The entries are arranged alphabetically by architect, pairing exterior and interior photographs with short texts. Among the houses are Fernanda Canales’s Casa Terreno, Charles and Ray Eames’s Case Study House No. 8, and Mauricio Pezo and Sofía von Ellrichshausen’s Casa Luna. Photographs move from the buildings and their surroundings into living rooms, courtyards, stairways, and book-lined interiors, giving readers plenty to examine at different scales.

A foreword by Dutch architect Francine Houben introduces the relationship between home and professional practice. An illustrated chronology at the back offers another way through the collection, placing the houses in sequence by date. Across 352 pages, this book of architects’ own homes provides a broad set of references for anyone interested in residential architecture—or gathering ideas for a home of their own.

New diagrams separate structural frames, walls, and interiors so their construction is easy to follow. Archival sketches show layouts taking shape by hand. Across six chapters, the book connects the couple’s residential architecture with their work in furniture, textiles, toys, and graphics. A dedicated chapter examines their own home, Case Study House No. 8, through newly commissioned photography and material from the Eames Office archive.

The 288-page hardcover includes contributions by Catherine Ince and forewords by Norman Foster and Eames Demetrios. Its tall cover carries a blue cross and red lettering, with further geometric graphics across the back. For readers interested in mid-century homes, it offers a detailed look at the Eameses’ use of prefabricated components and flexible living spaces.

The book moves between Japanese landscapes, architecture, gardens, cultural sites, interiors, materials, and craft traditions. These references are placed alongside Norm Architects’ own work, showing how Japanese ideas have informed projects such as Äng restaurant in Sweden and Heatherhill Beach House in Denmark.

This is not a general coffee-table survey of Japan. It is a studio-led visual and written study of how two design cultures can meet through shared concerns: nature, light, proportion, material honesty, craft, atmosphere, and the way spaces shape everyday experience. Commentary from collaborators in Japan and Scandinavia adds context to the images and helps explain the design principles behind the book.

At 304 pages, Stillness is substantial enough for architects, interior designers, collectors, and serious design readers, while still working as a visually rich gift book. It belongs on the shelf of anyone interested in Japanese interiors, Scandinavian architecture, sensory design, and the connection between place, material, and daily life.

The homes featured here rely on clarity of form and restraint of palette, but never feel closed off. Long portals, deep porches, courtyards, and expanses of glass pull the landscape directly into daily life. Adobe sits comfortably beside steel and glass, not as a nostalgic gesture but as a practical and cultural material—adapted to modern needs without losing its roots.

Casey Dunn’s photographs give these spaces room to breathe. The images linger on shadows, thresholds, and the way art and architecture share the same visual language. What comes through most clearly is a sense of place: architecture shaped by climate and culture, but unafraid of abstraction or rigor. A book for anyone interested in how modernism can be both precise and deeply connected to the land.

Breuer’s Bohemia follows the homes he designed in Connecticut and Massachusetts from the 1950s through the ’70s, and it treats them as more than isolated “great houses.” They’re part of a living scene: clients who became friends, weekends that turned into salons, and a tight circle that pulled architecture into the same room as art and literature. Rufus and Leslie Stillman and Andrew and Jamie Gagarin are at the center of it, with the larger cast orbiting nearby—Alexander Calder, Arthur Miller, Francine du Plessix Gray, Philip Roth, William Styron.

James Crump tells the story with the instincts of a filmmaker (his documentary shares the title), using original research and interviews to bring voices back into the rooms. The book is heavy on imagery—vintage shots, contemporary photography, and archival material you don’t usually see—which makes the houses feel less like icons and more like places where people argued, hosted, retreated, and kept building a version of postwar culture around the table.

The book travels across landscapes and climates, from remote forest clearings and lakesides to coastal settings and dense urban environments. Some saunas sit lightly in nature, built from raw timber and stone. Others take on more sculptural forms, floating on water or embedded into hillsides, where the boundary between inside and outside becomes part of the experience.

What connects the projects is their attention to placement and use. These are spaces designed around ritual—heat, rest, repetition—but also around how people arrive, undress, gather, and leave. Interiors are often minimal, with materials chosen for how they age, hold heat, and respond to moisture. Views, light, and enclosure are treated as functional elements rather than decoration.

Rather than presenting saunas as lifestyle objects, the book treats them as architectural typologies. It looks at how contemporary designers reinterpret an ancient practice, adapting it to modern contexts without losing its essential simplicity.

From cliff-edge pods to centuries-old stone bothies, the profiles foreground structure and use: steel anchors biting into scree, timber bunks smoothed by boots, solar kits tucked behind corrugated skins. Standouts include Slovenia’s Bivak pod Skuto, France’s tiny Bivouac des Périades poised on an arête, Switzerland’s compact Bivouac du Dolent, and New Zealand’s scarlet Sefton Bivouac—the oldest surviving alpine hut. One quiet pleasure: noticing glove-friendly latches and frost-rimmed rooflines.

Reach for it to plan a hut traverse, spark compact off-grid design ideas, or hand to the climber in your life. It lives well beside topo maps and a thermos on the coffee table.

From Maison Hécourt in France (restraint over nostalgia) to Ghislaine Viñas’s Lasher Road in the U.S. (imperfection treated as inheritance), the book shows how people tune historic bones to daily life. You’ll see “adaptive repair” in an 1842 sandstone dwelling in Tasmania, a minimalist refuge at Ireland’s Lost Cottage under the Dark Sky Reserve, and Iceland’s Mount Stapafell Cottage—a 17th-century merchant’s house restored with local craft and a steady gaze toward the Atlantic.

Use it to plan a renovation, reset a mood board, or gift it to a friend dreaming of a small patch of land—ideas you can actually put to work.

As the cover (page 1) signals, a daring cantilever and stair tower set the tone: bold, weathered, precise. Perego’s images linger on board-formed surfaces, chipped edges, patched joints, and the way light skims across ribs and arcs. He’s after evidence of life and time—repairs, stains, and ad-hoc adaptations that turn structures into records of use rather than museum pieces.

Keep it on the desk for material reference, on the coffee table for quick inspiration, or gift it to an architecture-minded friend. It pairs neatly with titles on Brutalism and postwar design.

More than 150 photographs pair with floor plans and site notes, tracing how each project shapes privacy, micro-climate, and ritual around an outdoor room. Whether you’re plotting a remodel or just craving a window into calmer ways of living, these pages open to sky.