The Dr. Gutiérrez Hospital and the Specialty Outpatient Medical Center of Santa Fe (CEMAFE) recognize the work of Mario Corea and his team, having received the ex–aequo Award from the Central Society of Architects of Argentina, the First Prize ARQ FADEA 2018, and the ORO Gran Premio Nacional.

Utilizing a new typological system, the projects accommodate potential future transformations without altering the buildings' intrinsic characteristics, such as circulation and structure. Flexibility, sustainability, the rational use of resources, and environmental impact assessments are among the core design premises of these evolutionary hospitals.

Learn more about the projects in the authors' own words.

As the Egyptians, Aztecs, Greeks, and Incas well knew, nature holds within itself the answers to life's great mysteries. We only need to observe it closely to decipher the enigma. Often, we move heaven and earth searching for what has been right in front of our eyes all along. Immersed in our cell phones and concrete cities, when was the last time we walked on the grass or gazed at the stars?

Ancient civilizations did so constantly. By studying the path of the sun, the seasons, and the rain, they left a legacy of structures that have survived for millennia and still stand today. Without Google or computers, they acquired knowledge through the observation and study of their surroundings: nature.

Pavilions have been a key typology in architectural history. Their flexibility and ephemeral nature have allowed architects to unleash their imagination, breaking away from established canons. Each generation has taken the baton, pushing boundaries even further. From demountable structures to spaces that foster a democratic spirit, we look back at the history of Argentine pavilions and reflect on their importance.

Every four years, the city of Olympia hosted athletic competitions in honor of the god Zeus. During this period, time stood still: the city-states declared a truce and wars were suspended. These festivities were known as the Olympic Games. These new activities required new building typologies; architecture was put at the service of sports, a tradition that continues to this day.

For the third edition of the Youth Olympic Games, held in Buenos Aires, architects from across the country participated by creating various spaces. The multidisciplinary team from Galpón Estudio, along with Gruba and Hacelo Sonar, among other professionals, led the creation of Espacio Infancia, which invites visitors to awaken their senses. Running, climbing, walking, pausing, observing, listening, imagining. Learn more about the project in the words of its designers.

As part of the heritage preservation program of the municipality of Rosario, the provincial authorities of Santa Fe held the national preliminary design competition for the new building of the Provincial School of Visual Arts No. 3031 "General Manuel Belgrano". The selected plot contained the former railway workshops of the Central Argentino line, where contestants had to adapt the structures to the needs of the school and the community while preserving their historical value. Discover the winning project below.

Walking through the classrooms of the University of Buenos Aires' School of Engineering is like stepping into a time machine: fine wooden desks, rosettes, pointed ogival arches. Green chalkboards with theorems and equations waiting to be solved. Here, the foundations of knowledge are laid for the young minds who will later calculate bridges and dams, and optimize plants and processes. 

As you walk up to the terraced workshops, the wood groans and creaks—a sound that signals the passage of time.

The galleries of the National Museum of Fine Arts in Buenos Aires are currently showcasing the creativity of Clorindo Testa. Curated by María José Herrera and Mariana Marchesi, the new exhibition “Esta es mi casa” (This Is My House) offers a closer look at the architect-artist: What did he think about before going to bed? What did he see from his window? What was his house like?

Reading "Poéticas Colectivas" is a unique experience: the pages divide into two, three, and then become one. The boundaries of the pages dissolve, and both knowledge and architectural works intersect on both a literal level—the pages—and a theoretical one—the ideas.

This book by Bisman Ediciones brings together the work of Matéricos Periféricos and Arquitectura del Sur, two collectives of Rosario-based architects with shared ideals.

In the heart of Palermo, a large iron and glass structure houses species whose origins date back to distant eras predating the dinosaurs. This is the main greenhouse of the Carlos Thays Botanical Garden in Buenos Aires.

The spire of the San Lucas Parish rises serenely over an expansive green canopy of blooming jacarandas and tipu trees. Behind it, the massive School of Medicine of the University of Buenos Aires and a dense cluster of gray buildings contrast with this permeable green lung. A paved plaza climbs from the street, navigating the site's topography with winding paths, underground connections, parking, and a cultural center: this is the new project for Plaza Houssay, currently under construction.

Have you ever been curious about how architects work in their studios? Usually off-limits to the public, these spaces hold stories and dreams within their walls—completed projects, upcoming buildings, proudly won competitions, and unrealized ideas. Fortunately, the new book “Ambientes de Arquitectura” (Architectural Environments) by Bisman Ediciones opens the doors to 50 architecture studios, allowing us to explore their spaces. Ping-pong tables, mate, and scale models: discover how architects really work!

When talking about Argentine architecture, does a native style exist? The question is complex, as Argentina's DNA contains a mixture of contributions from various origins, ranging from Indigenous peoples to immigrants from diverse global regions. The country is as rich as it is diverse.

“In this house are the books that helped me write the history of Argentine literature, which is the history of Argentine pain; here is the copious correspondence exchanged over half a century with many wise minds; here is my archive—all of which I have been unable to organize or classify, because my work did not allow it, but everything has been cared for and arranged by my wife. With her consent, I say today that all of this no longer belongs to me: it belongs to the homeland, so that future researchers may find here the elements that will allow them to know how the heart of the country beat...”

These words welcome visitors to the Ricardo Rojas House Museum. A prologue, if you will. Ricardo Rojas's house is an enigmatic piece that encompasses several cultural layers. In the library rest the masters: Borges, Arlt, Walsh, Rojas. In the courtyard, fountains and mermaids, suns and stars. Symbols that appeal to our memory.

Building sandcastles on the beach is an ancient practice that allows us to dive deep into our imagination, ideas, and dreams. For many, it was likely our first approach to construction. Water and sand merge, transforming into space—something greater than the sum of its parts. While fortresses, bridges, and moats are a thing of the past for some, another typology has emerged to take their place: the house.

Below, we present a selection of Argentine houses built on sand dunes, designed by architects who turned castles into houses, sand into concrete, and dreams into reality.

“You don't have to arrive first, but you have to know how to get there,” goes the song. In architecture, this path is often envisioned as a perfectly straight line, but in reality, it is more of a zigzag with the precision of an electrocardiogram.

Starting a degree, then dropping out, later returning to it; graduating only to travel and see the world; entering competitions relentlessly; crossing the ocean in search of a mentor or a job; following your heart even when the world tells you otherwise. All of these decisions served as the compass for several Argentine architects. Let's look at their first steps below.

Jorge and Andrés Kálnay began a journey back in 1920. By that time, Argentina had already built most of its public buildings, Alejandro Bustillo was traveling through Europe, Mario Palanti was erecting his colossal Barolo Palace, and Le Corbusier would have to wait nine years before setting foot in Buenos Aires.

Little did the architect brothers imagine, when they boarded a ship bound for the United States, that they would end up in the waters of the Río de la Plata, shaping part of Buenos Aires's current architectural memory. 

“Close your eyes and walk through the School of Architecture. Explore it, listen to the sounds, feel the textures, and try to mentally reconstruct the space.” I walked several yards blindfolded, and I still remember how my hearing sharpened, picking up the murmur of the people around me.

Although I knew the building's layout like my own home, I must confess those were perhaps the longest and most unsettling steps I have ever taken.

When Clorindo Testa was asked how he felt upon learning that one of his works, the Casa Di Tella, was going to be demolished, he replied: “I believe that buildings are not made to last. One can say that the Roman Colosseum will endure. They are not going to tear down Notre-Dame Cathedral, nor the Duomo in Milan. But when you design a project, you don't go around thinking it will be memorable and last forever. Works of this nature have owners, and owners change their minds. People and society also change: what was valid twenty years ago is no longer valid today. It is inevitable. Personally, it doesn't bother me in the least if they demolish a work of mine; I don't design things to last forever. You make things to function when they are commissioned, and they last as long as they need to. The Casa Di Tella was built for Di Tella, and Di Tella died. In a sense, it is no longer his house... It became part of an institute that bought it. Therefore, the functions it needs are different.” [1]

Testa's words reveal a remarkable humility that seems rare in the DNA of architects who yearn for the eternity of their work. Indeed, this desire for permanence was imposed on us almost as a mandate, a necessity. Palladio knew this well when referencing Vitruvius: “utility, perpetuity, and beauty.”