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.
Smiljan Radić's architecture often begins elsewhere: in a memory, a journey, a material, a stone, a half-seen structure, or a situation not yet organized as an architectural idea. In "Architecture: Distraction and Knowledge," his 2026 Pritzker Architecture Prize Laureate Lecture, distraction does not appear as a lack of focus, but as a way of receiving the world. It is through these peripheral encounters — travel, ruins, cities, stories, industries, and materials — that architectural knowledge slowly accumulates.
When Radić was announced as the 2026 Pritzker Architecture Prize laureate, the recognition did not simply confirm a body of work already known for its material strangeness. It also clarified an architectural position that has long resisted easy translation into theory, or style, or spectacle. Radić's work is often described through oppositions: heavy and light, primitive and industrial, fragile and monumental, shelter and object, ruin and apparition. Yet these terms only partially account for the force of his architecture. What makes the work difficult, and increasingly necessary, is its refusal to become fully legible as a claim of certainty.
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.
The FIFA World Cup 2026 will take place from June 11 to July 19, 2026, across North America, with matches hosted at 16 venues in Canada, Mexico, and the United States. For the first time, the tournament is being co-hosted by three countries: 11 venues in the United States, 3 in Mexico, and 2 in Canada. Since the 2018 FIFA Congress selected the venues to host the 2026 World Cup, the three North American countries have been working to deliver the tournament. This edition will be the first to feature 48 competing teams, expanded from 32. Unlike the 2022 Qatar World Cup, which required the construction of entirely new stadiums, the three host countries already have the necessary infrastructure in place, though several venues are taking the opportunity to upgrade their facilities, including Mexico City's Estadio Azteca, Arlington's AT&T Stadium, and Toronto's BMO Field.
https://www.archdaily.com/993287/explore-the-full-list-of-football-stadiums-for-the-2026-fifa-world-cup-in-united-states-mexico-and-canadaArchDaily Team
Copenhagen, Denmark. Image Courtesy of Lindsay Martin via Unsplash
Copenhagen is long famous as the global capital of human-scale design and livability. Today, the city has widened its focus and is an active space where mid-century Scandinavian modernism meets the modern demands of climate adaptability, material circularity, radical conservation, and neighborhood density. During the first-ever Copenhagen Architecture Biennial, in 2025, the city transformed into a global platform for dialogue under the theme "Slow Down," exploring how architecture can respond to global pressures by rethinking the pace of change. And this year's 13th edition of the 3daysofdesign Festival will explore the theme of "Make This Moment Matter", encouraging the global design community to step away from digital noise and mass production to focus on the present.
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.
Traditional building solutions tend to work well in their respective contexts, as they have withstood hundreds of years of testing and improvements, and use techniques and materials available locally. Although globalization and the democratization of access to technology have brought more comfort and new opportunities to humanity, it has also led to the homogenization of solutions in the construction sector and a dependence on global supply chains for construction materials and components. This has also caused a rupture in how knowledge is passed on to new generations and, eventually, the disappearance of traditions.
In particular, the topic of passive cooling solutions for buildings is currently having a resurgence, with an effort to recover ancient techniques used throughout history in locations that have always had to deal with hot climates. This is even more evident due to the high energy costs imposed by artificial cooling, the global warming scenario, and mainly because, among the projections of population growth, a significant portion of megacities will be located in the predominantly hot climates of Africa and Asia. When we think about the future, is it possible to be inspired by the past and apply ancient cooling techniques to contemporary buildings?
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.
