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.

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For more than a century, residents of growing American cities reshaped their rivers to serve industrial and manufacturing needs. Waterways were straightened, deepened, paved, or buried to support shipping routes and to move materials efficiently across regions. These transformations created an urban landscape in which rivers were treated as productive infrastructure rather than as living ecological systems.

This approach left a lasting imprint. Riparian habitats disappeared, water quality declined, regional biodiversity grew vulnerable, and communities grew accustomed to river corridors dominated by steel walls and concrete channels. The industrial reshaping of rivers in places such as Chicago, Los Angeles, and the Mississippi basin created durable patterns of development that still influence how cities function today.

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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.

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For monuments worthy of sustained admiration, conservation practices have been selectively mobilized to reinforce their prestige and secure their place at the center of heritage narratives. Structures whose vernacular ought to be passed down miss the discerning eye of the experts. Rowhouses, shopfronts, and neighborhood structures that form the fabric of our cities are often left to deteriorate beyond repair. Much more is lost, apart from aesthetics.

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This article introduces our new Opinion section, a format for argument-driven essays on critical questions shaping our field.

The Venice Architecture Biennale has always been larger than itself. Never content with merely being an exhibition, it has always carried ambitions that expand beyond the grounds of Arsenale and Giardini. Rem Koolhaas's Fundamentals sought to deconstruct architecture into a universal grammar; Alejandro Aravena's Reporting from the Front reframed it as a tool for social justice on the ground; Lesley Lokko's The Laboratory of the Future set out to decolonize and decarbonize the architectural canon.

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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.

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There is growing awareness around sustainability—and the environmental cost of prematurely demolishing safe, structurally sound buildings only to replace them with new construction. In the broader race to reduce carbon emissions, corporations and institutions are placing greater emphasis on ESG performance (environmental impact, social responsibility, and governance). Many now require carbon accounting, set "carbon-neutral" targets, or purchase carbon credits to offset footprints.

This shift, together with a wave of exemplary adaptive-reuse projects worldwide—Herzog & de Meuron's Tai Kwun in Hong Kong, Powerhouse Arts in Brooklyn, David Chipperfield's The Ned Doha, and Xu Tiantian's transformations of factories, quarries, and rammed-earth fortresses in China—has accelerated serious reconsideration of reuse as a primary development strategy. Yet despite its many benefits, adaptive reuse is still not as prevalent as it could be. Why and what might be the main obstacles and tensions?

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Known today for her poetic yet rigorous approach to architecture, Lina Ghotmeh has become one of the most compelling voices in contemporary design. Her work spans continents, from the British Museum's Western Range redesign in London to AlUla's Contemporary Art Museum, and includes landmark commissions such as the Serpentine Pavilion in London, Stone Garden in Beirut, the Bahrain Pavilion at the 2025 Expo Osaka, and the Estonian National Museum in Tartu, Estonia which she won the competition to design at just 25. Through a palimpsest of projects, Ghotmeh has established a distinctive architectural language that bridges memory and contemporary life. Wherever she builds, her process captures a constant dialogue between people, place, past and future.

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As countries in Africa emerged from colonialism in the mid-twentieth century, many expressed their independent identities through architecture. This process continues several decades later, exemplified by several new museums in West Africa, recently completed or in planning. Although varying in purpose and form, they have some common goals: addressing the need for restitution of many artifacts taken during colonialism and mostly kept in European museums; and defining a museum with local identity as opposed to a non-contextual import.

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The museum and gallery visit has long been a highly curated experience. Visitors are guided through a carefully orchestrated sequence of rooms, with hand-picked works arranged to tell a specific narrative, supported by signage, graphics, scenography, and calibrated lighting. Even the rarely changed exhibitions - the permanent collections, also typically rely on a strong curatorial voice— led by noted artists or curators—to set institutional stance and shape interpretation.

At the same time, storage areas for museums and galleries are typically kept separately—often within the same building but under tightly controlled access, and not infrequently off-site in dedicated facilities, such as the Louvre Conservation Centre. These zones have long been understood as highly controlled spaces not only in terms of access, but also in relation to climate, humidity, archival order, handling protocols, maintenance, and repair. For fear of thefts and that the spatial, environmental, and sequencing requirements of the archive could be disturbed, storage has traditionally been somewhat secretive and primarily serves academic researchers and art practitioners by request. Rarely does the general public gain a comprehensive picture of the works safeguarded by any given institution.

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ArchDaily is proud to reveal the winners of the 5th edition of Next Practices, recognizing 20 groundbreaking architectural practices from around the globe. These firms embody the creativity, innovation, interdisciplinary approach and social responsibility that are shaping the future of architecture and expanding its horizons.

"Dance, dance… otherwise we are lost." This oft-cited phrase by Pina Bausch encapsulates not only the urgency of movement, but its capacity to reveal space itself. In her choreographies, space is never a neutral backdrop, it becomes a partner, an obstacle, a memory. Floors tilt, chairs accumulate, walls oppress or liberate. These are architectural conditions, staged and contested through the body. What Bausch exposes — and what architecture often forgets — is that space is not simply built, it is performed. Her work invites architects to think not only in terms of materials and forms, but of gestures, relations, and rhythms. It suggests that architecture, like dance, is ultimately about how we inhabit, structure, and emotionally charge the spaces we move through.

Historically, architecture and dance have operated in parallel, shaping human experience through the body's orientation in space and time. From the choreographed rituals of classical temples to the axial logics of Baroque palaces, built space has always implied movement. The Bauhaus took this further, as Oskar Schlemmer's Triadic Ballet visualized space as a geometric extension of the body. This was not scenery, but spatial thinking made kinetic. In the 20th century, choreographers like William Forsythe and Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker integrated architectural constraints into their scores, while architects such as Steven Holl, Diller Scofidio + Renfro, and Toyo Ito designed buildings that unfold as spatial sequences, inviting movement, drift, and delay.

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