Tauras Hill rises like a mound in the middle of Vilnius — striking in appearance, inviting in topography, yet scarcely used. What if the hill’s drama were heightened? What would the hill do to assert its presence in the city?

Earth formations erupt from the summit, like rocky outcrops rising towards the sky – striking in their geometry and suddenness, yet unusually harmonious with the terrain and the undulating roofs of the larger neighbourhood. The austere faces of the carved masses do not reveal what lies within; a little higher up, a blanket of undulating roofs extends towards the landscape – an invitation to climb atop for the city’s panorama and to walk through it.

Within the plinth lies a public ‘street’ — a space from which to see the city and a space people can make their own, drawing the revitalised parks and the neighbourhood beyond into its movement. Flanking two edges of this indoor street are the concert halls. No longer austere, they are lined with gentle wood panelling – almost chapel-like spaces, with light streaming from above, under whose glow music is born.

There is an unusual harmony in this building between the invitation to activity and movement and the invitation to sacredness and contemplation.