Over the past decades, timber has expanded its presence in contemporary architecture—driven both by the development of new construction technologies and by the rediscovery of traditional building techniques, all with a focus on lower-impact environmental solutions. Schools are among the building types that best reflect this movement: it is in these environments that the environmental, constructive, and sensory qualities of timber find particularly fertile ground.
Anyone expecting the following words to discuss materiality, sustainable construction techniques, woodworking methods, or ways of weaving thatch will be mistaken. This article seeks precisely to shift the focus beyond the aspects that so often define discussions about Indigenous cultures when the subject is "architecture."
In a universe where the very term "architecture" is foreign, approaching Indigenous constructions—or whatever word might best describe them—through an exclusively material or technological lens is itself an attempt to fit their ways of producing space into Western categories. In doing so, a complex cosmology is reduced to a set of measurable attributes, as if it could be transformed into a checklist applicable to any form of architecture, erasing precisely what makes it distinct: the relationships between territory, body, and memory.
When the first rays of sun strike the Swedish town of Jukkasjärvi, as winter gives way to spring, this ice hotel begins to melt. Five hundred tons of water flow toward the Torne River. What were once walls, floors, and ceilings are now drops of water seeking their natural course. In this scene, which has occurred every year since 1989, everything is a contradiction: the solidity and longevity of construction versus the ephemerality and transience of ice sculpture.
Hãhãwpuá is the name used by the Pataxó Indigenous people of Brazil to refer to the land, the soil, or, more precisely, the territory that after colonization became known as Brazil, though it has had—and still has—many other names. Amidst all these “Brazils,” Brazil as Indigenous land is the focus of the country's pavilion at the Venice Art Biennale 2024, which has consequently been renamed the Hãhãwpuá Pavilion.
We are living through a period of demographic transition—a shift we are all well aware of. The growth of the population over 60 has been exponential; however, it is not just this demographic increase that must be considered, but also the changing profile of this generation. After all, older adults are not what they used to be.
In 2014, when The Guardian reporter Ben Quinn opened the eyes of citizens worldwide to hostile urban design practices, coining what would become known as the "hostile architecture" phenomenon, few expected such a massive global response. A myriad of urban design strategies came to light, which restrict civic participation and segregate how the city is appropriated—elements that curb specific behaviors and hinder access and presence for certain social groups. These codes of conduct, dictated by urban design, run counter to everything studied about democratic, welcoming cities, as championed by Jan Gehl and Jane Jacobs.
Two thousand five hundred reais is the average price of a good virtual reality headset. If you opt for the full experience, shell out another four thousand reais to add sensors and controllers. These models must be connected to a high-performance computer to process information and transform spaces into 3D models, costing at least five thousand reais. In addition to the headset, sensors, and computer, software is also required, with annual licenses that likewise run into the thousands. In short, keeping up with technology nowadays is quite a costly endeavor.
Until the mid-1950s, Brazil was a predominantly rural country, with less than 30% of its population living in urban areas. However, driven by rapid industrialization, the country experienced a massive rural exodus during its transition from an agricultural export model to an urban-industrial one, drastically altering the landscape of its cities in less than 50 years. As a consequence of this rapid transformation, a predatory and unequal model of urbanization emerged, and it was in this context that the City Statute was born.
The term “cradle to cradle” was coined by American architect William McDonough and German chemical engineer Michael Braungart in their manifesto-book Cradle to Cradle: Remaking the Way We Make Things, published in 2002. This theory is not merely architectural; rather, it applies to any product, promoting a biological approach to manufacturing in which components are considered nutrients in a “healthy metabolism.”
In the early 19th century, in a Paris on the verge of having its medieval fabric torn open by Haussmann's grand boulevards, novelist George Sand dressed as a man to walk the streets. According to her journals, "in trousers and boots I could fly from one end of the city to the other, regardless of the weather, the hour, or the place." No one paid her any attention, no one guessed her disguise, and no one stared or criticized; she was just another "atom lost in that immense crowd." Thanks to her male attire, Sand experienced fearless incursions and solitary wanderings like a true flâneur—experiences that would later become fundamental to crafting her successful narratives.
Italian architect Vittorio Gregotti frequently asserted that “creating the place” is the primordial architectural act, its very origin, since simply placing a stone on the ground already marks the beginning of the “modifications” that will transform a site into architecture. Driven by this urge for transformation, we see ideas materialize into relationships and concepts that often bring the genius loci to the fore through a phenomenological approach, establishing an intimate connection between architecture and context, redefining places, and reaffirming the human connection to the world.
Na teoria, a sensação de bem-estar pode ser definida como um estado de satisfação plena das exigências do corpo e do espírito, evocando sentimentos de segurança, conforto e tranquilidade. Na prática, a sensação de bem-estar pode ser fomentada por diferentes estratégias, desde hábitos individuais até a forma como o ambiente é construído.
Nearly one hundred thousand square meters make up the site of one of Brazil's most important industrial heritage landmarks. Opened in 1926 by a Canadian group, the Perus Portland Cement Factory in São Paulo was crucial to the region's growth, leaving a legacy that goes far beyond its architectural remains.
On two specific days of the year, June 21 and December 21, if you look up at the sky, you will notice that the sun seems to stand still at its northernmost or southernmost limit before completing its daily path and reversing direction. This impression of a stationary sun led to the event being named the "solstice," derived from the Latin words 'sol' and 'sistere', meaning to stand still. It occurs when the sun reaches its northernmost or southernmost diurnal arc relative to the Equator; thus, two solstices occur annually, marking the beginning of winter and summer in the respective hemispheres.
Historically, this moment has held immense significance for various cultures, marking holidays, rituals, festivals, and ceremonies that, in turn, are tied to religion, agriculture, and fertility. Recognizing the importance of these rituals for cultural heritage and ancient traditions, the UN established June 21 as the International Day of the Celebration of the Solstice to foster mutual respect between different cultures.
According to recent research, the global fashion industry generates around $2.4 trillion annually. This staggering figure, unfortunately, is matched by its waste statistics. It is estimated that every second, the equivalent of a garbage truck full of textile scraps is burned or sent to landfills. Considering that fabrics like polyester, which is widely used in garment manufacturing, take an average of 200 years to decompose, the catastrophic future of this model is easily foreseeable. Alarming news consistently highlights this issue, such as the images of the immense secondhand clothing graveyard in the Atacama Desert released a few years ago, or reports that famous British luxury brand Burberry incinerated £28.6 million worth of unsold clothing, accessories, and perfume last year to protect its brand, claiming the carbon emissions were offset, making the action "environmentally sustainable."
The era when Le Corbusier's Modulor—the perfect man—was the only one “allowed” to occupy our cities and architecture is long gone. Decades ago, it became clear that environments were being designed as ideological representations that failed to reflect actual demand and its rich diversity of social class, gender, race, age group, and sexual orientation, among other factors. Planning and design were often disguised as “neutral” concepts, while in reality they reproduced the perspective of a middle-class white man. Ultimately, the time has come for the city to move past this flawed assumption of universal appropriation and instead materialize in its spaces the specific needs of every citizen.
The year was 1969. Lina Bo Bardi wandered through the São Paulo neighborhood of Bixiga, which at the time resembled a war zone. The clearings and piles of rubble were the result of a violent urbanization cutting through the region in the shape of São Paulo's East-West expressway complex.
Against this backdrop, Lina collected personal objects found in the debris, picking up "the most sordid items," as Zé Celso, director and creator of Teatro Oficina, stated in an interview. There was a clear reason for this undertaking: to compose the set for the play In the Jungle of Cities (Na selva das cidades), designed by the architect herself. In it, a stage shaped like a boxing ring was fashioned from the rubble of the demolitions taking place around the theater. The play was divided into 11 rounds, in each of which an institution is destroyed until the ring itself is demolished. At the end, the actors remove even the theater floor to reach the bare earth.
It is no secret that gender issues permeate our entire social and systemic organization, directly reflecting the duality of "feminine and masculine roles" and their mechanisms of gender oppression. Architecture and urbanism are no exception. Over the centuries, cities and their buildings have been maintained and transformed to prioritize the demands of a very specific user profile. This structure obviously overlooks other identities and forms of appropriation—namely, actual demand in all its diversity of social class, gender, race, age, and sexual orientation. These plans and designs are disguised under a "neutral" conception, yet they actually reproduce the perspective of a middle-class white man.
