In recent decades, a quiet revolution has reshaped how we interact with the objects and systems in our daily lives. What once required cranks or rotary mechanisms, and later the press of a button, is now giving way to experiences that are increasingly fluid, intuitive, and touchless. This shift is evident in public restrooms, where minimizing physical contact promotes better hygiene and reduces the spread of pathogens. It also reflects a broader change in paradigms of comfort, accessibility, and efficiency. Touchless devices, once restricted to isolated applications in hospitals, airports, or corporate buildings, have become standard in projects that prioritize user experience and sustainability.
Historically, the concept of childhood as we know it today simply didn't exist and, until the Middle Ages, children were viewed as miniature adults. According to historian Philippe Ariès, it was only from the 17th century onward that childhood began to be understood as a distinct stage of development, requiring specific care, education, and protection. However, this evolving recognition has not been consistently reflected in the design and organization of urban space.
A project can be drawn in broad strokes, but it's built in details. Simple as it may seem, a staircase involves a significant degree of engineering. Some are noticeably more tiring, or more difficult to climb and descend. To address this, in the 17th century, architect François Blondel proposed a formula to ensure the ideal proportion between riser and tread, an equation that, when respected, offers a comfortable path. But there's another equally decisive factor: all steps must be identical. This may sound trivial and logical, yet executing anything with precision is always a construction challenge. Our bodies quickly adapt to the dimensions of the steps, and any variation (even minimal) can lead to repeated stumbles or missteps. A seemingly insignificant detail, when poorly resolved, can compromise the well-being and safety of an entire building.
What does it mean to build with care, using what others leave behind? This question shapes the work of the Matter Matters Lab, an initiative founded by architect and researcher Catherine Söderberg Esper during the isolation of the pandemic. Drawing from experiences across cultures and motivated by a personal transformation during motherhood, Catherine began to investigate everyday waste as raw material for regenerative construction systems. Her first experiment involved gluing her own cut hair using white glue, initiating a radically intimate and handmade approach. Since then, the lab has focused on transforming organic waste into low-impact architectural materials, inspired by Indigenous knowledge systems and aiming to break from extractive models in construction. Projects like the Avocado Bricks, made from discarded avocado seeds, exemplify this approach of local, circular, and rooted in the idea of reciprocity between matter, place, and care, offering a new way of building with waste.
Humanity rarely embraces major transformations right away, often held back by fear, skepticism, or attachment to what already works. Gutenberg's press raised fears of misinformation; urban electrification drew warnings from doctors; and office computerization sparked concerns over the devaluation of human experience. Such ruptures often provoke resistance, but they tend to open space for critical reflection and innovation.
Today, with the rise of artificial intelligence and the rapid succession of technological innovations, we are living through another of these inflection points. The debate is broad, inevitable, and, as always, necessary. At the TRUE Conference 2025, hosted by Midea Building Technologies (MBT), this discussion takes on practical and strategic dimensions by linking digital advancements with tangible goals for sustainability, efficiency, and quality of life.
The new Arden Station in Melbourne goes beyond its functional role as a transportation hub. Opened as a key component of the Metro Tunnel project, the station expands the city's rail infrastructure by relieving pressure on other lines and improving service frequency and, at the same time, establishes itself as a defining element in the urban transformation of Melbourne's northern precincts. Located on a former industrial site undergoing revitalization, it anchors the future development of a new district projected to accommodate up to 34,000 residents and 15,000 jobs in the coming decades.
The theorist André Corboz, known for his contributions to the critical reading of territory, proposes that the cities should be understood as a palimpsest. That is, a surface continuously rewritten, where traces of previous layers remain visible even after successive interventions. For him, the city is not a static entity, but an organism in constant transformation, where historical, functional, and symbolic layers overlap. This is why working on restoration or rehabilitation projects for historical buildings is particularly complex, requiring careful thought about the approach to be taken: should extensions and renovations seek complete coherence with the original language, or assert themselves as architectural expressions of their own time?
At the Bruder Klaus Field Chapel, designed by Peter Zumthor, the construction process involved the direct participation of residents from the small Swiss village of Mechernich. Using an internal formwork made of vertically placed wooden logs, concrete was prepared in small batches and poured manually, day after day, forming layers marked by subtle variations in the mix and application. At the end of the process, the wooden structure was reduced to ashes, leaving the chapel's interior impregnated with traces of fire and revealing a dark, tactile surface. The result was a quiet and deeply meaningful space, where collective action, time, and material transformation became part of the architecture. Centered on locally available resources and manual techniques, this construction method highlights how the choice of materials and building system can shape the experience of a space, reveal the time invested, and embed the culture of a place into the very matter of architecture. In doing so, it offers an example of how construction itself can become a regenerative act, restoring meaning, connecting communities, and honoring material cycles.
The trajectory of glass in architecture reflects the technological evolution of humankind. For centuries, it was a fragile, opaque material, restricted to small openings in churches or aristocratic residences, limited in size, with uneven transparency and a largely secondary role. With the Industrial Revolution and advances in manufacturing processes, this condition changed dramatically. From artisanal and imperfect stained glass, we now have a wide range of architectural applications, from fully glazed skyscraper facades to translucent pedestrian bridges, lightweight roofs, smart partitions, and movable elements. One of the most surprising uses, once thought to be impractical, is the direct interaction of glass with large volumes of water. Today, we see pools with transparent walls or floors that project out from buildings, float above streets, or visually merge with their surroundings, creating striking sensory experiences. A remarkable feat, especially considering that for a long time, glass was considered too fragile for submerged environments.
At the Steirereck am Pogusch restaurant, architecture and gastronomy seem to speak the same language: that of the sensitive transformation of raw materials. Local ingredients, like leaves, roots, and flowers, are turned into surprising dishes, where simplicity is elevated to the extraordinary. Likewise, the building, far from being a static structure, offers a unique tactile and visual experience. One of the most intriguing elements is the use of stabilized foamed aluminum panels that, rather than evoking the coldness and rigidity often associated with metal, have been manipulated to transcend their conventional characteristics. They seem to breathe, with their porous, textured surfaces absorbing and reflecting light, creating a play of shadow and brightness that evokes the lightness and organic quality of natural materials.
The history of household appliances closely mirrors the transformation of the modern home and domestic life throughout the 20th century. Rooted in the technical advances of the Industrial Revolution and driven by urban electrification, these devices were created to mechanize everyday tasks such as cooking, cleaning, and food preservation. A major milestone in this evolution was the Frankfurt Kitchen, designed in 1926 by Austrian architect Margarete Schütte-Lihotzky. Considered the precursor of the modern kitchen, it incorporated efficiency principles inspired by the scientific organization of labor, with optimized spaces and integrated equipment to streamline domestic chores. Developed for social housing in Frankfurt, this kitchen embodies the functionalist spirit of the Bauhaus and establishes a direct connection with German design innovations, a context in which Gaggenau would also solidify its identity, combining technical precision and aesthetic sophistication.
Private residence in Varese / Franzetti Primi Architetti Associati
Mathematics shows us how, from just a few elements, we can generate nearly infinite combinations and how each new arrangement can completely transform the original set. Theories like chaos and complexity point in the same direction: small initial variations, such as a choice, a deviation, or a new element, can trigger profound and unexpected changes. In architecture, this manifests concretely in the daily work of a designer. The choice of materials and how they are combined may seem like a merely aesthetic or functional decision, but it holds the power to redefine a building's language, the path a project will follow, and its relationship with the surroundings and its inhabitants.
The schematic diagram to develop a wall section based on eco-resilient tectonics.
It is commonly accepted that the appearance of moss or vegetation on the surface of a building is a sign of neglect, deterioration, or poor maintenance. And this assumption is not entirely unfounded: small cracks in traditional materials can lead to water infiltration, thermal bridging, or even structural pathologies. But what if this organic presence were not a flaw, but the result of coevolution between architecture and the environment? This reversal of perspective was masterfully anticipated by Lina Bo Bardi in the Casa Cirell, in São Paulo, where mosses, orchids, and spontaneous vegetation were part of the architectural intent from the initial sketches. The use of raw stone cladding and exposed surfaces allowed the house to blend into the terrain. More recent projects have further deepened this relationship between built matter and plant life, such as Patrick Blanc's vertical gardens and Stefano Boeri's Bosco Verticale, which transform façades into vertical ecosystems, redefining the architectural envelope as a living infrastructure capable of filtering pollutants, absorbing heat, and fostering biodiversity.
Located in the south of the "Land Down Under", Melbourne is a city that resists simplistic definitions. While refined Victorian façades confront graffiti-covered laneways, meticulously maintained public gardens coexist with former industrial warehouses transformed into cafés, studios, and cultural spaces. It is precisely in this contrast between deliberate planning and spontaneous appropriation that the architectural essence of the metropolis resides.
Its history begins with the Aboriginal Kulin people, who for millennia inhabited the banks of the Yarra River, developing complex systems of land management, spirituality, and social organization. With the arrival of British colonizers in 1835, the chapter of the modern city began, a process marked not only by urban growth and development but also by violence, forced displacement, and cultural erasure. The effects of this legacy are still felt today, even in the face of contemporary efforts toward recognition and reconciliation.
Think of a chair designed for a meeting room. Its height, upright posture, and material language are deliberate choices—they signal presence, focus, and a degree of formality in a space where important decisions are made. Replace that chair with a low, plush sofa and the entire spatial dynamic shifts: focus softens, posture relaxes, and hierarchies dissolve. Every chair, stool, or sofa is more than just a way to fill space. It is a device designed for a specific type of interaction, a defined posture, a particular rhythm of use. When these purposes are ignored, even the most carefully curated interiors can feel fragmented or incoherent. Furniture plays an invisible yet fundamental role in shaping how people behave, how they feel, and what kind of work happens.
Desi Training Center / Studio Anna Heringer. Image Courtesy of Studio Anna Heringer
"The times they are a-changin'," sang a young Bob Dylan in 1964, capturing a nation at a crossroads, gripped by the civil rights movement and overshadowed by Cold War tensions. Nearly a decade later, David Bowie turned that gaze inward with "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes," a fragmented meditation on identity, reinvention, and personal transformation, echoing the collapse of countercultural ideals and the acceleration of globalization. By the 1990s, Tupac Shakur brought the focus back to the streets and urban centers. In "Changes," he laid bare the raw realities of racial injustice and systemic violence, offering not resignation but a forceful indictment: "That's just the way it is."
Three voices, three decades, three ways of confronting change. If art (here, through music) has historically served as both mirror and outcry in times of upheaval, then it is fair to ask: how has the construction industry responded to a world in constant flux, a world urgently demanding transformation? In a world shaped by powerful economic forces, architecture is increasingly challenged to reconcile social responsibility with market realities. Today, we face a convergence of planetary crisis and social fragmentation: the planet is warming, inequalities persist and deepen, data multiplies, and identities fracture. In this context, architecture can no longer afford to limit itself to formal experimentation or market-driven imperatives. It is called to rethink with clarity, responsibility, and imagination what we build, with what we build, how we build, and above all, for whom.
Founded in 1870, The Metropolitan Museum of Art — affectionately known as The Met — is one of the world's most important and visited museums, housing over two million works that span five millennia of human history. Located in the heart of New York City, alongside Central Park, the museum is celebrated for its vast and diverse collections, ranging from ancient Egyptian art to European masters and contemporary works. Paintings, sculptures, documents, historical artifacts, and multimedia pieces make up an ensemble that demands meticulously planned exhibition solutions to ensure both preservation and the effective communication of their historical and artistic value.
In 2021, The Met launched one of its most ambitious projects: the renovation of The Michael C. Rockefeller Wing, dedicated to the Arts of Africa, the Ancient Americas, and Oceania. With a $70 million investment, the initiative encompasses curatorial reorganization, oriented by a more regional and historical approach, as well as architectural interventions. The modernization of the galleries includes enhancements to natural lighting, accessibility improvements, and the incorporation of contemporary museographic systems, designed to optimize conservation and the interpretive experience for visitors.
Building a monumental dome without the use of external iron chains or traditional centering was the enormous challenge faced by Filippo Brunelleschi at the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. To demonstrate the feasibility of his proposal and to guide the construction, he relied on a large-scale wooden model that played a fundamental role in studying proportions, the interlocking of ribs, and the innovative arrangement of bricks using the "a spina pesce" (herringbone) system. As an essential technical tool, this model — which is still on display at the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Florence — guided the master builders throughout the construction, establishing itself as a seminal example of the value of models in architectural planning, constructive communication, and experimentation.
