Designer, currently working with YY Projects and Toshiko Mori Architect. Teaches at the University of Hong Kong and the Technological and Higher Education Institute of Hong Kong. Holds a M.Arch from Harvard University and a B.A. (Arch)from UC Berkeley. Based in Hong Kong.
How do societies support and nurture emerging architects? Young architects are heavily influenced by their formal education and initial exposure to the industry. Various organizational systems across regions, whether passive through environmental factors or active via tangible benefits, are in place to assist them in entering the field. However, it's worth questioning how often we reflect on these established support systems. Are they effective in fostering well-rounded professionals, or do they unintentionally reinforce certain biases in how architecture is practiced?
In Delirious New York, Rem Koolhaas vividly discusses the Downtown Athletic Club, a striking example of how an unassuming building exterior can conceal a vibrant mix of distinct, self-contained programs. Inside the uniform facade of this skyscraper, a private athletic club hosts an eclectic range of facilities—boxing gyms next to oyster bars and interior golf ranges below swimming pools—all segregated yet highly accessible. The Downtown Athletic Club epitomized the dynamism of New York's skyscrapers at the time, showcasing the thrill of capitalism through a selective, inward-focused world of leisure and privilege for the selected. This "machine of programs" operated independently of the external city as an isolated ecosystem within its walls. Yet, one might ask: could a similar model, designed for public use, create a more inclusive, lively community and neighborhood experience? This will activate the building within, instead of only serving the selected elites, and influence and transform the urban fabric and shapes around the building. In Hong Kong, a distant parallel can be drawn with the Municipal Services Buildings (MSBs)—publicly-funded structures that serve the community by integrating diverse functions within a singular vast building mass, much like the Downtown Athletic Club.
Two primary building approaches are commonly identified in architecture and design: solid versus hollow construction. These methods vary significantly across different cultures and regions, specifically for interior partitioning systems, when they appear interchangeable. Each has its own established practices influenced by local materials, labor preferences, climatic conditions, and cultural traditions. When architects and designers focus on their local context, it is easy to overlook the broader construction assumptions, limiting design flexibility and methodology. This raises an important question: How do these two building approaches differ?
Focusing mainly on interior systems, the distinctions between solid and hollow construction largely stem from the availability of materials and workforce preferences. For example, in the United States and Japan, stud walls, both wood and metal, are frequently used for partitioning. Conversely, brick remains the predominant material for partition walls in regions such as Hong Kong and southern China. Why do we build differently, and what are the benefits and challenges of each building methodology?
In recent years, continuous material finishes enveloping interior spaces have become increasingly prominent, particularly in branding-focused retail environments. A continuous interior refers to using what are typically liquid-applied materials that are cured to create seamless, uninterrupted surfaces, eliminating the appearance of joints and seams—at least during the initial application. A growing range of products now offer various color options, textures, and practical properties, making these finishes more versatile. Interestingly, the aesthetic effect of such interiors is uncanny to the rise of 3D rendering software, where the seamless, fluid look mirrors the smooth, idealized spaces typical of digital renderings. This effect also contributes to a sense of scalelessness, as the absence of visible seams or joints makes it harder to discern the actual size of a space, often giving the illusion that the interior is larger than it is.
With escalating land values in urban centers, there has been a growing trend to float public spaces from ground level to elevated locations, such as rooftops or podiums between buildings. From a development perspective, maximizing floor area has become crucial as urban environments expand. Ground-level spaces are highly sought after for retail use due to their strategic location, which attracts foot traffic and potential customers and drives city development and economics.
This financial consideration, which often guides building activities and directions in urban centers, contradicts design principles advocated during the modernist era for the benefits of better outdoor space for the public, such as the concept of 'Freeing the Ground'. Architects like Le Corbusier championed this concept through projects like Villa Savoye and Unite d' Habitation. These modernist designs envisioned a future where buildings were elevated to restore open, accessible outdoor ground-level spaces for its users. However, for the reasons above, many contemporary projects instead seek to replicate the function of public grounds within the building's structure.
Large-scale infrastructure projects often aim to connect distant locations within urban areas, facilitating quicker transportation, logistics, and commercial activities along their routes. However, while these projects link distant destinations, their substantial physical presence can significantly affect local communities. This may result in the disconnection and disengagement of previously connected neighborhoods, the disruption of public spaces, and generally negative outdoor experiences caused by noise, pollution, and lack of attention and maintenance to these infrastructures.
Nevertheless, several successful built environment projects have re-integrated contentious infrastructure into the community through thoughtful design of outdoor spaces, with Paris' Coulée verte René-Dumont being one of the first examples and New York's High Line being one of the most prominent examples. The High Line demonstrates how well-conceived outdoor projects can address the alienation caused by extensive infrastructure, foster community reconnection, serve as cultural and economic hubs, and even spur further economic redevelopment, as in Hudson Yards.
Over-providing traditionally implies offering more than is necessary, often carrying a negative connotation due to the potential for excess and waste. However, could there be scenarios within the built environment where over-providing proves advantageous? The question critically examines how overprovisioning might enhance a building's flexibility and adaptability to diverse and evolving conditions.
The underlying assumption of accurately providing what is needed for a building is that stakeholders—including owners, architects, and designers—can accurately predict and cater to a structure's current and future needs. This assumption, however, is challenging to realize, as societal, economic, and cultural shifts frequently occur in unpredictable ways. In this context, over-providing emerges as a counterintuitive yet potentially beneficial strategy. As buildings and structures inevitably transform, those designed with inherent adaptability reduce the need for costly renovations or complete rebuilds.
Bauhaus's designs have influenced our contemporary society in obvious and subtle ways. Iconic examples include Marcel Breuer’s Wassily Chair, the B55 Chair, the Bauhaus typeface, and the graphic design principles emphasizing clean lines, primary colors, and geometric shapes. However, the architectural construction details of the Bauhaus movement are much less discussed. While most can readily identify modern or Bauhaus buildings by their geometric forms, functionality, and industrial materials, their architectural details are often overlooked. They not only echo the design language of Breuer’s renowned furniture pieces but also have influenced the much-celebrated architectural glass details of Mies van der Rohe. How were Bauhaus's details executed, and how might they be translated into contemporary details today?
How have architecture and building design adapted to unforeseen future uses? As cities evolve, their needs for buildings inevitably change. Buildings may transition between cultural, commercial, industrial, and office functions depending on a city's identity and economic activity. In a world that is becoming increasingly dynamic and fast-paced, it's essential to consider the challenges static structures face when required to meet new demands. Cities have repurposed these static structures in ways not anticipated during their original design, with many successes in repurposing industrial buildings. Unlike structures designed with flexibility in mind, most manufacturing facilities were not initially intended for multiple uses. Yet, how have cities, communities, and occupants used these spaces, and what are the challenges of transforming a building’s existing uses?
Naturally, a higher population density prevents the formation of ghost towns and vacant shops, which can become hotbeds for crime. However, these positive views on dense living environments often rest on optimistic assumptions about urbanism, such as minimal friction among individuals, easily maintained hygiene and a natural formation of diversity.
As major cities continue to develop, we face intriguing challenges regarding the preservation and adaptive reuse of significant buildings, sites, and artifacts. This poses a complex question that involves political history, architectural theory, and cultural significance. Adaptive reuse extends beyond architectural and spatial designs; it allows cities and communities to reflect, reevaluate, and reinterpret their history from different perspectives. However, unlike books and words, buildings may not withstand the test of time themselves and serve as firsthand evidence of the stories they tell. How should we question ourselves on what to preserve and demolish? How can communities be involved in the active restoration or adaptation of historic buildings?
