four walls and a roof (only for the wind to pass through)

The stable is not only a building — it is part of a visual vocabulary. Postcards, ads, and tourism media have long framed it as a symbol of tradition, purity, and Swiss identity. This picturesque image is powerful, but it is also constructed. What we see is not the whole story, but a curated version of landscape and culture.

With the changes in alpine farming, the stable is no longer just a utility structure but it has become a cultural artefact. Seasonal transhumance is now recognized as UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage, and the buildings that supported it are increasingly seen as symbols of identity by a heritage protection stance. 

Built from what was at hand, the stable reflects an architecture of necessity. Livestock below, hay above: its logic is clear and efficient. Yet as use disappears, the form remains. Today, the typology raises questions: What defines identity? Structure, use, or silhouette? How much can change before it becomes something else?

As agriculture modernized, many stables were left behind. Today, maintenance is expensive, and new uses are often restricted by law. For farmers under pressure, pragmatic decisions shape how these buildings live on or not. The stable becomes a mirror of rural economies: valued, yet burdened by heritage, memory, and market.

Land-use laws, zoning regulations, and heritage protections govern what can be done with stables. These frameworks reflect deeper values: who defines authenticity, what is considered worth preserving, and who benefits from reuse. Behind each decision lies negotiation — between past and present, use and image, legality and loophole.

“I am the Lover. Every nail, every joint – like before. We can’t improvise with heritage; it’s fragile yet official. My task is to keep the past visible in its original form, not to modernize. The stable isn’t meant for a new purpose: it remains empty but intact. A witness to history. Sometimes, preservation means accepting a building’s lack of function and valuing its story.”

“I am the Continuist. People think tradition means keeping things as they were. But we’ve always changed what we had to. Moved the building, mended with scrap, made do. That’s the real tradition: working with what’s here, what’s needed, what’s possible. I fix it so it still has a role, and because it’s what I can afford.”

“I am the Pretender. I didn’t lie. I just made it look like someone once lived here. A bit of soot on the wall, a story to go with it  and the documents were approved. The outside stays untouched, like the law demands. But inside, it’s mine now: warm floors, clean lines, soft light. If the landscape wants to stay the same, I’ll play along. But that doesn’t mean I have to live like it’s 1768. It rents well on Airbnb and in the end, it pays for itself. Authenticity? That’s just part of the tourism promise.”

“I am the Witness. I document it, but I let it go. Not every building can or should be saved. They’re no longer used. Their function is gone. Sometimes the most honest thing is to let them decay, and in time, even remove the traces. What remains is the memory, and that can be enough. What once shaped the land now becomes part of it again – clearing the way for nature to return, in its own time.”

“I am the Protector. I don’t change the stable – I shelter it. The old wood holds time, and that matters to me. I built a protective tent around it, like wrapping hay for the winter. It’s not meant to last forever, but until we know what to do, I want it to stay. Of course, the cost of preserving the material is changing the image. It’s a trade-off between visibility and endurance.”