Can architecture be built from food? Between the fire that warms, the smells that spread, and the bodies that gather around the table, the apparent banality of cooking and eating reveals itself as a choreographed dance of spatial appropriation and belonging. These gestures organize routines, produce bonds, and transform the built environment into lived place. The kitchen—domestic, communal, or urban—thus ceases to be merely a functional space and affirms itself as a territory of encounter.
"Feeling at home" is more than just an expression—it is the sense of warmth and comfort that transforms a space into a true refuge. To achieve this, elements like color, texture, lighting, and materials play a crucial role in shaping an environment that fosters relaxation and well-being. Backed by research in environmental psychology and neuroscience, the connection between physical spaces and human behavior highlights how architecture can directly influence the atmosphere, turning chaos into tranquility.
In Latin America, encounters do not necessarily arise from grand architectural gestures or monumental urban plans. They emerge from the in-between, from intermediate spaces: the courtyard, the veranda, the sidewalk, the shared corridor. These areas, often considered residual or informal by the traditional architectural discipline, are precisely where everyday life builds bonds.
From this Latin American culture comes a spatial logic in which daily life is organized in a relational and expansive way. Practices such as sitting at the front door, occupying the sidewalk, and playing in the street produce a lived city that extends beyond the formal limits of design.
How did a material conceived for bridges, factories, and large-scale structures make its way to the living room bench, the apartment bookshelf, the café table? For centuries, metal was associated with labor, machinery, and monumentality—from the exposed structures of 19th-century World’s Fairs to the productive logic of modern industry. Its presence in domestic interiors is not self-evident but rather a cultural achievement: the transformation of an industrial material into an element of everyday, intimate use, in close proximity to the body.
Throughout history, fish markets have played a singular role in mediating the relationship between city and sea. From the port agoras of antiquity, through medieval markets established along docks and estuaries, to the large covered structures of the 19th century, these spaces have been instrumental in shaping coastal cities. More than simple infrastructures for food supply, fish markets express cultural practices and modes of occupation rooted in proximity to water, consolidating themselves as intense and highly social public spaces. Within them, architecture, landscape, and social dynamics intertwine directly, revealing how the built environment can translate maritime traditions and reinforce the identity of coastal and port communities.
Every architectural project is the result of deliberate choices. Beyond form and function, buildings embody technical, political, and cultural decisions that shape their relationship with both their surroundings and the people who inhabit them. ArchDaily’s AD Narratives series explores these processes by bringing together accounts that trace projects from initial conception to built realization. In parallel, the AD Classics series turns to works of historical significance, presenting not only the stories behind these buildings but also technical drawings that allow for a deeper, more informed reading of their architecture.
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.
For several years now, the countryside has ceased to function merely as a picturesque counterpoint to the city and has instead become an active laboratory for new relationships between territory, landscape, and people. Here, environmental urgency meets collective memory; ancestral techniques converse with architectural experimentation; and local communities act as curators of their own territory. Contemporary rurality emerges less as a geography and more as a culture—inscribed in ways of life that care for the environment.
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.
Since 1895, the Venice Biennale has invited the world to witness the evolving landscape of contemporary art. In 1980, the event expanded its reach with the launch of the Architecture Biennale, which quickly became one of the discipline’s most influential global platforms. Today, alternating annually between contemporary art and architecture, the Biennale affirms itself as a space where disciplines and ideas intersect. Always timely and provocative, it fuels essential debates on the role of art and architecture in the contemporary world. Among its most recent editions are the 17th Architecture Biennale, themed How Will We Live Together? (2021), curated by Hashim Sarkis; The Laboratory of the Future (2023), by Lesley Lokko; and Intelligens. Natural. Artificial. Collective (2025), curated by Carlo Ratti and open to the public until the end of November.
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.
More than an architect, Scarpa was a craftsman of light and matter, a poet of detail who knew how to listen to the Venetian tradition and respond to it with gestures of surprising delicacy. The city where he was born and worked is now an open-air museum of his legacy, including projects such as the Fondazione Querini Stampalia, the Venezuelan Pavilion, the Olivetti Showroom, and, more quietly, the Giardino delle Sculture — a small courtyard hidden in the heart of the Giardini della Biennale.
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.
