Aristotle is credited with the proverb "One swallow does not make a summer." In nature, the arrival of these migratory birds often announces the change of seasons, a universal symbol of renewal and hope. Yet it is only when many take flight that the true warmth of summer begins. The same can happen in architecture: an isolated project, however exemplary, rarely changes a reality on its own. When, however, a work teaches, inspires, and can be replicated, it becomes the harbinger of something greater.
Initiatives that combine simple technologies, local materials, and participatory processes show how building can also be an act of learning. Structures and bricks shape places of mutual teaching, where architects and residents share knowledge and build together, multiplying skills and strengthening bonds. These projects point to the possibility of a collective summer, a future in which knowledge spreads as widely as the walls that shelter it.
In many parts of the world, remoteness is not only defined by distance. It may describe a mountain settlement far from infrastructure or an urban and suburban neighborhood on the margins of visibility and opportunity. Across these diverse contexts, the library has been one of the most vital typologies—a space where architecture embodies the modes of accessibility, inclusivity, and community care.
Concrete, steel, wood, glass. Every year, millions of tons of construction materials are discarded, piled up in landfills, and silenced beneath the weight of the next building. Entire structures disappear to make way for others, restarting a voracious cycle of resource extraction, material production, and replacement. Along with the debris that accumulates, something deeper is also lost: time, human labor, stories, and the collective memory embedded in matter. At a time when climate goals demand reducing emissions and extending the lifespan of what already exists, demolition is increasingly recognized as a form of urban amnesia, one that erases not only cultural continuity but also the embodied energy of buildings. And even though it is often said that the most sustainable building is the one that already exists, that principle rarely survives when other interests come into play.
Theaters serve as cultural and social institutions, shaping society by providing spaces where stories of identity, race, and justice are brought to life. These venues foster community through shared, live experiences, sparking conversations that resonate beyond the stage. Architecturally, theaters are more than performance spaces—they are landmarks that embody both the history and future of the arts. Their design often reflects the cultural importance of storytelling, while their refurbishments ensure they remain relevant in a modern context.
In this week's AD Interior Focus, ArchDaily explores how the refurbishment of iconic theaters like the Royal Opera House in London, United Kingdom, and Sydney Opera House in Australia goes beyond modernizing comfort and accessibility. It delves into how these projects preserve the architectural integrity of these historic landmarks, ensuring their design continues to serve as a backdrop for both artistic expression and social discourse.
Wine production has long been tied to place, climate, and culture, and in recent decades, architecture has become a central part of this relationship. Wineries are no longer understood only as functional facilities for fermentation, storage, and distribution, but also as spaces where landscape, materiality, and visitor experience intersect. From subterranean cellars hidden beneath fields to sculptural landmarks rising in rural territories, these buildings shape the identity of winemaking regions while offering visitors a carefully choreographed encounter with the process of production.
At the intersection of agriculture, tourism, and culture, wineries present architects with unique opportunities to merge technical requirements with a spatial narrative. They must respond to environmental conditions, manage temperature and humidity with precision, and integrate with delicate ecosystems, while also providing spaces for tasting, gathering, and celebration. As a result, the typology has given rise to a wide range of architectural solutions. Some are rooted in tradition and local craft, others are exploring advanced technologies and contemporary forms.
The event invited designers to reflect on one of architecture's oldest and most symbolic elements: the stair. Beyond its functional role as a connector of levels, the stair was positioned here as a medium of architectural storytelling—an invitation to explore ideas of procession, sequence, space, and form.
For this first edition, participants were asked to conceptualize a stair not as a technical solution but as an expressive artifact—an embodiment of their design sensibility and architectural values. There were no constraints on site, scale, material, or program. Instead, designers were challenged to reimagine the stair as a sculptural, poetic, and even philosophical construct—one that could provoke, question, or elevate our understanding of vertical space.
Tourism in Portugal began to develop in the late 1950s, initially centered on key destinations such as the Algarve coast, Lisbon, and the religious hub of Fátima. This focus made tourism largely a coastal activity. However, rapid growth and overburdened infrastructure in these areas led to saturation and a crisis in the sector. To address this, efforts were made to promote alternative destinations, appealing to a new wave of tourists looking for more sustainable, authentic, and locally immersive experiences.
Buildings must change faster than they were built to. Shifting tenant needs, tightening climate policies, and rising office vacancies expose the cost of static stock: waste, noise, downtime, and—in the worst case—stranded assets. The consequence is clear: buildings across typologies must be designed to adapt over time. The inaugural Adaptable Building Conference (ABC), taking place on January 22, 2026, at the Nieuwe Instituut in Rotterdam, brings the industry together to turn adaptability from principle into practice.
Hormuz Island, located in Iran, was a strategically significant port in the Persian Gulf, characterized by its landscape of colorful mountains. Despite its tourist appeal, the island faces significant socio-economic problems, with the local population having historically faced economic hardship. In response, the Majara Complex by ZAV Architects was conceived not merely as a building but as a deliberate architectural intervention designed to give control, opportunity, and economic benefit directly to the local community. To do this, the project channeled investment into local human resources and prioritized accessible construction techniques, creating a pathway for localized wealth creation. This allowed the Majara Complex to be one of the recipients of the Aga Khan Award for Architecture in 2025.
For architects and specifiers, selecting the right cladding system is both a technical and creative act, connecting material science with architectural intent. More than simple visual envelopes, façades today are high-performance systems that balance protection, insulation, and expression. As the first barrier between exterior and interior, the right cladding system can define how a building behaves and ages over time, affecting its thermal comfort, acoustic performance, fire safety, and overall durability.
Among the most commonly used façade materials are wood, metal sheets, composites, and aluminum systems. Within this range, single-skin metal panels and extruded aluminum panels are particularly notable for their blend of strength, precision, and architectural appeal. While both benefit from aluminum's inherent lightness and corrosion resistance, they differ significantly in structural logic, performance characteristics, and ideal applications. Companies such as Parallel Architectural Products—specialized in extruded aluminum cladding systems and architectural finishes—have played an important role in advancing these technologies, combining precision engineering, aesthetic flexibility, and local manufacturing.
The VELUX Group is launching the next step in its Action Leadership agenda as an experiment to explore how existing buildings can better serve both people and planet. The experiment builds on decades of demonstration projects and research into healthy buildings, including Living Places, which achieved an ultra-low carbon footprint and first-class indoor climate in an affordable and accessible way. The next step shifts focus towards existing buildings, from new build to renovation—named Re:Living.
Re:Living is a forward-thinking experiment to reimagine renovation to be more than a technical upgrade, and instead as a holistic opportunity to improve human well-being, support biodiversity, and reduce environmental impact. It's part of VELUX's long-term commitment to lead the building industry toward healthier, more sustainable practices, driven by a belief that simply reducing harm is no longer enough.
Agustina Iñiguez's journey into architecture was rooted in a deep appreciation for art, drawing, and craftsmanship, interests that naturally evolved into a formal architectural education beginning at age 18. Based in Buenos Aires, Agustina balances her professional architectural practice with an active role in academia, serving as a teaching assistant at the University of Buenos Aires and as an assistant professor at Torcuato Di Tella University. Since joining ArchDaily's Editorial Team in 2021, she has brought a thoughtful and interdisciplinary approach to curating content that bridges theory, practice, and social engagement.
When Hudson Yards opened in Manhattan in 2019, it promised a new urban neighborhood built from scratch. 16 towers with 4,000 residential units were erected in hopes of creating a strong community. Despite its lavish amenities and lofty public plazas, a peculiar emptiness persisted. The development felt anonymous, speaking to a fundamental truth about human social capacity.
Office in Sanno / Studio Velocity. Image Courtesy of Studio Velocity
Historically, architecture and the built environment have insisted on creating flat, hard surfaces. In earlier eras, walking without paved ground meant mud-caked shoes, uneven footing, tripping hazards, standing water after rain, and high maintenance. Hence, as we shaped cities, we prioritized a smooth, continuous, solid horizontal datum. The benefits are real: easier walking, simpler cleaning, and straightforward programming—furniture, equipment, and partitions all prefer a level base. This universal preference for building on flat ground remains the norm and, for many practical reasons, will likely continue to be.
What's less recognized is that making a truly flat surface is surprisingly difficult—and many well-executed "flat" floors aren't perfectly flat at all. They are often gently sloped, calibrated to precise gradients for drainage. While interior spaces do not always require this, many ground floors and wet areas do incorporate subtle inclines as a safeguard—whether for minor flooding or to manage water that overflows from the street or plumbing when one of the discharge systems is malfunctioning.
SCI-Arc alumni continue to make an indelible mark on the global design landscape, pioneering new approaches in architecture, technology, and interdisciplinary practices. With a reputation for fostering radical experimentation, the school has produced graduates whose work challenges conventions and redefines spatial possibilities. Recent alumni achievements underscore SCI-Arc's role in shaping the next generation of architects and creative thinkers.
The cultural center is an architectural typology that has fascinated architects and urban planners for decades. Whether due to its multifaceted program, its often emblematic scale, or its potential to transform the urban context in which it is inserted, it is a building type that carries strong symbolic and conceptual value. The wide circulation of international references—many designed by renowned architects—reinforces the aura of prestige associated with this program, frequently seen as a privileged ground for formal and conceptual experimentation. Not by chance, cultural center designs are among the most recurring themes in competitions, exhibitions, and academic studios.
Yet behind this contemporary fascination lies a complex history in which the notion of space dedicated to culture has been redefined over time, gradually taking the form we recognize today. This ongoing evolution invites us to reflect not only on the historical path of these spaces but also on the possibilities that will shape their future.
Domestic workers in Hong Kong and Singapore are the city's quiet infrastructure. In Hong Kong alone, there are a total of roughly 300,000 domestic workers, serving a portion of the approximate 2.7 million households. Their care labor sustains dual-income family routines: childcare, eldercare, cooking, cleaning, and the everyday logistics that make professional life possible. Yet the people who hold this balance together remain largely invisible in policy—and, crucially, in space.
On Sundays in Hong Kong's financial district, that invisibility becomes visible. Elevated walkways and podium forecourts—underused on weekends—turn into ad-hoc commons. With cardboard mats, small tents, towels, food and water, and a music speaker or two, domestic workers assemble places to sit, rest, and socialize. These improvised rooms in the city are often their only chance to exercise spatial agency—something they rarely have in the homes they maintain or in formal public infrastructure. In the absence of sanctioned, serviced places for rest, quieter bridges and passages become practical stand-ins.
