Dennis L. Landicho - Architect, Parañaque (2026)

03/09/2026

In 2010, I worked for a luxury real estate company. That was when I was introduced to container van structures, either in the form of a sales office or a model unit. I liked the idea of utilizing something that would otherwise be in a junkyard. A few years later, I designed my first container house for a couple whose son goes to the same school as my daughter. I thought that it takes a couple of interesting people to actually entertain the idea of living in a container van.

Would you consider a container van home for your family? Share your thoughts in the comments.

25/08/2026

18 years in, seeing what was once “just drawings” on paper come to reality and become built works never ceased to amaze me. The 5 years of learning in college and 2 years of apprenticeship continue to give back in ways I never expected.

Every project taught me something different—not just about architecture, but about people, collaboration, responsibility, and the patience required to see an idea through from concept to reality.

Looking back, I realise that architecture is not simply about drawing buildings. It is about learning how to see, think, solve, communicate, and create something that eventually becomes part of someone’s life.

And after 18 years, I’m still learning.

18/08/2026

Why is it often easier to design a new building than to renovate an old one?

A new building starts with a blank page. We know the site, establish the requirements, develop the structure and systems, and make decisions from the ground up. With an existing building, we’re starting with a history, much of which may be undocumented.

One of the first challenges is finding out what we’re working with. There may be no reliable as-built drawings, records of repairs or alterations, or anyone who remembers why certain decisions were made. If the original architect is no longer available, we may see the result of a design without knowing the context that produced it.

That context matters. A wall may look unnecessary, but perhaps it was added because of a structural problem. An unusual room dimension may have been designed around a particular piece of equipment. A window may seem poorly positioned until you understand the original orientation, ventilation strategy, or view. Even an awkward circulation path may have been a response to a constraint that no longer exists, or one that still does.

This is why renovation is not simply a matter of giving an old building a facelift. We have to understand not only what is there, but why it is there.

And sometimes, what we discover has nothing to do with aesthetics. In one renovation project, we discovered a large cistern directly underneath a leased space intended for a veterinary clinic. That discovery had implications for the use, structure, services, and ultimately the design itself, the kind of thing that never shows up in a photograph or floor plan, and that walking the site alone would not have revealed.

This is why pre-design studies are not an unnecessary expense. Site verification, documentation, structural investigation, and other due diligence are part of the design process. They help us understand what can be retained, what needs repair, what needs to change, and what should be removed.

For clients, this can feel like unnecessary time and cost before anything visible happens. But shortcuts at this stage can be expensive later. Discovering a structural problem after construction has started is more costly than finding it during investigation and design. More importantly, some mistakes can compromise the safety of the people who will eventually use the building.

Renovation requires a different kind of architectural thinking. We’re not just designing around existing walls and columns. We’re interpreting the decisions of people who came before us, often without having access to the information that informed those decisions.

Perhaps that is why renovating an old or abandoned building can be more difficult than designing a new one. A new building asks, “What should we build?” An old building first asks, “What are we actually dealing with, and why is it this way?” The best renovation projects don’t begin with demolition or finishes. They begin with investigation, curiosity, and respect for the building’s history.

13/08/2026

I’ll be honest. The AI version looks better. The lighting is more polished, the landscaping feels richer, and overall, it looks more like a finished architectural photograph. If you showed both images to someone without an architectural background, I wouldn’t be surprised if they preferred the AI-generated one.

But that’s what makes the comparison interesting. The AI wasn’t asked to design the house. I started with my own 3d model and used it as the basis for the rendering, with the intention of improving the presentation while preserving the design. And yet, some things changed. The roof geometry is different, some proportions and relationships have shifted, and there are differences in depth, scale, openings, and other details. The roof pitch, for example, came out shallower than what I had modeled. To someone looking at the image, that might not be obvious. To the architect who designed it, it matters. A change in roof pitch isn’t simply a visual difference. It can affect how the building actually performs when the rain comes.

This is why I don’t think the conversation should be about whether AI can produce a better rendering than an architect. In many cases, it clearly can. I have nothing against AI, and I believe architects should learn how to work with it rather than fear it. The more important question is how we use it.

AI can make a presentation more convincing, but the architect is still responsible for making sure that what is being presented is true to the design. A rendering is only one small part of architecture. Behind that image are the site analysis, plans, elevations, sections, details, schedules, codes, coordination, construction, and countless decisions about how the building should actually work.

So I’m not interested in proving that I can render better than AI. I’d rather use AI to make my work better while remaining responsible for what the image communicates. The goal isn’t to compete with AI. It’s to know what should never be surrendered to it.

07/08/2026

I recently heard a question on The Second Studio Podcast by FAME Architects that I haven’t been able to shake.

One of the hosts shared that he was approached to design a building on a site. Before thinking about the design itself, he found himself asking a different question: Should this project be built at all?

As architects, we’re trained to solve problems through design. We study sites, develop concepts, and refine solutions. But over time, I’ve come to realize that perhaps one of the most important questions comes before any of that. It changed the way I looked back at one of the projects that meant the most to me as a student.

Eighteen years ago, my undergraduate thesis proposed a resort development on Maniwaya Island in Marinduque. At the time, I had spoken with a local tourism officer and genuinely believed the province needed greater recognition to strengthen its tourism industry. A resort felt like a meaningful contribution, and I approached the project with all the optimism and creative freedom of a young architecture student.

Looking back today, I’m not sure I would arrive at the same conclusion.

Tourism creates jobs, supports local businesses, and brings opportunities to communities that need them. Those benefits are real. But so are the environmental and social costs that can come with development. If I were exploring the same site today, I’d probably be more interested in community-based tourism or carefully managed eco-tourism—approaches that invite people to experience the island while giving local communities a greater role in protecting it and benefiting from it.

I still don’t know whether leaving Maniwaya largely untouched is the right answer. Perhaps some level of development is appropriate. Perhaps it isn’t. What I do know is that experience has made me more cautious about assuming that every opportunity to build should be taken. Restraint can be as thoughtful a design decision as construction itself.

Perhaps that’s one of the lessons that comes with time. Experience doesn’t just teach architects how to design better buildings. It teaches us that sometimes the most responsible design decision is deciding not to build at all—or at least having the humility to ask whether building is the right response in the first place.

I’m sharing a few snippets from that thesis not because I still believe it represents the best solution, but because it’s an honest snapshot of how I thought 18 years ago. Looking back reminds me that lifelong learning isn’t about proving our younger selves wrong. It’s about asking better questions than we did before.

02/08/2026

About ten years ago, a contractor referred a client who had acquired a small corner property along Pasong Tamo in Makati. The vision was a mixed-use building, with a bank occupying the ground floor and offices above. What made the project memorable was not its size or location — it was the first commercial building I designed entirely as myself. Up until then, much of my work had been done under another architect or as part of a larger firm. This was different: every line, every proportion, and every design decision carried my own name and responsibility. I was in my late twenties, still learning the profession, but grateful that someone trusted me with their vision.

The project never moved beyond the concept stage. There was no disagreement, no dramatic ending, and no groundbreaking ceremony — it simply became one of those projects that quietly remained in a folder of drawings and renderings, one I still return to from time to time. If I were designing the same building today, I would make different decisions. There is probably more glass than I would use now, and I would look for more opportunities to introduce greenery and create a gentler relationship between the building and the street. Years of practice have a way of reshaping not only how we design, but also what we value.

I'm glad I kept those drawings. Architecture has taught me that not every project is meant to become a building. Some exist to mark a season in your career — reminders of who you were, the questions you were asking, the risks you were willing to take, and the architect you were slowly becoming. I don't know what stands on that corner in Makati today, but somewhere in an old archive is the building that almost did. Looking back, I think its greatest purpose was never to occupy that corner. It was to teach a young architect what it meant to take ownership of his work.

30/07/2026

In 2015, I found myself becoming part of the construction of a church, not because I was commissioned, but because I simply asked how I could help.

Construction had already begun, but the project had stalled. The original architect could no longer continue, and the committee needed someone to revise portions of the design to fit a tighter budget. Before making a single change, I asked that we first seek the original architect's consent. We received it, and only then did I begin working.

Looking back, I realize that I was not only learning how to design a church. I was also learning how to work with people.

The project brought together members of different committees, engineers, contractors, and several architects, each with their own ideas and perspectives. Many had accomplished far more than I had. Some were professors. Others had written books or built distinguished careers. Next to that, my volunteering felt small, and it made sense that their word carried more weight than mine.

Whenever a new architect joined the discussion, the project seemed to return to the beginning. Fresh ideas were introduced, previous decisions were revisited, and the conversation shifted toward a different direction. I understood why. Every architect wants to contribute the best solution they can see. Yet each new round of discussions made me feel as though the work had to prove itself all over again, and so did I.

When I volunteered, my intention was never to leave my mark on the project. I simply wanted to help the church move forward, continue what had already been started, and make the best use of the resources that had been entrusted to it. Over time, however, I found myself wondering whether I was trying to build a church or earn the right to remain at the table. It is one thing to have your design criticized. It is another to have your intentions questioned when they were the one thing you were certain of. Eventually, I decided to step away from the committee.

Several months later, I received an invitation to the church's dedication. I attended, and as I stood before the completed church, I realized that I was no longer thinking about which design had been built. I was simply grateful that the project had reached completion. I had not returned to see my work. I had returned to witness what a community of people had accomplished together. That day gave me the closure I did not know I needed.

More than a decade later, I barely remember the criticisms. What stayed with me were the lessons. I learned that good intentions do not always protect us from misunderstanding, and that serving does not always come with appreciation. I also learned that expertise deserves respect, but so does every sincere contribution, regardless of experience.

Not every project leaves behind a portfolio piece. Some leave behind perspective and a quiet reminder that architecture has always been about something greater than ourselves. Looking back, those have turned out to be the projects that shaped me the most.

P.S. The built church looks entirely different than how I designed it initially and I’m at peace with it.

24/07/2026

Recently, someone asked me what I do with old designs. It’s not exactly a tough question, but I failed to give a quick response. I went on to share that I just keep them in digital folders with the thought that I might be able to use them in the future. In truth, I never got to reuse any of my designs. But I keep them anyway, not because of sentimental value but because they remind me of how far I’ve come and how much more I can improve.

This is one example of an early design iteration that did not materialize, not due to lack of effort, but because it can get better. The end result is probably one of the highlights of my career so far.

18/07/2026

Early in my career, I was fortunate to design homes like this one. Looking back, I realize it wasn’t because I had somehow figured out how to attract high-end clients. I had simply spent years learning how to work with them before I ever went out on my own.

My apprenticeship exposed me to clients in upscale residential communities. Later, working for a real estate developer serving the luxury market taught me that these projects demand more than bigger budgets. They require careful listening, clear communication, attention to detail, and the discipline to earn trust throughout the process.

People often ask how to break into the high-end residential market. My experience is that the goal shouldn’t be chasing high-end clients. The goal should be becoming the kind of architect who can confidently serve them when the opportunity comes.

Clients don’t just hire a portfolio. They hire the judgment, professionalism, and experience behind it. Those qualities are usually built long before anyone notices your work.

16/07/2026

This house renovation takes me back to 2012.

I was just starting my freelance architectural practice when an Englishman married to a Filipina approached me about renovating their home. Their vision was a Tuscan-inspired residence that reflected both his roots and the life they were building together here in the Philippines.

Like many young architects, I was eager to solve the design problem. We talked about floor plans, proportions, materials, natural light, and architectural details. But as the meetings went on, I realized that the conversations I found most valuable weren’t really about the house. They were about how they lived, what reminded them of home, and where their preferences met and occasionally differed.

Somewhere along the way, the design stopped feeling like a presentation and became a conversation.

Looking back, that project quietly shaped the way I practice architecture today.

Clients rarely remember every drawing, dimension, or construction detail years later. What they remember is whether they felt heard. Whether their concerns were respected. Whether someone took the time to understand what home meant to them before putting pencil to paper.

People often describe architecture as the art of designing buildings. Over the years, I’ve come to think it’s just as much about building trust. The drawings, specifications, and details matter, but they come after listening.

That project was one of the first reminders that good design doesn’t begin with answers. It begins with understanding someone else’s story.

Dennis L. Landicho - Architect

03/09/2026

25/08/2026

18/08/2026

13/08/2026

07/08/2026

02/08/2026

30/07/2026

24/07/2026

18/07/2026

16/07/2026

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