#project h

Final Performance

Dark streaks cut through the fingertips of Grey's near-black gloves from every blade of grass he ripped from the ground. Much like the flowers planted in patterns throughout the enclosed courtyard, its scent was sickeningly sweet.

Overwhelming.

Just like everything else he'd encountered in this lush prison while he and the others like him awaited their fate. Ironically, he hadn't slept the first night because the bed felt too soft and the room too quiet because he'd grown used to hard or thin mattresses and mutters fluttering in through windowpanes. He'd clawed at his dress shirt's fitted collar and cuffs over the past week as he savored the memory of the loose-fitting, ratting jacket and long-sleeved tee the wardens dumped in the trash shortly after he'd stepped foot inside this purgatory.

The lavishness of it all felt so utterly wasted, which is why he protested by sitting in the freshly cut garden with guards frowning at their posts by all the exits. None of them came over and hauled him to his feet, though. After all, could they really deny him this insignificant act?

So he sat, stretching out while he watched two other men sort through the weaponry rack under the small overhang on the chalk-outlined arena for a match. He strained to listen in on their hushed conversation, his stomach knotting at the tired glance one gave the other.

Grey knew that look. He knew it all too well from the past few weeks of running from this very place, practically hand-in-hand with him until they finally reached a dead-end. That was when he'd seen the hopelessness in his eyes, like the last of the sand trickled out of their hourglass.

Resignation laced with a pinch of optimism.

"What's the point?"

Grey stiffened, his head jerking to take in the scowling young woman standing next to him. The gold buttons of her double-breasted blazer glinted in the sun, but her features darkened as she crouched down next to him.

"It's a waste of time to practice," she grumbled.

"What makes you say that?" Grey asked, hating how quiet he sounded in comparison to her sharp words.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Think of us like actors waiting on the debut night of a play."

Grey cut her a quizzical look, but her solemn gaze was still set on the practice sword fight.

1968 Renault Project H

We Have Always Lived In The Castle by Shirley Jackson

Dark, melancholic and undoubtedly the source of so many horror movies, We Have Always Lived in the Castle tells the story of 18-year old Mary Katherine Blackwood, her sister Constance and their wheelchair bound uncle Julian, who live in a grand house in Vermont on their own. The rest of their family died six years ago in a tragic poisoning for which Constance was blamed but acquitted. The villagers still suspect and fear her though, so she lives as a shut-in and only Mary Katherine, called Merricat, ventures out into the world to buy food twice a week.

The existing kitchen was a classic U-shape. JUMA replaced it with a central island to create more openness. The kitchen island divides the kitchen, with the breakfast area on one side, and the rest of the kitchen on the other.

The color palette is very sober and soft, highlighted by a natural stone wall with two ultra fine steel shelves. The wooden wall next to the dining table provides a warm accent that contrasts with the concrete floor.

For the interior lighting, JUMA opted for small, elegant black light fixtures on a track since there was no possibility to work with a false ceiling. The tracks offer a lot of flexibility and visually accentuate the circulation lines, adding, in this way, to the overall aesthetic of the space.

Most of the decoration was selected by JUMA Architects from Piet Moodshop in Ghent. Photos © Annick Vernimmen