Castles and fortresses often rise from strategic, commanding positions when standing alone or integrated into urban and rural landscapes. From above, they overlook the city, bearing in their imposing structures the weight of history. With their original functions now limited to contemplation, these spaces have been undergoing revaluation and reintegration into everyday urban life. Once symbols of military or political power, they are now taking on new roles through contemporary interventions that engage with their heritage without erasing their past.
In a global landscape marked by accelerated change, 2025 emerged as a decisive year for architecture—not only because of the major events that animated the international circuit, but above all because of the voices that stood out within them. From the Venice Architecture Biennale to Expo Osaka, pavilions and installations from the Global South ceased to function as mere exhibition gestures and instead asserted themselves as territories of memory, resistance, and imagination, articulating narratives that expand the horizons of contemporary architectural debate.
Across these works, tradition and future move side by side: ancestral materials reappear in reimagined forms, historical wounds are given sensitive expression, and social urgency is translated into proposals that challenge established ways of building and inhabiting the world.
It is a vast rural expanse spread across the planet, assuming different expressions depending on context—from Asian rice fields to African agricultural settlements, from small European farms to the large estates and agro-extractive communities of the Americas. Yet, beneath this plurality, is there something that unites them? And, more importantly, how might architecture illuminate this quiet thread?
Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan and one of the oldest cities in Central Asia, has long been shaped by a hybrid culture. Located at a strategic point along the Silk Road, the city developed an architectural tradition defined by inner courtyards, domes, decorative ceramics, and Islamic geometric patterns. The annexation by the Russian Empire in the 19th century introduced administrative buildings, orthogonal squares, and straight avenues, creating a dual urban fabric — between the “old” Eastern city and the “new” European one — in which contrasts and overlaps became the norm.
During the Soviet period, when Tashkent became the capital of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic and received intense migration from across the union, the city was transformed into a modernist showcase. The coexistence between Islamic heritage and the ideology of socialist progress found a new inflection point with the 1966 earthquake, whose destruction triggered a large-scale reconstruction effort involving architects from across the USSR. Massive housing complexes, cultural institutions, and monumental buildings emerged, reinterpreting local motifs through ideological and technological language. It was in this context that the Palace of Peoples’ Friendship took shape.
Every city carries, woven into its fabric, fissures that resist capture: ruins, vacant lots, leftover infrastructures, and gaps that persist at the margins of the official narrative. These are places that slip through the logics of planning, emerging as unexpected counter-scenes within a territory that seeks to present itself as coherent.
In the rush to organize and predict, we rarely pause to notice what emerges from such unforeseen conditions. Yet it is precisely in them that new forms of urban life begin to take shape. Free from pragmatic control or predetermined codes of conduct, these spaces reveal another layer of the city — one that, in its continual state of latency, opens room for new modes of appropriation.
Giardino delle Sculture / Carlo Scarpa. Image by Jean-Pierre Dalbéra [Flickr under license CC BY-NC 2.0]
When we think of Venice, familiar images come to mind: Piazza San Marco, winding canals, and the reflection of Byzantine domes on still waters. Few, however, imagine that among those reflections lies a discreet chapter of Italian modernity — the architecture of Carlo Scarpa.
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.
It is undeniable that, at first glance, the idea of a Louvre in Abu Dhabi or a Centre Pompidou in Brazil may seem somewhat disconcerting. The image of these museums, internationally renowned, appears in many ways inseparable from their original cultural contexts. And to some extent, it truly is. The Louvre, deeply rooted in the history of France as a former fortress and later royal residence, embodies a set of invaluable heritage values, further amplified by I. M. Pei’s iconic glass pyramid intervention in 1989. The Pompidou, meanwhile, is remembered as a historic turning point: by redefining the concept of public infrastructure through radically unconventional architecture, it marked the first time culture drew in mass audiences.
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.
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.
What should be taken into account when designing a fire station? The answer may seem obvious: functionality and efficiency. After all, every second counts in an emergency. But can a building designed for urgent operations also be aesthetically compelling, welcoming, and connected to its community? In recent decades, architects such as Zaha Hadid and Álvaro Siza have demonstrated that it can. By rethinking this building type, they have created spaces that go beyond emergency response—spaces that strengthen social ties, support the well-being of firefighters, and become urban landmarks.
In an era of people-centered urban planning, 15-minute cities, “eyes on the street,” and active public spaces, parking garages are often seen as the antithesis of contemporary urban ideals. But that was not always the case. If today they challenge architects and planners to reinvent them in pursuit of more sustainable mobility and more human cities, in the past they stood as witnesses to a radical transformation in how we move, inhabit, and perceive urban space. Once symbols of modernity, parking garages embodied the height of an age when the automobile was seen as a driving force of progress. This shift in meaning reveals them as much more than utilitarian structures — they are powerful reflections of the evolution of urbanism, technology, and social habits over the past two centuries.
The preservation of the environment and the harmonious integration of the built and natural elements are fundamental principles in contemporary architecture. Various design strategies are employed to achieve this balance, ranging from the revival of vernacular techniques to the use of advanced technologies. However, this concern goes beyond the choice of specific construction systems or innovative materials; it also manifests in the design approach that ensures the preservation of the site's natural elements. In this context, we present 15 homes designed to protect local trees, showcasing how architectural decisions can adapt to nature rather than impose on it.
Construction group for the Circo-lô at the IDE Association, in Botucatu | SP. Photo: Tomaz Lotufo
Historically, the first universities in the contemporary model were established in Europe to educate elites for the State and the Church, rather than to promote social emancipation. With the rise of capitalism, they became privileged centers for producing and reproducing modern Western culture. However, from the 1960s onward—particularly after the student uprisings of May 1968—the academic focus shifted toward market-oriented values, displacing humanist and critical ideals. The humanities lost prominence, while technical fields gained central importance, often at the expense of reflecting on the social impact of their work.
Monasticism emerged from a deep impulse to withdraw—a radical pursuit of spirituality and transcendence. The word itself comes from the Greek μόνος (mónos), meaning “alone,” reflecting the ideal of the holy hermit who retreats from the world to dedicate life entirely to the divine. By the late 3rd century, in Egypt and Palestine, the first Christian monks began to follow this path, creating ways of life that would later give rise to a distinct architecture centered on seclusion.
Lina Bo Bardi / Preliminary Study – Practicable Sculptures for the Belvedere at Museu Arte Trianon, 1968. Credit line: Doação Instituto Lina Bo e P.M. Bardi, 2006. Cortesia de MASP.
Aldo van Eyck and Lina Bo Bardi were two subversive figures. Their visions of collectivity and playfulness—though applied to very different kinds of structures—shared a common ground: an idea of architecture that goes beyond design. For both, architecture was a living space, animated by appropriation, movement, and exchange. From Dutch playgrounds to thw São Paulo Museum of Art, their ideals intertwined, reinforcing the notion of an architecture where anyone could become a child again.
