesn’t require building a new structure from scratch each time. Each funnel arrives at the site in pre-made sections that bolt together, and any number of units can be arranged into any configuration the site allows. In the reference proposal, seven funnels are arranged in a grid over a plaza, with drought-tolerant garden plantings filling the spaces between them.

That plaza arrangement gives visitors something more useful than just shade. The overhead canopy formed by the funnel array blocks enough direct sunlight to make the space comfortable in hot, arid conditions, which is significant given that the concept is intended for communities experiencing water stress. Gardens planted with low-water-consuming species fill the gaps between funnels, making the plaza functional as a green space even in dry climates.

Size is treated as a variable rather than a fixed specification, because the concept anticipates installation across different kinds of sites. A smaller cluster of funnels might serve a neighborhood corner or transit stop, while a larger array could anchor a civic plaza or regional park. The galvanized steel construction and bolted assembly make each installation relatively straightforward to adapt, scale, and transport to wherever it’s needed most.

The concept is currently unbuilt, but what distinguishes it from other multi-function proposals is that each function follows directly from the form rather than being added to it. The wide, concave top collects rain. The exposed edge holds solar cells. The shaded base provides seating. Nothing requires the structure to be shaped any differently to perform those jobs, which is the kind of efficiency that makes a proposal feel plausible.

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Get Ready for the Pavilion That Was Designed by the Sun Itself

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Architecture has always had to reckon with the sun. Buildings are oriented, shaded, and glazed in response to it, and solar panels are bolted onto them afterward. In most cases, the sun’s behavior is accommodated rather than consulted. The resulting forms come from a designer’s intentions and a structural engineer’s calculations, with sunlight as something to manage rather than the thing that generates the shape itself.

The Sun Shadow Pavilion starts from a different premise. Before any walls were drawn or a floor plan drafted, a scale model of a large square array of photovoltaic solar panels was placed above a flat white surface facing south. The sun then did the rest. The shadows it cast on that surface, traced every hour for eight hours as it crossed the sky, became the raw material for the entire structure.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Eight shadow outlines, each representing a different hour of the day, were converted into three-dimensional forms. Solid planes were inserted from the edges of each shadow up to the edges of the solar panels above, creating a set of inclined surfaces that defined the interior volume. That enclosed space, shaped by accumulated light and time rather than a stylist’s instinct, became the pavilion.

The design is also inherently site-specific and date-specific. If built, the shadows used to generate its form would be traced on the actual opening day, at the exact build location. A pavilion in the American Southwest, traced on a different opening date, would look different from one in northern Europe, or from the same structure inaugurated a decade earlier or later. Each built version would be unrepeatable.

The exterior form that results from this particular study is dramatic and unmistakably asymmetric, a cluster of dark, angled, sloping planes radiating outward from the flat solar array at the top. The interior is a complete reversal. The translucent solar cells that generate all of the pavilion’s power also filter light through the roof, keeping the space naturally bright during the public hours the shadow tracings were drawn to represent.

Walking through, the floor carries painted outlines of all eight shadow positions, so the exact geometry that produced the walls above can be read directly underfoot. The building’s origin story isn’t hidden in a design brief or a notebook; it’s painted on the ground you’re standing on. The structure explains itself to anyone willing to look down as well as up.

Beyond the solar panels, the structure handles its own climate without mechanical systems. The dark outer surface absorbs heat, and a double-skin wall construction moves warm or cool air into and away from the interior as needed. Rainwater collected from the exterior surfaces feeds underground storage tanks for use on-site. The pavilion’s stated purpose, to display advances in alternative energy technology, is also its operating model.

There’s an honesty to the whole approach that’s relatively rare in landmark building design. Most structures acquire their form through aesthetic decisions, historical references, or personal sensibility. This one derived its shape from a physical process that would have happened regardless of any design intention. The sun was going to cast those shadows anyway. The design simply had the sense to use them.

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Public Art Stands Still, This Steel House Lets You Slide It Apart

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Public art installations in parks have a familiar relationship with the people passing through them. They hold a fixed position, a fixed meaning, and a fixed form. You walk around them, read a plaque if there is one, and that’s usually the end of the conversation. The ones designed to provoke a genuine reaction tend to depend on scale or spectacle rather than something the visitor can actually change.

The Interactive Sliced House is part of a series that uses the most recognizable architectural shape there is as raw material. The house silhouette, walls, a pitched roof, and a doorway centered in front, is so deeply familiar that it functions almost like a word. This installation doesn’t just reference that shape. It cuts the whole thing into eight vertical slices and puts visitors in charge of what happens next.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

Two of the eight slices are solid white steel panels, one anchoring each end of the structure, both fixed permanently to a concrete pad on the ground. Each solid end has a doorway cut into its center. The six slices between them are open frames, the same house shape rendered as a hollow silhouette, and these slide freely along tracks set into the concrete beneath them.

Slide those six frames to one end, and the house snaps back into something close to its recognizable form, dense and legible from a distance. Pull them apart, and they scatter across the pad, creating a sequence of house-shaped thresholds that repeat across the concrete like the same word written over and over with increasing space between each letter. The structure stays the same; the space it makes changes completely.

Someone walking through the installation when the frames are spread out passes through threshold after threshold, each one framing a slightly different view of the park, the sky, and anyone else nearby. The frames create enclosed corridors between them when pushed together, and open, almost ceremonial passageways when pulled apart. Moving through the structure is different every visit, depending on how previous visitors left it.

The house shape is the installation’s real subject. It’s one of the first symbols children learn to draw, and one of the most loaded in the human symbolic vocabulary: shelter, family, belonging, property. Breaking it apart and handing the fragments to strangers in a public park is a way of asking what it means without having to say the question out loud, and without prescribing the answer.

The white painted steel keeps everything visually consistent regardless of how the slices are arranged, meaning no single configuration reads as more “correct” than another. There isn’t a right answer built into the materials. The installation can also be deployed as multiples, several units placed across a park at once, which would multiply its questions the same way the frames multiply the house shape when pulled apart.

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What If the Internet Had a Building You Could Actually Walk Inside?

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The internet has always been invisible. It moves information at a scale and speed the human mind can’t fully grasp, yet we access it through the most ordinary of interfaces: a flat screen, a pair of earphones, a keyboard. Nothing about how we physically engage with it reflects the enormity of what it represents, or what it means to be connected to the entire world from a single chair.

Michael Jantzen’s Internet Observatory concept addresses that disconnect directly by building a physical structure around the idea of internet access. Placed outdoors, the structure uses its architectural form to stand in for the abstract mechanics of the web. The outer support grid frame represents the internet’s matrix, while the curved space it encloses represents where a person enters and engages with the flow of information.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

You reach the interior by climbing a staircase up to an elevated platform and stepping inside the curved shell. At its center sits an interactive workstation that rises through a glass floor and can also rotate along the floor’s surface, letting the person inside face in any direction. It’s a deliberately simple setup that places one person at the physical center of a structure designed to represent the entire internet.

All of the large curved panels that form the enclosing space can be automatically repositioned around the occupant. The core can be fully open, fully closed, or any variation in between, depending on the activity. Some configurations allow for projecting images and sounds from the internet or the main computer onto the surrounding panels, turning the interior into a fully immersive display environment.

Some of those projected images also appear on the exterior faces of the panels, making what happens inside the structure visible to anyone nearby. A private internet session becomes something closer to a public exhibition, with the curved panels acting as screens that anyone outside the grid frame can see. The distinction between the individual’s experience and the community’s visibility gets built directly into the architecture.

Each structure would also have its own website, through which people could visit and interact with it remotely in real time, selecting images and sounds to be projected inside or directing the movement of the panels. Someone seated at the workstation might find the content surrounding them being shaped by a stranger thousands of miles away. The structure becomes a live, physical interface for the collaborative possibilities of the internet.

The design also contemplates many of these structures existing simultaneously around the world, each publicly or privately owned, all communicating with each other as they interact with their respective occupants. What begins as one architectural statement scales into a distributed global network, a physical version of the very internet it represents, built from steel frames and curved panels rather than servers and cables.

Jantzen calls this a “symbolic temple for the computer age,” and there’s something deliberate in that description. Climbing a staircase, entering a curved space, and sitting at the center while content from around the world flows around you is a kind of ritual that a laptop screen doesn’t offer. It’s an architectural argument for what it might feel like if the internet had a home you could walk into.

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