Glass House Prealpina: A Metamorphosis in the Italian Alps

Dense vegetation partially hides a small, derelict agricultural store. Although weathered by time, its stone walls remain as clear vestiges of the past, rising from the dry brush only to stop abruptly where the roof once sat. The traditional pitched roof, a hallmark of the Alpago vernacular, has long since vanished.

A short distance downhill sits a former barn with an adjacent outbuilding. Unlike the store, this structure retains its plastered walls, wooden window frames, and pitched roof. Although the barn requires restoration, its traditional form provides the architectural template for this project. Together, these two structures form the core of the design.

Glass House Prealpina: Reinterpreting the casera typology

Once a store and a barn, these structures formed a casera – a traditional Alpine farmstead. Although functionally distinct, they were deeply interdependent, their relationship shaped by the demands of farming this site in Pianon, a hamlet of Tambre, but long since obscured by neglect. A palpable sense of history permeates the site, as if its current state were merely a pause in an ongoing story.

Guided by this sense of interrupted history, the architect prioritized honoring the site’s past by reuniting the two volumes – not only functionally, but through a physical and perceptual reconnection.

The derelict store was demolished and reconstructed several meters downhill, adjacent to the former barn. However, because these were distinct structures within the one narrative, the architect chose not to merge them into a single mass. Through this demolition and reconstruction process, the small outbuilding adjoining the barn was repurposed as a link between the two primary volumes. While echoing its original form, this new interstitial space was reduced in scale to preserve the overall composition.

The result is a unified form – a modern casera – that reestablishes the site’s fragmented history and brings its long-dormant character back to life.

“Without light, there is no architecture”

Influenced by Philip Johnson’s Glass House and Alberto Campo Baeza’s use of light, Glass House Prealpina is a glazed pavilion at the end of a pedestrian path. The structure features wide-flange steel sections and a pitched roof clad in larch boards. Set at a 45-degree angle, the roof is a deliberate design gesture that recalls both the surrounding houses and the formation of the mountains.

The interiors reflect Campo Baeza’s philosophy that “without light, there is no architecture”. Three glazed sides – framed in anthracite aluminum to match the metalwork – face the valley, diffusing sunlight across opaque internal surfaces and heat-treated oak flooring. The volume is physically reconnected to the former barn via a service corridor – housing the bathroom – that acts as a filter between the two structures. Since the barn remained largely intact, the only work needed was sanding and repainting the exterior walls, replacing the windows with new timber frames, applying a raw plaster finish to the interior surfaces, and restoring the roof.

By using the timber, glass, and vernacular forms of a casera, the project reestablishes a formal kinship with the site. The project restores the historic connection between the two primary volumes, reuniting them in a way that honors the site’s heritage. By establishing a relationship based on reflection and a mutual respect for the surroundings, the result is architecture that belongs to the landscape.

Peace and reflection

Looking out across this vast landscape offers a sense of constant peace and reflection. With its expansive glazing and low-carbon materials, the casera is an integral part of the landscape. The interior functions as both a protected sanctuary and a place of repose, dissolving the boundary between indoors and out to create a singular, immersive experience.

Looking out across the vast Alpago landscape, the casera catches my eye – its shape, the glazed walls, the pitched roofs, and the timber cladding that has replaced the stone. The second building, now set firmly in the ground, holds the structure once lost to the brush close by. No – it keeps it company. I don’t see one building forcing itself upon the other, but a metamorphosis – two distinct structures now held together by their shared history. The way they overlook the landscape is so compelling that I have to turn away. I look back, and it hits me again: I’m no longer just an outside observer, but part of the space itself. The casera – a place of shelter and rest – draws me in. From inside, I look down across the valley and contemplate the landscape. The horizon stretches far beyond my view, yet within the casera’s sheltered space, I feel secure. I take in the landscape and the architecture. A sense of peace settles over me. I am at home.