Architects are accustomed to being credited for buildings long after construction ends. Names remain attached to projects through photographs, publications, and histories, often decades after the original drawings were produced. Buildings, on the other hand, rarely remain faithful to that narrative for long. Families grow, technologies change, businesses emerge, and daily life introduces demands that no plan can fully anticipate. Over time, architecture accumulates modifications, repairs, additions, and improvisations that gradually distance it from its original form.
Architectural schools usually leave lasting marks on their students, shaping their style and critical inquiry long after formal education has ended. For example, SCI-Arc, founded in 1972 and based in downtown Los Angeles, is an institution recognized for its culture of experimentation, critical investigation, and creative independence, building a reputation based on the idea that architecture should be understood as a field open to dialogue with art, technology, design, and contemporary culture. The diversity of trajectories of its alumni demonstrates how this environment can generate distinct professional approaches, but united by the same willingness to explore new possibilities.
It is afternoon in the summer, and the nave of the Sagrada Família is saturated with warm colors. Shafts of amber and crimson sweep across the stone floor, shift as a cloud passes over Barcelona, then deepen again. Around you, visitors slow without quite realizing it. Some raise their phones — not to capture the architecture, but to step into the light itself, positioning themselves in a pool of orange or gold as if the colours were something you could wear.
They are, without knowing it, doing exactly what Gaudí intended: surrendering, however briefly, to the sensation of being bathed in something larger than themselves.
Tell the Water What the Clay Kept Secret. Image Courtesy of Ola Hassanain
Ola Hassanain is a Sudanese architect and artist operating in the Netherlands, and will be exhibiting at the Pan-African Architecture Biennale in Nairobi, Kenya, later in 2026. All three locations tell stories of the built environment's relationship with water. These illustrate the continuous battles between the amorphous forces of nature that are the rivers and seas, and human attempts to shape and control them. In most cases, they are attempts at extraction. Catastrophes happen as a result of the overreach of these attempts or of their mismanagement, or both.
As the technical requirements of building envelopes have evolved, fire performance has become a key criterion in the design of ventilated facades. Given this situation, analyses no longer focus solely on the individual reaction of materials, but also on the joint response of the entire building envelope under possible scenarios of external fire propagation.
When we think of façades, we rarely think of them as habitats. We see them as the elements that separate interior from exterior, regulate temperature, reduce noise, and protect buildings from external conditions. They give architecture its visual language, but they are also expected to keep the outside world at a distance. In doing so, façades have often been understood as barriers: surfaces that define where human comfort begins and where the environment is meant to remain outside.
But the outside of a building is never empty. For centuries, architecture has unintentionally created opportunities for other forms of life. Birds nested beneath roof tiles, insects occupied cracks in masonry walls, and mosses or plants took root along ledges, gutters, and rough stone surfaces. These conditions were rarely designed with other species in mind, but they created small opportunities for life to inhabit them.
For much of the twentieth century, architectural culture was shaped by the pursuit of lightness. Steel structures and curtain walls reduced the building envelope to a thin layer separating interior from exterior, while façades became smooth, continuous surfaces where windows were cut as precise openings within an abstract plane. But for centuries, buildings were conceived as bodies of mass; walls possessed depth, windows were recessed within thick masonry, and space was often experienced as something carved from the solidity of construction. In recent years, several contemporary projects appear to revisit this older spatial logic, reintroducing thickness as an architectural condition through deep openings, monolithic volumes, and heavy envelopes.
This shift does not imply a rejection of modern construction technologies, nor does it represent a nostalgic return to historical forms. Instead, it reflects a renewed interest in the fundamental relationship between material, mass, and void. By reintroducing thickness into the architectural vocabulary, these buildings reconnect contemporary practice with long-standing traditions in which space was inseparable from the weight and depth of construction.
A housing block in New Belgrade appears orderly from a distance. Concrete slabs repeat with disciplined consistency, windows align into measured grids, and balconies stack with the confidence of a system certain of itself. However, proximity changes the reading. One balcony is enclosed in aluminum glazing, another softened with improvised shading. Insulation thickens part of a façade while laundry frames another edge like an accidental elevation study. The district still reads as planned, though occupation has made its order less uniform. Within that order, repetition has gradually been rewritten through occupation.
Emerging during a period of profound political and social transformation, when many nations sought to redefine their capitals as symbols of progress, both cities assumed a strategic role. Through their architectural language, they reinforced ideological and national narratives closely tied to state power.
These were cities conceived in the abstract, guided by a utopian vision. They were intended to be avant-garde urban centers, free from the deficiencies that plagued mid-twentieth-century cities, embodying aesthetic principles aligned with progressive political ideals and embracing new technologies—most notably the automobile.
Yet this promise of the future also generated significant challenges. While these difficulties undoubtedly reflect the social and economic realities of their respective countries, they were also shaped by a modernist vision that is increasingly being reassessed today.
In an industry defined by engineering tolerances and performance certainty, interior finishing still relies on a process that introduces variability into every project. Even experienced applicators often depend on judgement-based mixing—estimating water ratios and adjusting by feel until the material appears workable. While skill reduces variability, it does not eliminate it. The result is inherent inconsistency that transfers directly onto the finished surface.
What happens when a city’s industrial past becomes the raw material for its future? In Copenhagen, Nordhavn transforms the old harbor into a living laboratory of sustainable urbanism, where warehouses and docks give way to independent districts, small islands, and canals that redefine what it means to inhabit the city.
Modern cities are running on performance indicators. They move millions of people each day, concentrate capital, separate land uses, and sustain complex systems of logistics and consumption. In that sense, the city functions as a system to be continually adjusted and optimized.
Today's dominant metrics are familiar and widely witnessed: vehicles per hour, average commute times, floor area ratios, parking turnover, housing starts, and tax revenue per parcel of land. These figures describe a city that is legible through efficiency. They are inherited from an industrial logic, where urban space is treated more like a production mechanism than a lived-in environment. In this framing, cities begin to mimic the needs and metrics of a machine.
What happens when materiality becomes the driving force of design? How can a cultural infrastructure express its own identity? The Spanish Design Pavilion for World Design Capital Frankfurt Rhein-Main 2026 brings together the country's creative innovation to address contemporary challenges through a reinterpretation of Gaudí's architectural legacy. Conceived as a reversible cultural infrastructure, the project activates public space while expanding the conversation around material use, circularity, and reuse. Rather than reproducing historical forms, the pavilion adopts a contemporary, operational approach. It highlights collaboration among Spanish industry, design and culture,exploring structural and constructive principles rooted in geometry, material efficiency, and the relationship between form and system.
Architecture has always depended on systems of representation to make ideas visible before they exist. But where Filippo Brunelleschi's fifteenth-century linear perspective once organized space according to human perception, today's architects face an unprecedented saturation of imagery. AI generates atmospheres in seconds, and projects circulate continuously long before construction begins. But the abundance of images does not necessarily produce greater clarity and as architectural workflows become faster and more fragmented, visuals sometimes circulate detached from the decisions, constraints, and intentions that generated them. The real value of modern visualization is no longer just about rendering a final image—it is about how design and visual communication are understood collectively throughout the entire process.
Dornbracht's Coya series designed by Sieger Design. Image Courtesy of Dornbracht
When is a form still circular or rectangular? In twentieth-century modernism, this question was largely absent. Architecture was built on clarity, reduction, and formal purity. Influenced by architects such as Le Corbusier and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, modernist design established a visual order based on rational geometry, industrial materials, and the rejection of ornament. Circle and square, function and expression, were kept strictly apart—a logic that dictated the rigid, modular layouts of traditional bathrooms for decades.
The conversion of disused religious temples through cultural programs constitutes one of the most compelling adaptive reuse strategies in contemporary urban planning. This functional compatibility seems to be rooted in the specific characteristics of churches: their central naves offer large-scale, clear floor plans and monumental cross-sections that easily accommodate the volumetric requirements of museums, theaters, or community hubs. Furthermore, the acoustic properties inherent to their vaulted ceilings, combined with intentional natural lighting filtered through stained glass windows or domes, create the spatial conditions for activities ranging from the performing arts to the exhibition of cultural artifacts. By assuming a public and cultural role, these buildings not only avoid demolition or physical abandonment but also preserve their status as urban and identity landmarks within the city fabric, revitalizing their immediate surroundings without altering their historical significance.
Buildner has announced the results of its competition, the Concrete Pavilion. Part of Buildner's Material Studies series, the competition invited architects and designers to explore the architectural potential of concrete through the design of an experimental pavilion. Participants were challenged to reconsider the material beyond its conventional use, investigating its spatial, structural, and sensory possibilities.
Western philosophical tradition has long placed culture in opposition to nature. This dual thinking has shaped the canon of the sciences and humanities, and architecture was not left aside. Under that logic, everything that is not human exists to be exploited by them and is named "natural resource". This extractivist mindset has shaped the development of many parts of the world in the last centuries, leaving deep—sometimes irreparable—marks on the planet. Nevertheless, other ways of living have always existed. From West-African religious practices based on animism to the herbal sciences of the masters of the Sacred Jurema in Brazil; from indigenous communities in India whose life rhythm mirrors the monsoons, to the Arctic's Inuits who can see dozens of shades of white: humans and nature bear no distinction, what exists is life.
Contemporary authors bring this discussion to the realms of philosophy and, more specifically, architecture. Donna Haraway, Antônio Bispo dos Santos, Achille Mbembe, and Beatriz Colomina are only a few whose work has helped expand the narrow Western perspective, shedding light on alternative ways of living together—with other humans and more-than-humans—on this planet.
Most people rarely remember a passage. They remember the classroom, the apartment, the gallery, or the plaza at the end of it. Passages are usually designed to disappear into the background, guiding movement from one destination to the next. Yet some of architecture's most memorable experiences happen while moving through a place rather than arriving at it.
Circulation is often treated as one of architecture's most practical elements. Corridors connect rooms, galleries provide access, and walkways organize movement through a building. Their purpose seems straightforward: to help people get from one point to another. Because of this, circulation spaces have long been considered secondary to the programs they serve. Attention tends to focus on destinations, while the spaces in between remain largely unnoticed.
Culinary Health Fund . Image Courtesy of Longboard
Before we rationally understand a space, we perceive it sensorially. Light, proportion, texture, color, and materiality all influence how the body interprets an environment, shaping whether it feels welcoming, cold, intimate, or impersonal. Visual and chromatic elements can directly affect the perception of depth, atmosphere, and scale within interiors, particularly in contemporary buildings characterized by large spans and continuous surfaces. Among the architectural elements that shape this experience, the ceiling may be one of the most underestimated, despite its profound influence on how space is perceived and inhabited.
Mass timber has shifted from an experimental niche to a central part of the contemporary debate surrounding sustainable construction. The combination of lower embodied carbon, prefabricated systems, and faster construction timelines has helped position solutions such as CLT (cross-laminated timber) and DLT (dowel-laminated timber) as viable alternatives to concrete and steel in residential buildings, offices, schools, and public facilities around the world. Added to this are the predictability of construction processes and the environmental qualities associated with wood, often linked to user comfort and spatial experience.
Deep in western Honduras, within a valley near the Guatemalan border, lies the ancient Maya city of Copán. Flourishing during the Classic period between the fifth and ninth centuries CE, the city developed as a regional epicenter through trade networks, dynastic politics, and monumental architecture. Today, the site is designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its extensive architectural remains, including stepped pyramids, sculpted stelae, and ceremonial core. Over a century of systematic archaeological research has documented its urban morphology, revealing distinct residential districts, civic spaces, and systems of movement and visibility.
This analysis examines the spatial organization of Copán through the framework of urban theorist Kevin Lynch and "The Image of the City". By applying Lynch's five structural elements — edges, districts, paths, nodes, and landmarks — it is possible to analyze how Copán functioned not only as a ritual center but as a legible urban landscape designed to reinforce political hierarchy and regulate collective movement. Historical data for this analysis was taken from books and articles linked throughout the text, and was possible thanks to the collaboration of historian Arnulfo Ramirez de la Costa, professor and coordinator of the History program in the Department of History at the National Autonomous University of Honduras (UNAH) in Tegucigalpa.
Modern housing was one of the places where modernism made its boldest promise: that architecture could reshape not only the city, but the way people lived within it. As Argentine architectural historian Ramón Gutiérrez has argued, popular housing is "the great unresolved subject, one that usually does not appear in histories of architecture." In Latin America, this absence is significant. Across the 20th century, expanding cities turned housing into one of the clearest ways to imagine urban change, and modernism entered not only plans and drawings, but apartments, neighborhoods, streets, and domestic routines.
Yet once built, these projects entered cities shaped by politics, memory, inequality, and changing ways of occupation. Their meanings no longer belonged only to the original plan, but to the ways they were inhabited, altered, and transformed over time. What this history reveals is not adaptation, but friction: the moment when architecture stops being an ideal model and meets the city it cannot fully control.
