This is a humanized landscape of meadows, walls, ash, streams, a small-scale landscape, minimal, almost domestic, and where absolutely everything has yellow accents. In spring poke all yellow flowers. In the summer, the cereal, harvest, and the Castilian heat are yellow.
Fall only comes here in yellow ash, millions of tiny leaves that die in a lingering and dry yellow. In winter, yellow insists in glowing flashes of yellow lichen on the gray trunks of ash trees. And here the machines are yellow, the signs are yellow, all is yellow.
We bought a meadow in this landscape 15 years ago, and after 12 years of yellow contemplation, we decided to build a house there, a refuge, a piece of landscape as a frame, a small inhabited threshold with two views, east and west.
To the west, a nearby view of rocks, moss, brambles and ancient ash. And to the east, the distant dawn over the yellow mountains. This double view and the body finished the design of the house. Everything is small, everything is short, everything has a tiny scale. From outside, the view slides over the house:
The eye only stops at a yellow gate guarding the doorway, and a yellow chimney that warms it, the rest is invisible.
And when sitting, stopping in the doorway, the house disappears and the world continues in yellow.