The facade of a building is a sort of skin for it. A dress, a kind of embroidery where the alternation of elements (full and empty, windows, materials, structural and decorative elements) gives a different rhythm every time. In my travels I always wander if it is possible to discover this rhythm and its variations, and if it is specific for that place, or whether modernity has made us all irreparably the same. But probably behind this interest there is also a sort of voyeurism. Who lives in these rooms? Which eyes glance from there? What kind of stories and tragedies hide in those houses?