There’s something about Cycladic architecture that feels almost liminal, this strange balance of precision and softness. The clean white forms, pared down to their essentials, don’t fight with the landscape but somehow heighten it. On Milos, I found myself tracing these lines with my eyes, watching how a sharp corner would dissolve into the sea’s horizon, or how a washed out wall seemed to borrow its texture from the cliffs and salt air. It’s architecture that stands out against it like a quiet statement.
The minimalism isn’t sterile here it’s alive and calming bleached by sunlight, softened by age, shaped by the wind. It’s this harmony and juxtaposition that I saw: the cleanliness of form holding hands with the untamed rhythms of nature.
