Marco d’Azzo:
Our research was based on documents found at the Archivio Storico Ticinese, the University, and the Accademia di Architettura in Mendrisio. We also learned that the Peppe Brivio archive was kept at the Archivi Architetti Ticinesi. Even though the house was in excellent condition, it was essential to locate all the construction drawings and detailed documentation of the building, as they confirmed that almost no alterations had been made over the years. We were certain that Brivio had designed the house exactly as it stood, and that this was how he intended it to be built. Everything was in the documents—doors, windows, furniture—fully drawn and detailed. Since we aimed to carry out a conservative restoration, this documentation greatly supported and guided our work.

Marco d’Azzo:
One of the very first meetings I had after receiving the commission was with Giacomo Veragouth. It’s a real stroke of luck that there are still companies that don’t operate solely through standardization or the sale of innovative products, but that are still capable of working hands-on with carefully crafted and complex elements—like the bookshelf in the study, which was something Horkheimer strongly wanted.

Marco d’Azzo:
First and foremost, it was thanks to a sensitive and thoughtful ownership. The fact that someone bought a house like this without the intention of maximizing all the available building potential—as the original structure doesn’t even come close to exploiting it—is already very telling. The idea from the beginning was restoration, and I was brought in specifically for that reason.
For about ten years now, I’ve been working almost exclusively on restoration projects, based on a simple reflection: if architects don’t safeguard our buildings, who will? We can’t expect real estate developers to take on that responsibility. At the cantonal level, there has been a rather late awakening to the need to preserve the work of the great Modernist architects who built in Ticino—just as we preserve early 20th-century architecture.
Fortunately, there are still people who enjoy living in homes with these kinds of spaces, and the one Giacomo and I worked on truly has some beautiful volumes.

Marco d’Azzo:
Without a doubt, all the wooden components—both inside and outside—were the most significant. In terms of the exterior, I’d say the windows and doors, while inside, the restoration of the original furniture was particularly demanding. That’s why I met with Giacomo right from the start.

Giacomo Veragouth:
The details were absolutely stunning. The design freedom was intriguing and seemingly simple—lightweight in their conception. Today, reproducing those same window frames with contemporary construction standards requires a lot of effort just to achieve that same visual and structural lightness. When working on a restoration, both the architect and the craftsman have to ask themselves whether there’s someone on the other side truly capable of interpreting the client’s vision. As artisans, we must decide whether to follow a strictly technical route, adhering to modern regulations, or instead aim to preserve the original lightness and intent of the design. It’s essential to interact in the right way. These are two very different approaches: one where the architect wants to develop a new product based on the original idea, and another where the intent is to reinterpret things in countless different ways. We need to collaborate with people who are truly well-prepared. When that preparation is there—as it was with architect d’Azzo—the process might be more complex, but it allows you to move forward with confidence.

Marco d’Azzo:
It’s a sequence of decisions that must be coherent. Once you define the philosophy with which to approach the project, you have to apply it to everything: the windows, the structure, the systems. You must ensure that every element respects the original, so the house is not distorted by the intervention.

Marco d’Azzo:
One of the reasons the owner fell in love with the house was precisely the space where the bookshelf is located—it’s an incredible place. In this profession, there are people who walk into a space like that and feel the need to make sure their intervention is visible. My approach is exactly the opposite. We dismantled and reassembled the bookshelf several times, sampling the finishes to recreate the exact same effect. In the end, we achieved precisely what I had envisioned.

Marco d’Azzo:
We redid the flooring and all the plasterwork, but adjustments in that room were minimal. Luckily, the bookshelf had a ceiling closure element that could be modified, which allowed us to work effectively. From a thermal performance standpoint, the simplest solution would have been to install internal insulation—but that would have meant lowering the bookshelf by at least ten centimeters, essentially cutting it. We had the space, technically, but the volume of the room would have changed completely. For the owner, the top priority was preserving the library exactly as it was.

Giacomo Veragouth:
It would have been much cheaper for everyone to build a new, identical bookshelf using contemporary materials, but the goal was authenticity. The bookshelf in place is the original one—it was disassembled and reassembled three times, even in two different locations for technical tests. These kinds of works take time, but that’s the path you need to take if you want to truly understand and enhance certain elements. You uncover the details one by one. Even the doors required the right amount of working time to interpret their authenticity correctly. We ran numerous tests to assess the material—whether it was too glossy or too matte, too new or too aged.

Marco d’Azzo:
This way of working demands care and close collaboration. You go on site, you check, correct, discuss. It’s all grounded in respect—first and foremost for the original project, for architect Peppe Brivio, then for the work of the craftsman, Giacomo, and also for my own role as architect. You have to find a point of cohesion, and I believe that with this project, by working in this way, we’ve achieved a particularly high level of quality.

Marco d’Azzo:
When it comes to restoration, there needs to be an attitude of coherence. If you’re working in an early 20th-century house, you can recreate herringbone flooring—be it Italian, Hungarian, or French. With the same mindset, you must approach a 1960s house. For the choice of materials, we followed the aesthetic line of modernism.

Some of the tile claddings reflect the flavor of those years, and the wooden floor on the lower level is made of oak cubes that we carefully selected, sampled, and presented to the client. While the material is different from the original, it evokes the same feeling.

The kitchen, too, was designed in the spirit of those years but updated for contemporary use. We made our proposals, and the client agreed with everything—a rather rare example of full participation and alignment between the client and the design choices.

Marco d’Azzo:
Very much so. It’s always a matter of culture. One must be able to recognize beauty, be interested in embracing it, and be willing to take on a restoration project. It takes a genuine passion for this kind of object.

Giacomo Veragouth:
Today we build structures that can stand for decades, but if we do so without care, we risk damaging entire areas and neighborhoods. It’s a serious responsibility—which is why a specialist cannot be just a technician. Historically, engineers and architects must work together in synergy. Beauty is not a luxury; it’s a necessity, and we must pursue it. In Ticino and Switzerland, there’s a deep-rooted culture of careful building. The architect plays a very specific role, and for us as a company, they are a central point of reference. For us, the architect is the client. The end customer is of course an essential partner—fortunately so—but the architect is the one who guides us through the project.

Marco d’Azzo:
Behind every quality project, there’s always an enlightened client—but it also requires mutual trust. I have to commit fully to achieving a certain level of quality, and the owner must do their part, not just economically but also in terms of active involvement.

The ability to identify beauty goes beyond rules. Rules should be tools to help achieve a goal; the important thing is to know them well and be able to bend them to suit the project. It’s a path made up of constant choices, and it also involves the history of the place.

Places have a soul, and that soul must be protected. This sense of responsibility has shaped my entire professional life. I’ve chosen to avoid working in conflict with a place, preferring to make harmonious choices based on what I find. I’ve been lucky to work in Berlin, in the U.S., in Seville—you can’t build the same way in Berlin as you do in Montagnola.

Marco d’Azzo:
I believe it’s a wonderful profession. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my father, because when we left Milan for Ticino in 1979, he steered me toward this path, recognizing my humanistic inclinations and my curiosity about how things work.

Before finishing high school, I had already spent two summers as an apprentice in a luthier’s workshop, so clearly the fascination with materials and mechanisms had always been with me. I think that was the best piece of advice my father ever gave me, because in just a little while it will be forty years since I opened my practice—and I’ve never once woken up thinking, “Oh no, I have to go to work.”