I am convinced that a good building must be capable of absorbing

The words of Peter Zumthor—“I am convinced that a good building must be capable of absorbing the traces of human life and taking on a specific richness... I think of the patina of age on materials, of innumerable small scratches on surfaces, of varnish that has grown dull and brittle, and of edges polished by use.”—resound like the philosophy of an ancient craftsman, one who sees the spirit of time dwelling within the materials of the earth. Zumthor, an architect whose work breathes silence and reverence, speaks here not of buildings merely as shelters of stone and wood, but as living witnesses of human presence. In his vision, a good building is not defined by perfection, but by its capacity to age with grace, to bear the touch of those who have lived within it, and to grow beautiful through wear, memory, and care.

This philosophy arises from the old wisdom that time is the true architect. In the temples of Greece, the monasteries of Tibet, and the wooden houses of Japan, the passing centuries have softened sharp edges, darkened beams, and smoothed thresholds where countless feet have walked. Each mark is not damage but history—a dialogue between human life and material form. When Zumthor speaks of patina, of scratches, of varnish grown brittle, he calls us to revere the visible evidence of existence. For in a world that worships the new, he reminds us of a sacred truth: that beauty deepens through endurance, and that the passage of time, far from diminishing a thing, can sanctify it.

Consider, for example, the Parthenon of Athens. When it was first raised, its marble shone white against the sun, a hymn of precision and order. But centuries of weather, war, and worship have carved into its stone a richness no craftsman could have planned. Its color has darkened, its columns bear the stains of wind and rain, and yet its dignity has only grown. The ancients built it for the gods, but it is humanity that has consecrated it through use, love, and time. It is precisely what Zumthor means: that a structure achieves true life when it absorbs the story of those who dwell near it, when it becomes a vessel for memory rather than mere function.

In his quote, Zumthor also speaks to a deeper mystery—the union between imperfection and beauty. The Japanese call this wabi-sabi: the reverence for things that show the hand of time. A cup with a crack, a wall faded by sunlight, a step worn smooth by generations—all are beautiful not despite their age, but because of it. The scratches and dull varnish that Zumthor describes are the handwriting of life itself. They are proof that the building has been touched, lived in, loved, and weathered. What the superficial eye sees as decay, the wise eye sees as transformation—the material world quietly keeping record of human passage.

There is also, in his words, a moral teaching. He speaks of buildings, but he might just as easily speak of souls. For just as a structure gains its character from time and touch, so too does the human spirit. The young may be flawless, like new plaster—bright and smooth—but it is the weathered heart that holds depth, compassion, and wisdom. The patina of age upon a person—the lines upon the face, the scars, the softened pride—is the mark of having lived fully. The lesson, then, is not to resist the traces of time, but to welcome them. Just as the craftsman loves the grain of wood or the chipped edge of stone, so should we learn to love the marks life leaves upon us.

One might think of the cathedrals of Europe, where generations have prayed beneath the same arches, where the stone floors are hollowed by countless knees. No architect, no matter how skilled, could have designed that feeling of sacredness born from centuries of use. It is not only structure that creates atmosphere—it is the imprint of life upon it. Zumthor, in his humility, understands that architecture reaches its truest form not when it resists change, but when it collaborates with time and humanity, allowing both to shape it in turn. The building becomes, like a wise elder, gentle, strong, and full of memory.

So let this be our understanding and our guide: to build, to create, or even to live, we must allow time to do its sacred work. Do not fear the scratches, the dullness, the worn edges—for they are the proof of your authenticity. Whether it is the furniture you use, the home you inhabit, or the life you live, remember that beauty lies not in remaining untouched, but in being touched deeply and often. Let your life, like a good building, absorb the traces of others, carry their warmth, and grow rich in texture.

For in the end, the greatest works—whether of architecture or of soul—are not those that resist time, but those that embrace it. They stand quietly, their surfaces bearing the music of years, whispering to those who come after: “Here, life has been lived.” And that, as Peter Zumthor teaches, is the highest art of all—to create or to become something that endures not in perfection, but in the grace of use, in the gentle poetry of age.