Artificial intelligence is no longer a distant concept in architectural practice. It is rapidly becoming a practical tool used by firms around the world to accelerate design workflows, generate visualizations, and explore new creative possibilities.
According to a new industry survey conducted by Chaos in collaboration with Architizer, architects are already integrating AI into their daily work. Nearly 800 architects and designers from around the globe participated in the study, sharing insights into how they use AI tools, how much time the technology saves, and how they believe artificial intelligence will shape the future of architecture.
Death is a certainty, but its architecture has never been stable. Every period and culture has invented a different way of placing the dead in the world (close or far, visible or screened, monumental or almost anonymous), and those choices have always carried social and political weight. Cemeteries are where that weight becomes legible in space, turning belief and regulation into boundaries, paths, and names.
In that sense, a cemetery behaves like a piece of city-making. It needs access, limits, and an internal order that can grow without losing clarity. It depends on ground and water management as much as on symbolism, and on administration as much as on form. But its real architectural problem is how to make a large, evolving territory readable while preserving the intimacy of a visit. Names must be locatable; routes must remain legible; trees grow, paths shift, stones weather, records accumulate. What looks fixed is, in practice, a living system designed to be used and revisited, long after the first grief has passed.
Trees are often the first things to vanish when construction starts. Clearing a site has long been one of architecture's most immediate acts, removing what already exists to make room for something new. When vegetation is preserved, it is typically treated as a secondary layer, added back as landscape rather than shaping the project itself.
However, some projects begin elsewhere. Instead of starting from a blank site, they work with what is already there. Trees remain in place, not as elements to frame, but as conditions that influence how space is organized, how light enters, and how architecture takes form.
Beneath the ground lies a material that has quietly shaped the architecture of the modern world. Petroleum is rarely discussed within architectural discourse, yet the extraction, circulation, and consumption of oil have profoundly reorganized the spatial logic of territories. Pipelines, refineries, drilling platforms, ports, highways, and petrochemical complexes form a vast infrastructural landscape that sustains contemporary life, composing a dispersed architecture of energy.
Throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, oil became the material foundation of industrial society. It fueled transportation, powered factories, and supported the growth of cities whose spatial organisation depended on continuous energy flows. Yet the infrastructures that enable these flows rarely become objects of architectural inquiry. Attention remains largely directed toward form, typology, or urban density, while the material systems that sustain these environments tend to remain displaced within the discipline.
Viewpoints are structures designed for observing the landscape from elevated positions. Set within natural settings or urban environments, they act as devices that organize the gaze and establish a direct relationship between the body and the territory. At this threshold between observer and landscape, viewpoints can take on a wide range of configurations, from subtle gestures to monumental structures, always responding to their specific context. Regardless of scale, they are — to some extent — attempts to domesticate vastness: precise framings that make legible what, without mediation, might otherwise appear as excess.
At the edge of most cities, beyond the ring roads and interchanges, a different kind of architecture is taking shape. It is not designed to be seen, visited, or remembered. It does not gather people; it moves things. Inside, thousands of parcels travel continuously, being sorted, lifted, scanned, and dispatched with minimal interruption. These buildings rarely enter architectural discourse, yet they are among the most consequential spaces of our time. The defining typology of the 21st century is increasingly the warehouse.
The scale of this transformation is difficult to grasp because it unfolds horizontally, across territories rather than skylines. Global warehouse space now exceeds tens of billions of square feet, expanding rapidly alongside the rise of e-commerce. During the COVID-19 pandemic, demand for logistics infrastructure accelerated by several years, compressing future growth into an already strained present. In India, the warehousing sector continues to grow at double-digit rates, reshaping peri-urban land into storage and distribution corridors. Logistics is no longer a background system; it is a territorial condition.
In many high-density cities across Asia, the staircase is often treated as a necessary evil. Whether in apartment buildings, private homes, or retail interiors, it is frequently hidden, tucked away, or pushed to the margins—an element to be minimized so more area can be given to "usable" space. Yet as density intensifies and square footage becomes increasingly scarce, architects and designers are forced to rethink this vertical puzzle.
The question shifts from how to conceal the staircase to how to make it work harder: can it become a productive addition to the interior—an architectural device that does more than connect levels, performing dual (or multiple) duties rather than simply consuming floor area?
At a time of ecological emergency, architecture cannot be separated from the extractive systems on which it depends. As the technosphere expands, linking material flows, energy consumption, and digital infrastructures, design becomes increasingly entangled in these processes. How can design practice intervene in anthropocentric systems and transform the architectural process and aesthetics through an investigation of material intelligence? More broadly, how does architecture engage with the agency and intelligence of non-human entities to rebalance the environmental burden?
Videos
Interactive Vector Design Solutions. Image Courtesy of D.TO
Initial sketches in notebooks and tracing paper, conceptual diagrams, perspectives, physical models, and massing studies capture the architectural imagination. But they represent only the beginning of the practice. The real challenge is translating ideas into buildable systems. Every wall, junction, and assembly must be resolved in detail, with systems working together in a way that allows the project to be built as intended. This is where most of the effort, complexity, and risk are concentrated, and where projects are ultimately resolved or begin to stumble.
It is in this context that the Design Development (DD) and Construction Documentation (CD) take place, when the project must address the full weight of coordination, components, performance, and constructability. While schematic design defines spatial and formal directions, DD and CD demand answers to a different set of questions: how do systems come together? How is performance maintained at transitions? Which products, tolerances, and sequences will allow the project to hold together as it moves from model to construction?
In temperate and cold climates, architecture typically begins with a defensive gesture. The building envelope is a sealed boundary designed to resist the exterior environment through insulation, vapor barriers, and mechanical control. In cold countries like Canada, where winter temperatures can plunge well below freezing, airtightness is not a luxury. In this context, buildings must resist the exterior environment entirely to maintain interior comfort. However, in Central America, a region spanning from Belize to Panama, architectural logic shifts from exclusion to negotiation. In this region, the envelope is not a wall of defense but a specialized filter.
Collective housing is a hallmark of Europe. The 2nd edition of the award is looking for collective housing projects to highlight their social impact and the policy frameworks that support them. Submissions are free and open until 30 April.
Post-industrial modernity generated a wide range of collective housing models that left a lasting mark on European cities and architectural history: from the Hofs of Vienna and the Weissenhof Siedlung to Le Corbusier's Unité d'habitation and the works presented at Berlin's Interbau.
The excesses of the modern movement cast a long shadow over social housing – a stigma that post-modernity failed to dispel. Yet since the turn of the millennium, new forms of collective housing have re-emerged, reconnecting with welfare-state ideals amid pressures from urbanization, property market tensions and ecological urgency.
In the nineteenth century, entire railway networks became obsolete almost overnight, not due to physical deterioration, but because of changes in the technical standards that supported them. The expansion of railroads across Europe and North America adopted different track gauges (the transverse distance between rails), and as a dominant standard gradually emerged, these infrastructures became incompatible with one another. This required large-scale adaptations, conversions, or even complete reconstruction, in what became known as the "Gauge War."
With the mass adoption of telecommunications networks in the twentieth century, cities around the world built large telephone exchange buildings filled with electromechanical equipment responsible for routing calls between regions. These structures were highly specialized pieces of infrastructure, often occupying entire city blocks and organized around large-scale technical machinery. With the transition to digital switching technologies and, later, the widespread adoption of mobile telephony, much of this equipment became obsolete within a few decades. The buildings themselves often remained structurally sound, but the systems they were designed to support had already evolved beyond them.
Belo Monte Dam and Hydropower Plant Construction in Brazil. Image by burakyalcin, via Shutterstock
Some of the most significant transformations of South American landscapes have been produced not by cities, but by large infrastructures built to extract and distribute natural resources. Mining operations, energy systems, and transport networks have connected remote landscapes to broader economic structures while transforming rural territories and urban settlements throughout the continent. These infrastructures do not simply occupy space; they reorganize it. They have not only supported economic growth but also reconfigured territories in ways that continue to generate political, environmental, and social debate across the continent. From this perspective, territories can be understood not as fixed geographic areas but as socio-ecological systems shaped by cultural, environmental, and political relations, a point emphasized by anthropologist Arturo Escobar in his work on territorial thinking in Latin America.
Documentation work in Deir ez-Zor. Image Courtesy of Deir ez-Zor Heritage Library
The historic city of Deir ez-Zor in eastern Syria has had more than its fair share of calamity after the outbreak of the war in 2011. After seeing destruction caused by fierce battles between armed groups and the central government, as well as occupation by ISIL, the earthquake in February 2023 brought further damage. Behind the headlines, however, is an ancient city tracing its founding to the dawn of civilization on the banks of the Euphrates River, with living architecture from the Ottoman and French Mandate periods. A winner of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the Deir ez-Zor Heritage Library aims to revitalize the city and support sensitive reconstruction by documenting and promoting its built heritage.
Carbonero House (1998). Melipilla, Chile. Image Courtesy of Smiljan Radić
Chilean architect Smiljan Radić Clarke has developed a body of work that resists easy categorization. His buildings often seem both ancient and provisional, carrying a monumental presence while retaining an unexpected sense of fragility. Stone, concrete, timber, fabric, and fiberglass are combined in unexpected ways, producing architectures that hover between permanence and ephemerality. Rather than pursuing a stable formal language, the 2026 Pritzker laureate approaches architecture as an open field of experimentation, where material behavior and structural perception are constantly tested.
In an age dominated by screens and digital images, the full character of a designed object often remains hidden. Only when encountering an object in person can one sense its texture, notice how it interacts with light, or even perceive its subtle smell. These sensory qualities— so difficult to convey online—reveal why design fairs continue to matter. Increasingly, these fairs have become spaces for experimentation in contemporary design, where ideas about materials, collaboration, and social responsibility are publicly explored. Curated programs, exhibitions, and experimental installations transform these events into environments where designers, manufacturers, and researchers test new possibilities for the built realm.
In South China, there is occasionally an urban myth—especially across Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou—about choosing a home that avoids western light. Over decades, the west-facing sun has proven to be a particularly difficult condition to live with: its low angle in the afternoon, its aggressive heat gain (especially in summer), and the way it penetrates deep into interiors. With global warming and longer, hotter seasons, that much-romanticized "afternoon glow" is increasingly experienced less as romance and more as glare, heat, and fatigue. Although this wisdom circulates as a community-driven rule of thumb, it carries an undeniable architectural clarity about building orientations: avoiding western light is not only about thermal comfort, but also about avoiding the sharpest, most intrusive form of direct illumination—light that strikes at the most unforgiving angle, washing surfaces, flattening depth, and turning rooms into high-contrast fields of discomfort.
In Iran's capital, Tehran, movement defines the city. Each day, millions navigate a landscape shaped by highways, traffic corridors, and dense urban blocks. Over decades of rapid expansion, infrastructure has become the dominant language of development. Streets prioritize vehicles, sidewalks function as narrow conduits, and many public spaces operate primarily as passages rather than places of gathering. Across parts of West Asia, ongoing conflict has also reshaped the region's urban landscapes, where significant architectural environments have been damaged or transformed. Within this broader context, the preservation and creation of everyday civic space becomes increasingly meaningful. Recognized with the Aga Khan Award for Architecture, the Jahad Metro Plaza project, designed by KA Architecture Studio, demonstrates how modest infrastructural interventions can reshape the civic life of a city.
The metro network plays a central role in Tehran's daily life. It connects distant districts and sustains the rhythms of the metropolis. Yet the places where the underground city meets the surface are rarely conceived as civic environments. Metro entrances typically appear as fragments of infrastructure: stairs descending below ground, surrounded by railings, kiosks, and improvised circulation paths. They function efficiently as thresholds, but seldom as places to remain.
Set along the outer breakwater of Port de Cap-d'Ail, located next to Monaco, the Beach House occupies a threshold between land and sea. Surrounded by water and docked boats, the building sits in close dialogue with the harbor, exposed to the shifting light, reflections, and atmosphere of the Mediterranean. Within this setting, the house reads almost like another vessel moored along the harbor wall.
When architect Dave Rowles began work on the project, however, the residence offered little of this character internally. The former private home had been stripped back almost entirely, leaving a raw concrete shell. The renovation, therefore, began with a fundamental question: how can an interior capture the qualities of its surroundings? Rather than competing with the powerful maritime context, the design focused on creating a calm, material-driven interior that frames and amplifies the beauty and experience of the surrounding landscape crafted from oak, cedar, marble, and stainless steel details. In collaboration with barth, a company specializing in interior craftsmanship, Rowles transformed the concrete structure into a cohesive interior, where natural materials, light, and refined detailing define both the interior and exterior spaces.
In a shifting societal and environmental landscape, how can architectural design respond to transformation while meaningfully engaging with what endures? 1110 Office for Architecture, based in Osaka, Japan, approaches this question through a body of work defined by careful residential renovations and precise spatial interventions.
Named a winner of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the practice represents an emerging voice in redefining architecture's role within conditions of change.
Costa Rica is a small country in Central America, internationally renowned for its tourism, biodiversity, and tropical climate. Given this context, tropical design strategies for hotel design are often more studied, but residential cabin projects can represent a more surgical approach to understanding the landscape. Often situated in remote forest or jungle locations, these cabins, apart from the common tropical design strategies, have to prioritize long-term durability and low-maintenance costs, particularly in regions where access for repairs is logistically difficult. This necessitates a design philosophy that favors both structural and climatic resilience.
Building in this context requires precise design responses to two primary environmental stressors: extreme precipitation and high humidity. Costa Rica's tropical climate, while varying by altitude, generally delivers an average monthly rainfall exceeding 150 mm in many regions. This constant water load can create a "wet-bulb" effect, where stagnant, saturated air accelerates interior material degradation and creates physiological discomfort for the inhabitants. To design effectively under these conditions, contemporary cabin architecture employs a three-fold strategy of minimal site invasion, the creation of thermal gradients, and passive climate mitigation.
In today's competitive design landscape, Building Information Modeling (BIM) is no longer just a trend—it has become a baseline expectation. Yet many practices still struggle to balance the complexity and effort involved with the actual value they receive in return. But what if it were possible to unlock the benefits of BIM without adding unnecessary workload? Exploring a lean approach to BIM—focused on efficiency, clarity, and real project outcomes—can help architectural teams streamline their design workflows, strengthen collaboration, and maintain creative control from concept through delivery.
