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"My only concern is that my work must have a positive impact on the communities in which it is embedded," states Francis Kéré in his book Francis Kéré: Building Stories. His own life story, the context in which he was raised, and the experiences he has lived through all shape his approach to architecture. It is a commitment that extends to people and the places they call home—one that values materiality, collective learning, and the exchange of knowledge. Discovering the stories behind projects such as Primary School in Gando and Naaba Belem Goumma Secondary School inspires reflection on how to design spaces that truly serve humanity.

Francis Kéré's story begins in a village in sub-Saharan Africa and extends across many places. Gando was the setting of his first education, where he absorbed the essence and principles that later shaped the core values of his career alongside influences from other cultures. The structure of Gando is formed by different families who organize themselves, according to established customs, within courtyards scattered across the savanna. Growing up in this remote village in the Burkina Faso savanna fosters a strong sense of community, made tangible by the understanding that each resident of every courtyard is part of the life of the whole.

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Contemporary Japanese architecture continues to demonstrate how to adapt the evolving needs of modern residents to a rich building tradition and artisanal legacy. Wood has always been the soul of Japanese architecture. In many recent residential projects, this material transcends its structural role to become the primary finish for various surfaces — ranging from floors and ceilings to furniture and architectural elements. These environments strike a delicate balance between elegance and coziness.

The use of natural, unpainted finishes highlights the material's inherent honesty while also celebrating the unique character of each piece, its natural grain, and the diversity of the overall composition. While some houses feature sober, dark-stained timbers to create a grounded atmosphere, others utilize lighter woods like pine to foster a bright, airy, and ethereal feel. This versatility proves that wood can adapt to any aesthetic, from the rustic to the ultra-minimalist.

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When Mexico City hosted the Olympics in 1968, it was the first time the Games had been awarded to a Latin American country as well as the first time for a Spanish-speaking nation to host them. This made the games a good opportunity to project Mexico and its culture internationally, thus prompting the government to constitute an organizing committee with prominent local talent. They appointed Pedro Ramírez Vázquez as its president, a Mexican architect who held significant influence over the state's mid-century building program. His approach was explicit: architecture as a synthesis of international modernist technique with Pre-Columbian references and local material culture. Under his direction, the committee would oversee the construction and adaptation of venues distributed across the southern districts of Mexico City, nearly all designed and built by local architects, engineers, and technicians.

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The relationship between constraint and design excellence is well established in architectural theory, yet often remains underexplored in discussions of site-specific practices. When architects encounter extreme topography, they face a fundamental choice: transform the landscape to accommodate the building, or modify the building to fit the landscape. The first approach is straightforward and requires the builder to cut, fill, terrace, and build on level ground. This choice, however, carries cascading consequences as any amount of earth moved may destabilize slopes, disrupt drainage, and fracture ecosystems. A growing body of innovative architectural work demonstrates an alternative to earth-moving and retaining walls.

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Buildner has launched Buildner's Unbuilt Award 2026, the third edition of its annual competition, offering a 100,000 EUR prize fund.

Buildner has also announced the results of Buildner's Unbuilt Award 2025, the second competition in a series celebrating architectural design that has yet to be realized. With a generous 100,000 EUR prize fund, this initiative provides a global platform for architects and designers to showcase their most compelling unbuilt projects, whether conceptual, published, unpublished, or fully developed.

Southeast Asia is often narrated as a kind of architectural playground—an arena where modern and contemporary ideals have been tested at full scale through singular, iconic buildings. One can trace an easy lineage through names that have helped shape the region's skyline imagination: Paul Rudolph's Lippo Centre in Hong Kong and The Concourse in Singapore, I.M. Pei's OCBC Centre and Hong Kong's Bank of China Tower, Norman Foster's Supreme Court of Singapore and the HSBC Main Building in Hong Kong, Ron Phillips' Hong Kong City Hall, Moshe Safdie's Marina Bay Sands. Yet this familiar history—told through objects, colonialism, authorship, and signature forms—risks missing a deeper, more consequential layer of influence: the planning logics and infrastructural frameworks that have quietly structured how these cities expand, densify, and distribute everyday life.

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The figure of Tithonus in Greek mythology offers a reflection on the paradox of permanence. In pleading with Zeus for immortality, he forgot to request eternal youth, resulting in a life of endless aging. Over time, his body deteriorates, turning immortality itself into a burden. The narrative suggests a fundamental contradiction: permanence, when detached from the capacity for change, ceases to be a desirable quality. Instead of stability, it produces accumulated decay without adaptation.

Historically, architecture has often fallen into the "Tithonus Trap." Materials are specified to resist time, systems are detailed to prevent change, and buildings are conceived as fixed images. Yet, this pursuit of the static rarely survives the reality of the elements. Between the moment of design—often associated with precise and controlled representations—and the lifespan of a building, surfaces inevitably weather, shift in appearance, and lose their initial finish. Aging is often interpreted as loss rather than as part of the architectural language.

Modernism in architecture was perhaps the first truly global building design philosophy. Established at the beginning of the twentieth century, its early proponents were heavyweights from Europe, such as Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, and Mies van der Rohe. In 1923, Le Corbusier published his seminal written work, usually translated into English as Towards a New Architecture. Newness, and a rejection of history, was one of the central tenets of modernism. This manifested itself in the use of new materials such as steel and concrete, which gave rise to an unprecedented freedom of formal expression.

By the middle of the twentieth century, Modernism was adopted across the world by countries recovering from the Second World War and overcoming the legacy of colonialism. It became the language of reconstruction and of nation-building, reinforced by its rejection of the past. Its emphasis on technology suited this brave new world of industry, large-scale development, and new building types. Fast-forwarding to a century after its birth, Modernism itself has become the legacy. As buildings progressively become obsolete or reach the end of their design lives, there is an appreciation of the heritage value of these structures, both as designed items and as symbols of the spirit of the age in which they were built. Here, we look at five Modernist buildings from five regions going through adaptive reuse proposals. Where form once followed function, here, the function must follow the form.

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Even the most distracted passerby is captured by the monumental presence of this structure in Valencia’s established Benimaclet neighborhood. Before it, any attempt at rational apprehension quickly dissolves. Its constructive logic seems to escape comprehension as the space unfolds through tensions and deviations, where nothing is immediately given. Between masses of concrete and the insurgent force of vegetation, an almost choreographic play of planes, angles, and rotations emerges. In the vertigo of this encounter, one realizes that the building was not made to be understood, but to be experienced.

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When walking into a large living space, a hotel lobby, or an open-plan workplace, the first thing that can be noticed is not what divides the space, but what holds it together. There are rarely clear boundaries, no obvious rooms, no strict partitions, yet the space still feels organized. Some areas invite a pause; others dictate movement; others foster community. The transitions are subtle, but legible.

At the same time, these interiors are expected to do more. They must accommodate constant change, withstand intensive use, and respond to environmental pressures by reducing waste, extending lifespans, and avoiding frequent replacement. The question is not only how a space looks, but how it performs over time. What is actually doing the heavy lifting?

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What happens when you choose reuse over demolition? In Østbirk, Denmark, a 30-year-old timber warehouse has been transformed into a 14,000-square-meter world-class innovation hub for nearly 500 VELUX employees. This article explores how the LKR Innovation House project challenges conventional building practices, preserves material legacy, and offers practical lessons for architects working with existing structures. A new book documents the process through essays, interviews, and photographs.

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Architectural drawings operate through abstraction. Plans, sections, and elevations condense spatial, constructive, and dimensional information into a set of codes that make sense within the discipline, but are not always immediately legible to those unfamiliar with this language. In some projects, this condition can create a recurring tension between what is designed and what can be understood. This intensifies when the tools used do not correspond to the scale and complexity of the design. In contexts such as single-family homes, renovations, or additions, overly complex software can introduce noise, delays, and unnecessary dependencies, making proposals harder to develop and convey.

The image is familiar, a façade layered with brise-soleil, light softened into a patterned shadow, interiors kept cool without machines. It appears as intelligence made visible, architecture that understands the sun. This image is rarely examined closely. The same devices that temper heat also organize access, distribute comfort, and depend on particular forms of labor. What looks like a climatic response is also a decision about who gets relief from heat, and how. Tropical modernism, often reduced to a visual language of shade and porosity, emerges instead as a set of situated practices where climate, labor, and power are negotiated differently across contexts.

At the scale of the element, tropical modernism begins as a technical problem. In hot climates, solar radiation is not incidental but constant, requiring buildings to mediate light, heat, and air before they reach the interior. Architects like Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew approached this with a level of precision that resists any reading of these elements as decorative. Shading devices are calibrated according to solar angles, orientation, and seasonal variation. Brise-soleil are dimensioned to block high-angle sun while admitting diffuse light; overhangs extend just enough to prevent direct gain at peak hours; openings are aligned to encourage cross-ventilation. Mid-century research further tested these strategies, measuring temperature reductions and airflow improvements. In this sense, the language of tropical modernism is not symbolic. It is performative: each projection, void, and screen is part of an environmental system.

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Architecture is often understood as a matter of enclosure. Walls define space, separating interior from exterior and establishing clear limits. Yet across many projects in Latin America, this distinction becomes less precise. Rather than operating as closed objects, buildings often remain open, allowing air, light, and movement to pass through them.

This condition is tied to more than form. Across the region, architecture has long responded to climates marked by heat, humidity, strong solar exposure, and seasonal rainfall, as well as to building cultures shaped by adaptation, collective labor, and direct engagement with the environment. In these contexts, fully sealed interiors are not always the most effective response. Space is often organized through shade, ventilation, and intermediate zones that regulate rather than isolate.

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Architecture is traditionally chronicled through the persistence of the solid. We define the discipline by the weight of the lintel, the mass of the pier, and the resistance of the wall. Even when lightness is invoked, it is usually understood as a subtractive act, the thinning of a section or the precarious reduction of a load. Yet there is a parallel history, less visible and harder to isolate, in which the primary material of construction is not what occupies space, but what moves through it.

To treat air as a medium is to move past the binary of the envelope. The boundary between the interior and the world ceases to be a line of absolute separation and becomes, instead, a site of filtration and pressure. We begin to see the building as a thermal valve, a series of gradients where moisture, velocity, and heat are not merely background "conditions" to be mitigated by mechanical systems, but are the very substances being shaped.

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"The story of architecture is not wrong," argued Lesley Lokko in her introduction to the Venice Architecture Biennale 2023, "but it is incomplete." For most of the 20th century, architectural history spoke in one tongue: a singular, dominant narrative centered on a handful of movements, names, and cities, whose reach and influence appeared universal precisely because alternative voices were rendered inaudible. Design movements, however, rarely traveled intact across borders. They were frequently absorbed, resisted, reinterpreted, and transformed depending on geography, politics, economy, climate, and available materials. What arrived in one place as doctrine became, somewhere else, something entirely different.

This month, ArchDaily explores 20th Century Design in Flux: A Global Reinterpretation of Architectural History, a topic that traces the century's design languages not as a single canon but as a constellation of evolving, intersecting, and continually reinvented trajectories. The theme challenges the assumption that regional and non-Western architectures were merely derivative — positioning them instead as sites of active reinterpretation, where global ideas were filtered through local materials, climates, labor, and cultural practices to produce something entirely distinct.

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Each year, the ArchDaily Next Practices Awards highlights emerging studios that are expanding the scope of architecture through new methods, materials, and ways of working. Selected from a global pool, these practices reflect a shift away from singular definitions of the discipline, engaging instead with broader questions of construction, environment, and social impact. Rather than operating within fixed categories, many of these studios position themselves across fields, combining design, research, and production to respond to contemporary conditions.

Named one of the winners of the 2025 edition, Hand Over is a Cairo-based practice operating across design, construction, and research. Founded by Radwa Rostom, a civil engineer with over fifteen years of experience in development and sustainability, the studio works through an integrated design-build model, engaging with earth construction, local materials, and community-based processes.

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At the turn of the 20th century, parallel, yet connected movements around the world ushered in a new style and architectural era. From the Arts and Crafts in England, Art Nouveau, then Art Deco in France, or the Jugendstil in Germany/Austria, these design and artistic developments spread around the world and took on different forms depending on their context. The basis remained similar, though, with a focus on artisanal value and craftsmanship; the use of wood, glass, and various metals; the integration of organic forms into the exterior facade and interior structure; and the refined incorporation of ornamentation as an architectural element, often as vegetation or geometric patterns.

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In the high desert of the San Rafael Valley, a few miles from the United States-Mexico border in Lochiel, Arizona, an adobe schoolhouse has stood for more than a century. Built before 1905, before Arizona was an incorporated state, the schoolhouse served generations of Mexican American students from Arizona and Sonora, cultivating shared cultural experiences, stories, and relationships that transcend physical and political boundaries. Over decades of education and shared histories, it became a place where language and narrative moved freely, even as geopolitical tensions continued to rise along the border. Today, it is one of the last remaining one-room adobe schoolhouses in the United States.

Adobe is among the oldest building technologies in the American Southwest, and among the most demanding to steward. In desert climates, earthen walls face intense weathering from temperature extremes, cracking due to seasonal shifts, and accelerated decay after storm events. These vulnerabilities require sustained and skilled maintenance over many seasons and compounding decades. After years of encroaching abandonment and structural threats, a twelve-year restoration effort by local community members who understood this building as critical cultural infrastructure brought the schoolhouse back from the edge of demolition. That the community chose to undertake this effort, given everything Adobe construction demands of those who care for it, is a statement about what the loss of this building would have cost. The result is a structure that now stands as a monument to Mexican American heritage and a living archive of rural border education.

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For all the spatial experimentation of the contemporary workplace, one condition has remained largely unchanged: people are still sitting. Studies suggest that office workers spend up to 89% of their working day seated—close to 36 hours a week—despite decades of ergonomic awareness. As workplaces become more flexible, social, and design-led, this contradiction becomes harder to ignore.

The office is no longer organized around a single mode of operation, nor by a fixed spatial logic. Work has become multifunctional, shifting between collaboration and concentration, collective exchange and individual focus. In response, architecture and interior design are moving away from uniform, repetitive layouts towards environments that reflect the variability of human behavior.

Daryan Knoblauch's work sits at the intersection of architecture and live cultural production, with a focus on how space is made legible through tension and atmosphere. Rather than treating temporary work as a lesser category of architecture, Knoblauch approaches installations, stages, and event architectures as full disciplinary problems—where enclosure, stability, light, and movement must be resolved with the same seriousness as any building, often under tighter constraints and faster timelines.

Across projects, a consistent thread is the productive tension between high-modern precision and an intentionally raw clarity of assembly. Membranes and lightweight systems are not deployed as surface effects, but as structural and spatial instruments—tuned to wind, load, and occupation, and calibrated to produce a sublimity that is felt as much as it is seen. Here, ephemerality is not simply a duration, but a design condition: temporality makes forces—weather, wear, performance—more visible, and demands an ethic of making that is both exacting and adaptable.

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Scientifically, glass is defined as an amorphous solid, meaning its atoms are not arranged in a regular crystalline structure. This is why the material is often described as a "liquid frozen in time." This structural configuration explains one of its most distinctive qualities: transparency. Without a crystalline lattice capable of scattering light, radiation passes through the material with relatively little interference. Although it often appears delicate, this same structure also allows glass to achieve significant mechanical performance. With industrial processes such as tempering, lamination, and specialized coatings, the material can reach high levels of strength, safety, and environmental performance.

When people think of Argentina, they often picture landmarks like the Obelisk of Buenos Aires. Yet the country spans over 2,780,400 km², making it one of the largest in South America and home to a wide range of landscapes and realities that frequently go unnoticed. In fact, the province of Jujuy in northern Argentina lies within the Lithium Triangle: a high-altitude region shared with Bolivia and Chile that contains roughly 54% of the world's lithium reserves. Within this territory sits the Olaroz Salt Flat, a site where today two competing dynamics converge: the expansion of industrial lithium extraction and the preservation of ancestral culture and lands inhabited by Kolla and Atacama communities, creating a clash of high-capacity industrial extraction and traditional, low-impact agrarian practices.

In light of this problem, one of the winning teams of the ArchDaily Student Project Awards, made up of Ezequiel Lopez, Maria Victoria Echegaray, and Agustina Durandez, decided to look into the issue. This was done as part of their thesis project for the Bachelor's in Architecture program at the National University of Córdoba. Their work stems from an interest in engaging with territories that remain peripheral to architectural discourse, using the thesis as an opportunity for sustained, in-depth research. This allowed them to formulate informed design responses grounded in both territorial and socio-economic realities. Rejecting the binary between extraction and preservation, the project approaches the territory as a system where both can coexist through spatial and technical mediation.

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There is an ancestral gesture in shaping earth. Long before architecture was established as a discipline, clay was already being molded by hand and transformed by fire, turning raw matter into domestic utensils and cultural objects. Within the history of this craft, ceramic factories mark the transition from manual knowledge to serial production, expanding its scale without entirely severing its material origins. Scattered across different territories, these structures record the relationship between technique, landscape, and time. Over the decades, however, many of them lost their original function, replaced by more technological processes or absorbed by the urban development around them, entering an intermediate state between permanence and obsolescence.

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