Cardboard Box Architects

Blog

  • The Cult of the Shoebox

    Of all the forms in the canon, none is more adored and less understood than the shoebox. It is proportioned for a foot, which makes it nearly perfect for a loaf of cat. Its lid is a gift. Its tissue paper is a symphony.

    And yet the shoebox is fragile. A true shoebox dwelling cannot survive a determined kneading session; the walls give way at the 400th press. We counted. This is not a weakness. It is a lesson in impermanence, and we ask our clients to meditate on it while they push their entire weight into the side panel.

  • Interview: Marguerite Pounce, Structural Engineer

    Marguerite Pounce, our head of structures, has calculated the load capacity of every box the firm has built, and failed to tell us about 11 of them. We sat down with her in the strong room, a cabinet with the door ajar.

    ‘Structure is a feeling,’ she said. ‘A dwelling holds as long as nobody examines it too closely.’ Asked about the infamous Blodgett Collapse, she folded her paws and stared into the middle distance for exactly forty seconds. ‘It was a good collapse,’ she concluded. ‘Some of the cleanest creases of the decade.’ Our conversation ended when she noticed a bag.

  • Sustainability Statement: Our Carbon Pawprint

    We are proud to report that our annual carbon pawprint is the smallest in the sector, because we do almost nothing and we do it in boxes already made. Last year the studio produced an estimated 3.2 kilograms of emissions, most of it in one dramatic sneeze.

    Our waste stream is 100 percent recycled, in that we recycle it into more boxes. Our energy comes from a windowsill. Our transport policy is that nobody leaves. A third party audit by an elderly crow, Mr. Anselm Pewter, confirmed all of this in exchange for two sunflower seeds and a polite refusal to be photographed.

  • Autumn Threshold: The Door That Is Not a Door

    As the light shortens, the architect’s mind turns to doors, those hinged betrayals. A proper cat door is not a door at all, but a gesture: a flap that says I might leave, and then does not.

    This season’s Threshold Collection offers three variants. The Flap is a simple swing panel. The Almost is a slit with ambitions. The Philosopher is a hole that looks suspiciously like a door but is, in fact, a larger hole, cut with sufficient commitment to inspire doubt in every passing human. Each is priced between 14 and 29 treats, installed at the cat’s convenience, which is never.

  • Post Mortem: The Wet Weather Incident

    On the afternoon of the 27th, a project we shall not name (it was the Tideway Pavilion) met a sudden squall. The roof, a gentle origami of hope, absorbed 4 litres of water and then simply declined.

    We take responsibility. The architect on duty, Beatrix Clawford, was reportedly ‘indoors, thinking about it.’ We have since issued a waterproofing protocol: no outdoor sites during weather, no weather during sites, and a new clause in every contract stating that rain is an ‘act of the universe, aimed at us.’ The Tideway clients have been refunded in full, or at least in half, and a quarter of a sardine.

  • On Tape: Structural Honesty and the Roll

    Tape is the confession of the cardboard craftsman. Every strip declares what the board could not hold alone. We refuse to hide it. The seams of our buildings are celebrated in a rich, glossy, slightly crackling beige.

    Our house standard is 48 millimetre clear packing tape, applied in an X at each joint, plus one decorative stripe for the sake of the gods. A full dwelling consumes 19 metres. Be warned that the tape also finds its way onto the architect, particularly on the left hind paw, where it provides a sort of unexpected anklet. We call this ‘site hazard,’ and we bill it.

  • Loft Conversion: The Hollis Annex

    The Hollis household had a wardrobe and a dream. We transformed the wardrobe into a loft, on the principle that every top shelf is a penthouse waiting for its first resident.

    The Annex features a hinged hatch, an ascent of three upholstered steps, and a lookout post that overlooks the dresser, the doorway and, for three hours a day, the dog. Tenant Marmalade Hollis has described the experience as ‘regal, but with echoes.’ The build cost 52 treats in materials and a stiff negotiation about a particular sock. We call it a quiet triumph.

  • Exhibition Notice: The Biennale of Very Small Spaces

    Cardboard Box Architects will exhibit at the Biennale of Very Small Spaces, held in the stairwell of the Hollow Oak Community Hall from 21 to 23 August. Admission is free, though we do accept tribute in the form of dried bonito.

    Our pavilion, titled ‘Inside, Mostly,’ is a 40 centimetre cube containing a smaller cube, containing a still smaller one, arranged so that the last cube holds only an echo. Visitors are asked to remove their shoes, their coats and, if at all possible, their expectations. A reception follows at 6 p.m. with a cheese tray that we have already inspected, repeatedly.

  • Ask the Architect: How Many Holes Is Too Many?

    A reader named Mr. Whitby of Garden Flat 3 writes: ‘We cut 27 holes in our main dwelling. Is this excessive?’ Mr. Whitby, you are living in a colander, and we envy you.

    Structural integrity declines roughly 4 percent per hole after the sixth, so by our arithmetic you are at a stately minus 84 percent. The good news is that a box with no integrity at all has a certain freedom. It can fold, slump or mate with a nearby paper bag. Our recommendation: stop at 31, tape the edges, and tell the neighbours it is a deliberate commentary on privacy.

  • Why We Reject the Window

    Our critics accuse us of hostility toward glazing. This is false. We are not hostile; we are merely correct. A window is a hole through which the outside world is permitted to be loud at you.

    We prefer the porthole, a modest circular perforation roughly 11 centimetres across, cut with a pair of scissors and an air of reluctance. It admits just enough daylight to hold a mood, and just enough bird to be tormenting. For the client who insists on a view, we offer the Peekaboo Wall: fourteen portholes at varying heights, so that no passerby can tell which one is watching them. This is the entire point of architecture.