"Coffee or tea?" is one of those phrases that follows you across contexts: asked on airplanes, after a meal, in hotel lounges, and in meeting rooms. It sounds like a small question—mere preference, a quick fork in the service script. Yet it also carries a quiet cultural inheritance. Tea arrives with the long history of ritual and domestic pacing, tied to older geographies of trade and everyday etiquette. Coffee arrives with a different lineage of circulation, later industrialized into the modern café and its public-facing rituals. In both cases, the drink is never only a drink; it is a practiced relationship to time and space.
In contemporary East Asia, however, "coffee or tea" increasingly reads as something else: imperceptibly or subconsciously, it is becoming more of a choice about where you want to be. Each beverage now carries a spatial expectation. Coffee implies a room you can occupy—often a place to pause, work, meet, or cool down. Tea, despite being culturally pervasive, appears more diffusely across the city—sometimes as a dedicated destination, sometimes as a high-frequency kiosk, and very often as an embedded default within dining typologies. The result is that a question posed as taste has begun to operate as a subtle indicator of spatial preference: whether you are seeking duration or velocity, enclosure or flow, a third place or a quick node on the street.
Sitting on low benches, casually talking, dressed in comfortable clothes, and surrounded by books, design objects, and works of art, Charles and Ray Eames appear in one of the most emblematic images of postwar modern domesticity in the United States. The house does not appear as an explicit architectural manifesto, but rather as an inhabited, appropriated, everyday space. Still, nearly everything in that scene functions as the condensation of a carefully constructed ideal: modern informality, the integration between architecture and daily life with the coexistence of industrial production. The photograph projects a way of living more than it represents a residence. And perhaps that was, from the very beginning, the central ambition behind the Case Study Houses.
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.
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Courtesy of the Christo and Jeanne-Claude Center for Contemporary Art, Gabrovo
Large factories are being transformed into museums, former administrative buildings are becoming co-working spaces, and even churches are being converted into homes. In this century, the rise of adaptive reuse in cities reflects a growing interest in preserving the memory and identity of historic structures. At the same time, it introduces a contemporary perspective that responds to the urgent needs of today's urban landscape. In Gabrovo, Bulgaria, the Municipality invites architects to design the Christo and Jeanne-Claude Center for Contemporary Art by transforming, adapting, and upgrading the former Textile Technical School and its adjacent site. EU co-financing, a disclosed budget, a designated jury, and a two-phase structure frame this competition, reflecting the spirit of Christo and Jeanne-Claude's artistic practice: bold, accessible artistic creation. More than a commission for a cultural building, it calls for a design response that understands the specific character of their work, adding a curatorial dimension to what might otherwise be a straightforward adaptive reuse project.
Aerial View of Lush Green Hills and Traditional Homes in Cauca, Colombia, Showcasing Nature and Rural Tourism. Image by Jhampier Giron M, via Shutterstock
Before a building can be inhabited, many other things need to happen. Water has to arrive, energy has to be generated, food has to be grown or transported, and waste has to go somewhere. These processes are usually treated as something outside architecture, even though they shape the most basic conditions of everyday life.
This is why the idea of self-sufficient communities is more complex than it first appears. It can suggest a place that provides more of what it needs: energy, water, food, shelter, and waste management. Yet, in many Latin American contexts, autonomy is not a complete separation from the world. It is a way of bringing the systems of daily life closer to the people who use, maintain, and care for them.
The architecture of cultural and community centers in rural areas around the world has become a rich field for experimentation, where tradition and innovation intersect. Rather than replicating standardized urban models, these projects embrace contemporary approaches tailored to local realities, blending bold design, sustainable technologies, and collaborative processes. Often developed in close partnership with local communities, they draw on regional materials and cultural symbols to create spaces that do more than host activities: they express a collective identity and a profound sense of belonging. By reimagining vernacular knowledge through a modern lens, these buildings support and inspire new ways of living in the countryside.
AI tools for interior designers - AI Plan Visualizer
This guide covers a workflow for generating multiple style variations, testing material and furniture options, and assembling a visual presentation package, all from one photograph of the existing room.
House of Wine in Berneck. Image Courtesy of Faruk Pinjo + Carlos Martinez Architekten
Bi-folding doors flood a room with light, offering the spatial flexibility to establish a dialogue with the surroundings. The Woodline series by Solarlux integrates manufacturing quality and technical expertise with architectural freedom, providing transparent facade solutions for versatile, sustainable architecture. The natural surfaces further enhance the building envelope with a distinct tactile quality.
Recent years have seen a shifting paradigm in multi-family residential architecture, as more and more new projects are being built with engineered wood, specifically Cross-Laminated Timber (CLT) and glued-laminated timber (glulam). Because timber is lightweight, these systems can reduce dead load and ease foundation demands, which is especially useful on sites with limited bearing capacity or over existing infrastructure. From a sustainability standpoint, timber can store carbon over the life of the building and often reduces embodied carbon compared with conventional concrete-and-steel systems. In fire design, large timber members can be engineered to char at a predictable rate, allowing the structural core to remain protected for a defined period when detailed appropriately.
Buildner has announced the results of its competition, the Last Nuclear Bomb Memorial No.6. This competition is held each year to support the universal ban on nuclear weapons. In 2017, on the 75th anniversary of the 1945 bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, which claimed the lives of over 100,000 people, the United Nations adopted the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons.
Emerging in port cities and working-class neighborhoods throughout the nineteenth century, the shotgun house became a durable response to density, climate, and constrained urban parcels, becoming one of the defining domestic forms of the Southern United States. Its narrow footprint, sequential plan, and deeply shaded porches produced a spatial logic that was economical and environmentally responsive before either term became central to architectural discourse. From New Orleans and Mobile to Houston and Louisville, shotgun houses formed the physical fabric of neighborhoods shaped by migration, labor, community, and cultural life. Though often dismissed as ordinary, vernacular construction, the housing typology has long embodied sophisticated ideas about climate adaptation, social adjacency, and incremental urban growth, making it one of the most influential domestic forms in the history of the American city.
Architecture is often presented as the visible expression of its time, its desires, its faith in progress, its idea of order. Yet this reading tends to flatten the conditions under which buildings are produced. It suggests that architecture follows history when, in many cases, it actively participates in it. Few periods make this more evident than the twentieth century, when architecture became deeply entangled with political programs, economic systems, and competing visions of how collective life should be organized.
What is commonly grouped under the label of Modernism is often described as a coherent project, defined by formal clarity, technological optimism, and a break with historical styles. But this apparent coherence dissolves when we look beyond its canonical centres. The same spatial principles (standardization, functional zoning, industrial production) were adopted in political and economic contexts that differed significantly in their structures and objectives. A static movement unfolded as a flexible system continuously reoriented according to the priorities of each regime. What appeared as a shared language was, in practice, a set of tools applied to distinct agendas.
"There is no space without event, no architecture without action." When Bernard Tschumi wrote these words, he was articulating a fundamental principle of the architect's practice. Architecture is about behavior. Every stroke of a pen on a floor plan is a proposition about how occupants will move or what actions become possible.
To draw is to architect a reality. Though with this power, architecture does not command. It does not issue instructions or enforce compliance, but it operates through a soft control — a mode of influence that shapes behavior by structuring perception and guiding attention.
Step from the heat of Dubai into the lobby of a glass tower, and the desert seems to disappear. Outside, temperatures climb past 45 degrees Celsius; inside, the air is cold, sealed, and perfectly controlled. For decades, this contrast became the defining image of Gulf modernity. Architecture became less a negotiation with climate, and more a demonstration that climate could be overcome. Towers of reflective glass rose from the desert as symbols of arrival, projecting financial power, technological confidence, and global ambition. Beneath this urban image sat an infrastructure built on oil, cheap energy, and the continuous mechanical suppression of heat.
Cities in Southeastern Europe do not wait to be read. They accumulate, layer upon layer of socialist planning, post-socialist disruption, and the quieter, less legible work of citizens remaking space from the ground up. Here, space and legacy insist on their own terms. What happens to architectural research when the cities that we observe already seem to know something our discipline has not yet learned to see?
San Diego, California. Photo by Samuel Ramos on Unsplash
Very close to the Mexican border, in the southwest corner of the United States, lies the city of San Diego. Its urban history began in 1769 with the arrival of a Spanish military expedition commanded by Gaspar de Portola, which marked the first permanent settlement in the territory that was known as Alta California. However, unlike the more formally urbanized administrative capitals and towns of Mexico and Central America, San Diego was conceived as a frontier outpost. Today, it has become the second-largest city in California, just after Los Angeles, and its urban grid tells a story about the Hispanic heritage that is intertwined with the contemporary cultural environment of the United States.
Modernism is often encountered through built form, photographed facades, canonical plans, concrete manifestos. For most people, its first encounter was far more immediate. It was a chair in an office, a shelf in a living room, a compact unit that reorganized how one sat, stored, or slept. Long before modern architecture could be widely commissioned, it was furniture that entered everyday space, carrying with it a new logic of living. Modernism's promise of transforming life was often delivered through these smaller, repeatable objects.
To understand this shift, furniture has to be read as a condensed form of architecture rather than decoration. Early twentieth-century designers treated it precisely this way. Le Corbusier described furniture as équipement de l'habitation (equipment of living), placing it within the operational system of the building rather than outside it. Similarly, the Bauhaus approached chairs and tables as industrial prototypes, embedding principles of standardization, efficiency, and mass production into their design. As architectural historian Beatriz Colomina has argued, modern architecture did not circulate only through buildings, but through media and objects that translated its ideas into everyday life. Furniture became architecture in miniature: portable, reproducible, and capable of reorganizing space without reconstructing it.
High-rise architecture continues to serve as a primary tool for accommodating density in rapidly evolving urban environments. Traditionally defined by efficiency and repetition, the tower is increasingly being reexamined as a more complex spatial and organizational system. Across different geographies, architects are testing how vertical structures can move beyond singular functions to incorporate layered programs, environmental strategies, and new forms of occupation.
The following selection brings together unbuilt projectssubmitted by the ArchDaily community, highlighting a range of approaches to the contemporary tower. From mixed-use developments and residential high-rises to speculative ecological proposals, these works reflect an ongoing shift in how vertical architecture is conceived. These towers engage with broader questions of privacy, coexistence, adaptability, and urban integration.
Learning something new is, biologically, a transformation of the brain. With each experience, neural connections are reorganized, creating and strengthening synapses. Far more than simply accumulating information, learning is about reconfiguring internal structures, a process that can reshape individuals and societies alike. The environment in which this takes place can cultivate curiosity, adaptability, and emotional resilience, thus supporting our next generation of leaders, or suppress those qualities, leading to withdrawal and isolation.
With the rise of modern schooling during the Industrial Revolution, a standardized model emerged, defined by rows of desks, simultaneous instruction, and visual supervision. Often compared to a factory system, this model still persists in many places despite profound technological shifts. These rigid environments remain even as modern learning demands experimentation and adaptability.
Based in Mexico City, Estudio Ome, founded by Susana Rojas Saviñón and Hortense Blanchard, is an architectural and landscape practice working across forests, volcanic terrains, urban fragments, and former industrial sites. Winner of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the studio develops projects through sustained observation of ecological and territorial conditions, where design decisions arise directly from the behavior of soil, water, vegetation, and ground.
Each project begins with repeated encounters. The terrain is first approached through walking and prolonged observation, letting drainage patterns, erosion, and seasonal shifts become legible before any formal measurement occurs. These visits form the basis for interpreting both visible and subterranean layers—hydrology and historical transformations that continue to exert force on the surface.
Even before any drawing or formal decision, the place now occupied by Praça do Mercado in Parque Realengo, Rio de Janeiro, already pulsed with movement. Improvised stalls, informal gatherings, music, children running, and adults gathered beneath temporary shelters composed a vibrant landscape, sketching an ephemeral architecture.
It is within this context that the work developed by Juliana Ayako—one of the winners of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards—together with Carlos Zebulun, Helena Meirelles, Larissa Monteiro, Rodrigo Messina, Francisco Rivas, emerged. The project management, urban planning, and landscape design were carried out by Ecomimesis Soluções Ecológicas, winner of the public competition organized by the Municipality of Rio de Janeiro in 2023.
Interpreting the contemporary habitat is a priority for architects and designers worldwide. Amid shifting trends, stylistic blends, and the revival of different techniques, contemporary interior design brings together materials, textures, and colors to transform the user experience. Within the domestic realm, a series of realities, tensions, and activities unfold, with design serving as a strong foundation and support system to meet the needs of its inhabitants. During Milan Design Week 2026, ICEX and Elle Decor Italia presented the fourth edition of Appartamento Spagnolo—a spatial framework created to showcase contemporary Spanish interior design within a historic context.
Heritage, in interiors, is increasingly rarer to be only a matter of preservation alone. More often it arrives as friction: the encounter between what a building already is—its plan logic, its scars, its structural inconsistencies—and what contemporary life demands of it.
Some of the most convincing projects today are not those that "restore" an interior back to a single moment, nor those that erase the past under a seamless new skin. They are the ones that stage a relationship between old and new—allowing contrast to do more than tell a story, and letting the clash become a pragmatic tool for construction, budget, and speed.
Vana Vasa Resort by MJ Kanny Architect, Steel Architectural Awards ASEAN 2024 Winner. Image Courtesy of NS BlueScope
The Steel Architectural Awards ASEAN 2026 is a regional architectural awards program presented by NS BlueScope to recognize built projects that demonstrate architectural excellence through the use of coated steel solutions. Under the theme Shaping Resilient Futures: Timeless Design with Coated Steel, the program highlights projects across Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, and Vietnam, progressing from the Country Awards to ASEAN-level recognition. This article explains how the two-stage pathway works, what categories are included, and how projects are assessed through Design Excellence, Innovation, and Sustainability.
"I want to start by thanking architecture itself." With these words, Chilean architect Smiljan Radić, the 55th laureate of the Pritzker Architecture Prize, opened his acceptance speech in Mexico City. Reflecting on what he calls "distractions," he thanked the many encounters that have accompanied him throughout his life and practice: from art, cities, materials, structures, and compositions to landscapes, poetry, nature, forms, stories, and memories. He spoke about what, within them, provoked him and the marks they left on his architectural imagination.
From the black light in Chandigarh and the interior of San Salvatore in Rialto, to the heaps of stone on the Croatian island of Brač; from the fallen columns of the Temple of Poseidon and the abandoned shires scattered across Chile, to People Meet in Architecture, Kazuyo Sejima's 2010 Venice Architecture Biennale, the traveling Chilean circus, and the silence of the water within the cisterns of Hagia Sophia, his speech unfolded as a tribute to moments, encounters, and distractions. A collage of memories and impressions that, together, shaped the architect he became.
