Pezo von Ellrichshausen

Nestled within a dense forest at the foot of the Andes, in the Chilean village of Santa Lucía Alto, Casa Luna by Pezo von Ellrichshausen stands as an enigmatic and monumental work of architecture. More than a residence, more than a museum, it is an intricate compound of living, working, and exhibition spaces—an austere and poetic cloister cast entirely in exposed concrete.



Spanning 2,400 square meters and occupying a 120-hectare site, Casa Luna is composed of twelve discrete volumes unified by a square footprint and bisected by an asymmetrical cross. This configuration yields four internal courtyards of distinct character: one elongated along the natural slope of the site and aligned with the movement of the sun; another perfectly flat, bordered by triangular ends and anchored by a solitary Chilean chestnut tree; a third defined by circular flowerbeds; and the largest, a pond-filled patio that recalls the scale of a medialuna—the bullring from which the house derives its name.


The design defies simple classification. Its fortress-like profile—a long, horizontal stroke of grey nestled in the greenery—conceals a nuanced spatial landscape. Intimate and monumental, solemn and open, the interiors of Casa Luna unfold through a series of carefully orchestrated rooms. Some are lit by symmetrical skylights or punched windows; others are left ambiguous and opaque, their boundaries dissolved by the geometry of light and form.


The material palette is raw and tactile. Rough concrete, recycled wood, and glass compose a building that feels ancient yet contemporary—crafted, not manufactured. Every wall bears the marks of manual labor: hand-cut rebar, uneven formwork, in-situ mixed concrete. These imperfections imbue the structure with a palpable humanity, echoing the surrounding natural environment more than any perfected artifact ever could.


Casa Luna embodies the architectural philosophy of its creators. Mauricio Pezo and Sofia von Ellrichshausen eschew conceptual reduction, preferring instead to see their buildings as autonomous systems of spatial relationships. In this project, their intent was not to create a house, nor a museum, but a secular cloister—a continuum of domestic and creative life articulated through patios, volumes, and thresholds.


Although legally and technically defined as twelve buildings—due to seismic joints separating the volumes—Casa Luna is experienced as a single, unified structure. It accommodates five dwellings, multiple workshops for painting, sculpture, and fabrication, along with exhibition spaces and a cylindrical library. The transitions between rooms are subtle, emphasizing continuity over compartmentalization. There is no single main axis or hierarchy of space; rather, the design fosters a fluid, almost labyrinthine navigation through functions and atmospheres.


Seen from above, Casa Luna registers as a rational geometry. On the ground, it becomes something else entirely: a landscape of light and concrete, a home and a studio, a shrine to slowness and attention. It is architecture that neither explains nor simplifies—but invites.


In addition to Casa Luna, two smaller concrete structures—Rosa and Lama—stand quietly elsewhere on the site. Like the main complex, these pavilions are monolithic and introspective, offering condensed architectural experiences within the vast natural surroundings. Together, they echo the language of Casa Luna while asserting their own spatial identities—solitary meditations in concrete scattered across the forested landscape.


Rosa, the earlier of the two pavilions, is a 40-square-meter structure perched atop a rocky hill. Sunken slightly into the terrain, its floor lies 60 centimeters below the immediate ground level, emphasizing a sense of retreat and stillness. Its square footprint is defined not by mass but by absence—framed by a thin concrete roof slab supported by four off-corner columns. The load-bearing elements are subtly embedded, and the frameless glazing that runs between the roof and earth blurs any boundary between enclosure and landscape. The space becomes a suspended void—at once exposed and sheltered, elemental and refined.


At the center of the room, a fireplace sits on the diagonal, casting a radial logic through the plan. A rectilinear chimney punctures the roof, doubling as a sundial, while a slender external staircase provides access to the rooftop, suggesting an alternate mode of inhabitation. Pezo and von Ellrichshausen describe Rosa as “a hut lacking interiority,” a space carved from the hill but touching the sky. Depending on one’s position—beneath or above the concrete slab—the pavilion oscillates between the cave and the cloud, the grounded and the ethereal. Its stillness is deceptive; structurally, Rosa is stabilized by cross beams embedded in the slab, designed to withstand both static and seismic stresses, allowing for an architecture of subtle equilibrium.


Lama, by contrast, is a vertical figure drawn into the horizon—a lookout tower rooted in the earth yet oriented toward the distant Andes. Defined by a narrow and elongated plan, Lama functions as a concrete staircase rising through space, culminating in an elevated viewpoint that captures the vast landscape in all directions. While Rosa retreats, Lama projects—a solitary totem of observation in a field of silence. Its ascent is meditative, with each landing offering a new perspective, a moment of pause before reaching the final panoramic aperture at the top.


The geometry of Lama is deceptively simple: a slender monolith with a singular path within. Yet its spatial experience is cinematic, calibrated to frame fragments of forest, sky, and mountain. The verticality of the form is balanced by its mass, anchoring it in the rolling terrain. Without ornament or distraction, Lama asserts its presence with clarity and poise. It is a structure that insists on slowness—on climbing, looking, and listening—and in doing so, offers a quiet counterpoint to the expansive horizontality of Casa Luna.