At the time of writing, an article by Martyn Evans asked 'Is Architecture in Crisis?' In the same year, Reinier de Graaf published the book 'Architecture Against Architecture,' where he set out fourteen problems with the profession and discipline. The question of a crisis in architecture is a perennial one. Referring to architecture as a profession, it rears its head especially when economic downturns are expected or in full swing. Simultaneously, there are ongoing questions regarding the effectiveness of architecture at dealing with the pressing matters of the globe and society—housing, climate change, and human development. One venture that attempts to address these questions is MASS, established in Rwanda not long after the 2008 financial crisis. The clue is in the name, which stands for Model of Architecture Serving Society. MASS was created as a different way of practicing architecture.
At the Table with Nature Exhibit, ambiente 2026 Photo Credit: Jürgen Baumhauer
The well-known phrase "man is what he eats" (Der Mensch ist, was er isst), by Ludwig Feuerbach, asserts that the physical, mental, and even moral constitution of human beings is directly linked to what they consume. Today, this idea is widely internalized, with growing awareness around food, nutrition, and the impact of what we ingest on our bodies. Yet, this same level of awareness doesn't extend to the environments we inhabit, where materials continue to be treated as technical decisions rather than active agents in the relationship between body and space. Considering that a large portion of the global population spends around 90% of their time indoors, it is rarely discussed what actually composes these spaces at their most fundamental level: materials. Walls, floors, and finishes are often approached as technical or aesthetic choices, when in reality they can function as continuous sources of exposure to potentially harmful substances.
Observed annually on April 7, World Health Organization's World Health Day draws attention to global health priorities while situating them within broader environmental and societal contexts. Established following the first World Health Assembly in 1948 and observed since 1950, the day has evolved into a platform for addressing the shifting conditions that shape health, from local systems of care to planetary-scale challenges. The 2026 edition, held under the theme "Together for health. Stand with science," calls for renewed engagement with scientific knowledge as a basis for collective action. The year-long campaign emphasizes collaboration in protecting the health of people, animals, plants, and the planet, foregrounding the One Health approach as a framework for understanding their interdependence.
Perched above the cliffs of Crimea, the Druzhba Thermal Sanatorium appears less as a building than as a landed spacecraft. Its circular forms, suspended decks, and spiraling ramps evoke a scene from Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris (1972), where architecture and psychology merge into a single landscape. Built between 1978 and 1985 by Igor Vasilevsky, the complex was conceived as a thermal resort for workers of the oil industry, part of the Soviet Union's extensive network of sanatoria dedicated to health and recreation.
Beyond its function as a place of recovery, Druzhba, meaning "friendship", embodied a broader political and aesthetic ambition. It sought to merge technological prowess with the restorative ideals of socialist modernity, translating collective well-being into concrete form. Rising from a steep coastal slope overlooking the Black Sea, its massive structure defies gravity, supported by a central concrete core from which radial wings extend like the blades of an enormous gear. Seen from a distance, it feels simultaneously mechanical and organic, a hybrid of infrastructure and landscape.
Cities around the world share a common goal: to become healthier and greener, supported by civic infrastructure that restores ecosystems and strengthens public life. The question is how to reach this. Global climate targets, local building codes, and municipal standards increasingly guide designers and planners toward better choices. Still, many cities struggle to translate these frameworks into everyday, street-level comfort and long-term ecological protection. What happens if the city is no longer treated as a traditional city, but as a national park?
National parks operate through systems of protection that treat land as a network of ecological relationships rather than a collection of isolated sites. They establish a shared baseline for what must be preserved, maintained, and made accessible over time. When this logic is applied to the urban environment, success can inspire pride and a sense of shared responsibility among designers, policymakers, and residents, fostering a collective commitment to health, habitat, and civic infrastructure.
Health has become a central concern in architecture, planning, and design, driven by a growing awareness of how the built environment influences physical, mental, social, and environmental well-being. In 2025, this awareness moved beyond specialized building types or performance metrics and became central to architectural decision-making, informing how spaces are conceived, built, and inhabited across diverse contexts. Architects are no longer treating health as an external requirement but as an integral condition of everyday life.
Earlier this month, news of Frank Gehry's passing prompted an outpouring of tributes to the architect behind flamboyant museums, concert halls, and sinuous residential complexes. Rather than revisit that well-charted terrain, it is worth pausing on a more contemplative work in his oeuvre: Maggie's Cancer Caring Centre in Hong Kong. Quiet, optimistic, and calibrated for everyday resilience, the building reflects multiple registers of Gehry's intent: a commitment to positivity and survival—and, more personally, an architect's own reckoning with loss and end-of-life care.
The remark reframes Maggie's Hong Kong as more than a commission; it suggests a design process shaped by grief and turned toward comfort, dignity, and the possibility of hope—an ethos that aligns closely with the organization's mission.
The intersection of neuroscience and architecture/design has brought innovations to the way spaces are conceived.Recently, the relevance of inclusive and regenerative design has come to the fore, addressing the need to create environments that welcome human diversity, including older adults and neurodiverse individuals. This approach not only broadens accessibility but also promotes environmental regeneration and user well-being.
A good conversation can make time feel like it's passing more quickly. But is this effect solely due to the verbal exchange, or could our perception of time be shaped by the spatial conditions surrounding us? There are environments that, due to their scale, distribution, and atmosphere, are conducive to meeting, listening, or pausing, thereby influencing the human experience. Perhaps it's not the words we share, but the space in which we speak that truly shapes our understanding of time. Some sociological theories about our society and the built environment go beyond considering it as a mere physical container and suggest that architecture, in its very duality, can act as both an inhibitor and a catalyst for our temporal experiences, impacting our wellbeing.
https://www.archdaily.com/1029304/wellbeing-and-slow-spaces-can-architecture-distort-the-way-we-experience-timeEnrique Tovar
The intersection of architecture and medicine profoundly shaped modernist design, where transparency, light, and air became essential tools in the pursuit of health. Emerging from the tuberculosis crisis of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the sanatorium evolved beyond a medical facility into a testing ground for architectural innovation. The necessity of fresh air, sunlight, and sterility transformed these spaces into prototypes for modernist principles, influencing spatial organization, material choices, and design philosophies that extended far beyond healthcare.
More than sites of treatment, sanatoriums embodied contemporary medical theories in built form. At a time when tuberculosis — often called the white plague — devastated populations worldwide, medical professionals prescribed environmental exposure as the primary therapy. Architecture adapted accordingly, producing buildings with expansive terraces, large windows, and streamlined interiors designed to optimize ventilation and maximize natural light.
Terrace Garden between both phases. Image Courtesy of NEUF architect(e)s
With modern medicine, it may be difficult for many people today to imagine the devastation caused by Tuberculosis (TB) just about 100 years ago. Initially associated with insalubrious, overcrowded conditions, just in Canada it caused the death of approximately 8000 people annually in the late 19th century. During this time, before more advanced treatments were discovered, prescriptions from doctors involved sunlight, fresh air, and rest. As a response, sanatoria were established. These were places where patients could be separated from the community to manage their disease. One testament to that legacy stands in the heart of Montreal: the former Royal Edward Laurentian Institute, later known as the Montreal Chest Institute. Born from crisis, it has since become a symbol of resilience, transformation, and innovation, shifting from a space of isolation to a thriving hub for research and entrepreneurship in the life sciences.
Historically, public bathing was a fundamental necessity for hygiene, giving rise to communal bathhouses in regions where private bathrooms were a rarity. In Japan, for instance, sento bathhouses emerged during the early Edo period, serving as essential facilities when most households lacked their own bathing spaces. Similarly, in other parts of the world where plumbing and water management were considered luxuries, shared public baths became vital components of urban life. Over time, these spaces evolved beyond their functional role, becoming venues for socializing, relaxation, and a temporary escape from daily routines.
However, in the modern era, private bathrooms have become ubiquitous in contemporary homes, effectively addressing the hygiene concerns that once made public bathhouses indispensable. With the rise of alternative social spaces—cafés, fitness centers, bars, and jazz lounges—the traditional communal bath no longer serves the same essential function. While some may still appreciate the social aspect of public bathing, the inconvenience of changing clothes and getting wet in front of strangers can deter many from engaging in the experience.
Discussions of architectural form demonstrate how disability is negatively imprinted into the field of architecture. In architectural theory and the history of architecture, “form” typically refers to the physical essence and shape of a work of architecture. In the modern idea of form, it is a quality that arises from the activity of design and in ways that can be transmitted into the perceptions of a beholder of architecture. Form provides a link between an architect’s physical creations and the aesthetic reception of these works. It occupies a central place within a general understanding of architecture: the idea of the architect as “form-giver,” among many other turns of phrase, conveys the sense of some fundamental activity and aesthetic role of form within architecture, what architects create, and how people perceive works of architecture.
Augusto Malta, Demolition Morro do Castelo, Rio de Janeiro, RJ, June 1, 1922. . Image Courtesy of Biblioteca Nacional Digital Brasil, Fundação Biblioteca Nacional.
At the inauguration of the First Brazilian Congress of Eugenics in July of 1929, the physician and anthropologist Edgar Roquette-Pinto addressed an audience preoccupied with the question of how a country as vast as Brazil could best increase and improve its population. To accomplish this, Roquette-Pinto exalted “eugenia” as the new science that, together with medicine and hygiene, would guarantee the efficiency and perfection of the race. With the following words, the Brazilian scientist underscored a positivist agenda that brought architecture to the very core of the eugenics—the so-called science of race “improvement”—movement: “It is critical to emphasize that the influence [on our race] does not stem from the natural environment but rather from the artificial environment, created by man.” With these opening remarks to the Congress, Roquette-Pinto called attention to the crucial role that the man-made environment plays in the “amelioration” of what he called “the biological patrimony” of Brazil’s diverse population. In his invitation to social engineering, Roquette Pinto pointed to the environmental-genetic collusion that they hoped would bring with it the very possibility of progress.
Diagram of Falcon Lift's Falcon FS 420C. Image Courtesy of Falcon Lift
For companies or leasers that own large buildings, building maintenance can seem daunting, costly, or even superfluous, particularly when building functions appear to be running smoothly. But proper and consistent building maintenance is imperative for a number of reasons. Buildings inherently function less effectively over time due to natural causes such as climate, daily occupant use, mechanical obsolescence, and more. When left unresolved, these issues can devalue user experiences, create dangerous and unhealthy environments, and even incur costs higher and more sudden than consistent building maintenance costs.
https://www.archdaily.com/928044/why-is-building-maintenance-importantLilly Cao
Our entire civilisation is facing one of our most challenging times since WWII.
The results caused by the COVID-19 outbreak are unimaginable and unpredictable yet, but we are already feeling the drastic effects. Richard Kozul-Wright, Director of the UNCTAD, estimates an impact that will cost the world economy around $1 trillion, expecting the worst scenario than the financial collapse in 2008.
