The Sardarapat Memorial and the architect's original sketch. Image via risraelyan.com/en/, courtesy of Aram Ghanalanyan
In a time when much global architecture can feel disconnected from local identity, the work of Rafayel Israelyan stands out for being rooted in place, culture, and memory. Working in mid-20th-century Armenia, Israelyan created architecture that is more than functional or monumental; it is culturally resilient. His use of traditional Armenian motifs, materials, and symbolic forms gave his designs a second life after the fall of the Soviet Union, when many buildings across post-Soviet states were abandoned or demolished. Armenia, by contrast, preserved many of his works, likely because their design approach not only served a specific moment in time, but also told a larger story. Long before concepts like sustainability or critical regionalism became popular, Israelyan understood that buildings gain meaning and endurance when they reflect the specific identity and characteristics of their place.
Red clay roof tiles appear in many architectural traditions around the world, despite the cultures being geographically or historically distant. However, this isn't necessarily surprising. Clay is an abundant and accessible building material worldwide, with some studies and other sources suggesting it comprises approximately 10-13% of the Earth's soils. Red tiles, in particular, are often a product of the local soil's mineral content and the firing process. Their widespread use across unrelated regions is less about shared cultural influence and more about material logic: clay is cheap, durable, and easy to work with using simple tools and techniques. In Vietnam, for example, there is a unique and visible tradition of clay tile use that dates back centuries. Regions like Vinh Long, nicknamed the "kingdom of red ceramics", have an abundance of this material, supporting a long history of tile-making. In some parts of Vietnam, these tiles are known as Yin-Yang tiles, due to the concave and convex shape in which they are formed during production.
Vernacular architecture often utilizes locally sourced materials and construction practices honed over centuries. This approach raises questions about its potential relevance for contemporary design challenges. The prevalence of high-rise developments globally, often relying on sealed envelopes and mechanical climate control, contrasts with historical architectural practices. Traditionally, regional architectures emerged from local communities, fostering distinct cultural identities and integrating passive systems for ventilation, cooling, and heating, often utilizing natural elements. The Hanok, traditional Korean houses, serve as a case study. Beyond their current role in tourism, they are also an example of how vernacular knowledge can provide passive climate-response strategies that align with the current principles of creating environmentally friendly buildings.
Scandinavian design has long been admired for its minimalist aesthetic and functionality, which places value in the simple things, deeply rooted in the concept of Hygge. This reverence goes beyond interior design and extends also to the natural world, resulting in high-quality architecture and landscape installation design that enhances human connection to untouched environments. Rather than imposing grand structures upon the environment, the Scandinavian approach is one of subtle and precise intervention. These projects are not meant to dominate but to enter into a dialogue with the existing landscape, using thoughtful design to potentiate its inherent shape, color, and texture. The goal is to complement and enhance, creating spaces that serve a functional purpose while simultaneously deepening the visitor's connection to their surroundings.
Children Running in the school at Nebaj, Guatemala . Image Courtesy of Solis Colomer Arquitectos
Founded in 2002, Solis Colomer Arquitectos has established a strong reputation over the past two decades, designing and constructing projects with both social and commercial impact across Latin America. With over 200 completed works, the firm specializes in institutional architecture with social impact and user-centered commercial architecture. Its mission is clear: to use architecture as a tool to dignify the human experience, especially for those in greatest need.
View of Howl's Moving Castle Replica inside the Valley of Witches area . Image via ghibli-park.jp, under policy of fair use
Studio Ghibli and its co-founder Hayao Miyazaki have become household names in the West, thanks to their impressive body of work, which includes over 10 feature films, 2 Oscars, and more than 100 awards worldwide. Films such as "Spirited Away" and "Howl's Moving Castle" showcase their mastery of world-building, story telling and compelling visuals which have earned them global acclaim. This has created a devoted fan base that previously only had the Studio Ghibli Museum in Tokyo to experience the films in real life. As the studio's popularity and movie portfolio grew, it became inevitable for them to expand into a larger space. That is why November 2022 marked the beginning of a new phase as the Ghibli Park opened its gates in Nagoya, Japan.
Glass bricks have been widely used in architecture, eventually becoming a staple of the 1980s architectural styles. Some examples of construction with this material could be the classic "Maison de Verre" by Pierre Chareau and Bernard Bijvoet in Paris or the more modern take of Hiroshi Nakamura & NAP with the Optical Glasshouse in Japan. In recent years, glass bricks are becoming increasingly popular, no longer relegated to older aesthetics. Instead, they have evolved into versatile design elements that bring light, texture, and character into contemporary interiors. Their ability to diffuse natural and artificial light while maintaining privacy has reignited interest among designers seeking innovative ways to enhance indoor spaces while taking advantage of natural light.
Gyumri, the capital of Armenia's Shirak region and the country's second-largest city, was historically known for its culture and architectural heritage. While it was part of the Soviet Union, the city hosted many factories that turned it into a primary industrial center in the region, reaching a population of approximately 225,000 people. However, during the past decades, Gyumri has seen a considerable population decline as a consequence of a devastating earthquake that destroyed the city in 1988 and killed thousands of people. More than 30 years later, Gyumri's regeneration process is still unfolding. The city's ongoing efforts to restore its built environment and boost economic development offer valuable insights into how urban regeneration can be navigated in the aftermath of disaster.
The Canada Pavilion at the 19th International Architecture Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia, hosted Picoplanktonics. A research that emerged as a radical rethinking of how architecture can become a platform that blends biology, computation, and fabrication to propose an alternative future, one where buildings don't just minimize harm, but actively participate in planetary repair. At its core lies a humble organism: marine cyanobacteria, capable of both capturing carbon and contributing to the material growth of the structure it inhabits. The project has been developed over 5 years by a group of researchers at ETH Zurich, led by Andrea Shin Ling and a group of interdisciplinary contributors and collaborators. Together, they formed the Living Room Collective, founded a year ago to build upon this work and showcase it at the Venice Biennale. The Core team members include Nicholas Hoban, Vincent Hui, and Clayton Lee. This conversation with the team behind the project shares the philosophy, technical challenges, and speculative horizons that animated their work from printing living sand lattices to maintaining microbial life in a public exhibition. Their aim is to inspire people to reconsider architecture not as a static object, but as a living, evolving process. One that requires care, patience, and a radical shift in mindset.
When examining photos of Japanese houses, one frequently notices a recurring space with tatami mats, often slightly elevated and integrated into the public areas of the home. This is the washitsu, or Japanese-style room: a traditional, multipurpose space still commonly found in modern residential architecture. Used for activities ranging from reading and sleeping to hosting a family altar, its versatility is central to its continued relevance. This article explores the Washitsu's layout and meaning, beginning with its historical origins to better understand its role and interpretation in contemporary Japanese homes.
VARID A VR-AR Toolkit for Inclusive Design.. Image Courtesy of Foster + Partners
Over the last decade, architectural design has relied on 2D methods of representation, such as elevations, sections, and floor plans, paired with digital renderings of 3D models. While these tools are essential to convey geometry and intent, they remain limited by their two-dimensional format. Even the most realistic renderings, created through programs like SketchUp, Revit, or AutoCAD, still flatten space and distance the viewer from the lived experience of a project. Recently, architects have begun to explore immersive technologies as a way to bridge this gap between drawing and experience, offering new ways to inhabit and assess spatial proposals.
Aerial view of Beta Building in Honduras. Image Courtesy of Taller ACÁ
Understanding the temperature gradient in a building is essential in cold or temperate climates, where airtight enclosures and continuous insulation are used to prevent heat loss. However, this approach is not suitable for tropical areas like Central America, where the climate is marked by a consistent alternation between wet and dry seasons rather than four distinct ones. Factors such as proximity to the sea, elevation, and local topography influence microclimates across short distances, but high humidity remains a common challenge. Sealed, airtight walls with no ventilation can quickly become breeding grounds for mold, making the thermal strategies of temperate climates problematic. In response, local designers have developed alternative approaches that embrace, rather than resist, the outdoor environment, allowing airflow and evaporation to manage interior comfort.
Heritage restoration has always been an intricate process that requires delicate balancing between preserving the integrity of historic materials while integrating contemporary techniques that can enhance accuracy, efficiency, and resilience. With the restoration process of Parliament Hill in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, this intersection of tradition and technology is now on full display. The East Block, built in 1865, offers a compelling example of how digital tools can support the efforts of heritage restoration and contribute to a centuries-old craft such as stone carving.
In most situations, architects navigate a complex web of construction codes, airspace regulations, and numerous other rules that dictate the form and execution of a project. However, cultural architecture often presents a unique opportunity for more daring and expressive designs. These projects frequently garner support from local governments, unlocking possibilities for formal explorations that might otherwise remain unrealized. In this regard, cultural architecture serves a dual purpose: enriching the community and establishing iconic landmarks that define the identity of their city or region. This ambition has certainly manifested in Taiwan. Situated in the heart of East Asia, this island nation boasts a remarkable array of formal explorations by both international and Taiwanese architects.
Detail of the Garifuna Kiosk Network. Image Courtesy of 24 Grados Arquitectura
How can architecture restore relevance to forgotten places? What dialogues can emerge when buildings and landscapes are treated not as blank slates, but as layers of memory, identity, and potential? For the Honduran architecture firm 24 Grados, these questions shape an approach rooted in adaptation, reuse, and contextual design. Their projects range from the restoration of old Spanish plazas and cultural centers to interventions in natural parks and coastal villages in Honduras. Each one is grounded in the belief that design can reweave relationships between people, place, and heritage.
Once seen as purely utilitarian, bare concrete blocks have increasingly become part of an architectural transformation. In regions where warm climates make insulation unnecessary, this material can be left exposed, free of cladding, finishes, or embellishment. In doing so, texture, bond, and form can define the building's character and simplify construction while creating new opportunities for expression and identity. This also creates a platform to explore the concept of material honesty. Beyond its aesthetic value, using a material "as is" can significantly reduce construction costs and minimize maintenance during the building's lifespan.
When thinking about Japan, the first thing that comes to mind is the bustling streets of Tokyo, old fortified castles, and the cherry blossom-lined rivers in the urban areas. However, little is discussed regarding a real estate market problem currently ongoing in the country: Akiya, a Japanese term that translates to an empty house. In 2024, the number of Akiya in Japan went up to a record high of nine million units. Some believe that at the root of the issue is depopulation. When homes are passed down through family inheritance, they frequently become burdens rather than assets. As younger generations increasingly move to cities or live in apartments, they usually have no interest in living in or maintaining the old family home, especially if it's located in a less convenient or rural area. Cities like Tokyo see a smaller number of Akiya due to the elevated price of the land. Nonetheless, issues such as elevated costs of adapting the house to the new earthquake regulations and higher taxation on vacant land, still cause people to abandon them even in urban areas.
Terrace Garden between both phases. Image Courtesy of NEUF architect(e)s
With modern medicine, it may be difficult for many people today to imagine the devastation caused by Tuberculosis (TB) just about 100 years ago. Initially associated with insalubrious, overcrowded conditions, just in Canada it caused the death of approximately 8000 people annually in the late 19th century. During this time, before more advanced treatments were discovered, prescriptions from doctors involved sunlight, fresh air, and rest. As a response, sanatoria were established. These were places where patients could be separated from the community to manage their disease. One testament to that legacy stands in the heart of Montreal: the former Royal Edward Laurentian Institute, later known as the Montreal Chest Institute. Born from crisis, it has since become a symbol of resilience, transformation, and innovation, shifting from a space of isolation to a thriving hub for research and entrepreneurship in the life sciences.
