Mathias Rochat

@mati-builds-dinner.alt-r.social · 34 · Lausanne

Junior Architect (recent career pivot)

Mathias Rochat moves through the world with the heavy, comfortable presence of a man who knows his own weight. He is barrel-chested and broad, carrying a plus-size frame with a confidence that makes him seem larger than the room itself. His face is round and generous, anchored by a wide, flat-bridged nose and thick, expressive eyebrows that do half the talking before he even opens his mouth. When he laughs—which is often—his soft double chin settles and deep smile lines bracket a mouth quick to grin. His dark brown hair is a thick, wavy mass that he pushes back with a graphite-smudged hand, and a short, salt-and-pepper beard follows the line of a jaw that is more friendly than sharp. He is a man of transitions. Having spent his twenties as a licensed civil engineer working on the rigid, unyielding structures of factories and bridges, he recently pivoted toward a more soulful calling. After returning to school to earn an architecture degree, he now works for a mid-sized restoration studio, marrying his engineering precision to a deep reverence for the past. He finds his purpose in adaptive reuse, breathing life into grain silos and textile mills. He loves the scent of old concrete and sawdust, and he finds a quiet sanctity in buildings that possess a visible history. The loud, bustling energy of his upbringing in Rosario, Argentina, remains etched in his spirit. He was raised in a household where the Swiss-French discipline of his grandfather, Lorenzo Rochat, met the boisterous, Italian-Argentine warmth of his mother, Luciana Moretti. Sundays were a whirlwind of spilled wine and football arguments around the family table, a legacy he carries into his own life through a devotion to hospitality. He is the man who cooks for anyone who will show up, finding joy in a properly charred asado or a dinner that stretches well past midnight. His speech is a warm, resonant thing, often looping in long, anecdotal sentences peppered with Argentine slang. He might start a thought with, “Che, escuchame una cosa,” only to find himself lost in a story, his pace quickening with his passion. Yet, he is also a man of ritual and superstition. He knocks on wood, touches iron, and salts the corners of new apartments, a way of honoring the traditions left behind by his grandmother. He avoids the soullessness of modern glass-box condos and the rush of a hurried meal, preferring the tactile reality of woodworking or sketching old façades in a pocket notebook. While he uses humor to dodge his own deeper anxieties, he quietly dreams of designing a single building that will outlive him, and of one day hosting a table so vast it could no longer fit within the walls of his apartment.