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"Architecture that holds multitudes." This is the phrase Studio NEiDA uses to introduce itself, making its position toward the world clear: to listen to and respect the plurality of existences that move through each context. More than a statement of principles, the phrase seems to function as a method. What does it mean, after all, to design spaces capable of sheltering not only people, but also memories, knowledge, and conflicts?
There is no denying that Studio NEiDA's plural approach is, in part, rooted in its own geographical position. Working between Togo and Germany, the practice operates across two seemingly distinct contexts that are nevertheless historically connected. In a recent interview, Jeanne Autran-Edorh, the French-Togolese architect and co-founder of the studio, alongside the curator and writer Fabiola Büchele, recalls the history between the two countries, noting that, as few people know, before becoming an independent republic, Togo was a German colony that later came under French rule.
The ceiling is one of the largest continuous surfaces in a space, yet why is it rarely the first architectural element people notice? Often perceived as the plane that conceals structure and building services, it quietly recedes into the background while facades, materials, structural systems, and furniture define a building's architectural identity. Yet few architectural elements influence the experience of a space as consistently as this one. The ceiling shapes how sound travels, how light is reflected, how air moves through a room, and ultimately how architecture is experienced, bringing together technical performance and architectural expression through a single continuous surface.
Danish architectural theorist Steen Eiler Rasmussen observed in his book Experiencing Architecture that ceilings shape the character of a room through rhythm, proportion, light, and atmosphere. Rather than simply enclosing space, they help organize it, defining areas and guiding movement without the need for additional walls. As buildings became larger, more open, and more dependent on integrated building services, architecture began asking more of this overlooked surface. The ceiling gradually shifted from a concealed building component into an active architectural system in which acoustics, lighting, ventilation, thermal comfort, and technical infrastructure could converge on a single plane.
In the heart of Ahmedabad's Navrangpura district in India sits the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium. More than just a cricket ground, the stadium stands as one of India's earliest experiments in modernist public architecture. Built in the decades following the country's independence, the structure has not only become an engineering landmark, but also a major public space within Ahmedabad's urban fabric. Despite the building's architectural and historical significance, as well as its deep involvement in daily community life, it has suffered significant physical degradation as a result of decades of poor maintenance and lack of funding. That fragility is precisely why it has drawn international attention. In 2020, the World Monuments Fund (WMF) placed the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium on its World Monuments Watch, a global list highlighting cultural heritage sites facing urgent preservation challenges.
There has never been a more celebrated moment for craftsmanship in architecture. Across magazines, awards, and international exhibitions, handmade brick, lime plaster, carved stone, woven bamboo, and rammed earth have re-emerged as symbols of environmental responsibility, cultural continuity, and architectural authenticity. Beyond these carefully documented projects lies another reality. The overwhelming majority of buildings constructed today, from apartment blocks and office towers to public housing and commercial developments, continue to rely on industrialized systems that leave little room for skilled artisans. Craft has become increasingly visible at the very moment it has become increasingly uncommon. In countries such as India, the contrast is difficult to ignore. Centuries-old building traditions continue alongside one of the world's fastest-growing construction industries. To reframe the question of why craftsmanship is returning, perhaps the intrigue is why it now appears primarily where construction budgets, timelines, and clients can afford it.
The Industrial Foundry for Marine Vessels. Image Courtesy of Naksit Wisetmora
Industrial buildings are often expected to prioritize efficiency, production, and technical performance above all else. As a result, architectural quality is frequently treated as secondary to functional requirements. Advances in material systems, however, allow industrial facilities to balance both, creating buildings that respond to climate, improve working conditions, and establish a distinctive architectural identity.
Getting away is a long-held fantasy and desire. In literature, film, and music, people have created imaginary journeys, possible worlds, and settings for enjoyment. It is that fantasy that fuels a specific architectural typology: the hotel. Against a backdrop of scrutiny of tourism, the climate costs of travel, and the competition and externalities associated with short-term rentals, that fantasy takes on even more striking forms. A hotel is no longer just a place to stay, but a space for enjoyment that can encompass a wide range of activities, such as entertainment, relaxation, sharing a meal, and even working. This diverse range of concepts takes on organic and impressive forms in the seven unbuilt projects compiled in this article, which range from urban hotels to beach resorts.
Craft in contemporary interiors is increasingly valuable in the way materials are joined and brought into relation with one another. As the appetite for fast, inexpensive, and profitable retrofitting grows, there is also a parallel desire for interiors that feel thoughtfully resolved: spaces where details are integrated, material assemblies are considered, textures transition with intention, and hardware is treated as part of the architectural language rather than an afterthought. In many contemporary Chinese interiors, craft operates quietly through the treatment of surfaces and structures: timber that retains its irregularity, terrazzo that records aggregate and handwork, or finishes that reveal the care of their making.
This is especially important in an era when digital images increasingly reward smoothness. Rendered interiors often appear seamless, frictionless, and complete before construction has even begun. Craft complicates this image. It introduces tolerance, texture, material resistance, and the sense that a surface has passed through human hands before becoming architecture. Imperfection is not necessarily a failure of precision. To the eye that knows how to read it, it can become evidence of process.
Hungary's architectural landscape spent the socialist decades being redrawn from above, its cooperative farms consolidated out of family plots and its standardized housing blocks distributed across the territory in a form that would have been identical anywhere else. The sociologist Virág Molnár, whose Building the State traces the political uses of architecture in postwar Hungary and East Germany, has made the case that this reshaping of the built environment was one of the political project's primary instruments and not a byproduct of it, a mobilization that carried through socialist modernization and into the transition that followed. The British critic Owen Hatherley, whose Landscapes of Communism explores the housing estates of Budapest alongside those of Warsaw and Kyiv, describes the far end of that same inheritance, where buildings have outlasted the ideology that commissioned them and remain occupied by people with little stake in defending the reasoning behind them.
Craftsmanship carries the traces of those who shaped it, revealing how materials respond to different techniques and even offering clues about the tools used to create them. Within the architectural experience, however, craftsmanship can be expressed not only through materials and structures but also through space itself. Seeking to deepen and learn from the connections between design and execution, amass studio has explored the translation of informal, everyday construction methods into spatial systems across several of its projects. By integrating mechanisms, materials, structures, and furniture, the studio creates new spatial narratives in which the dialogue between the handcrafted and the industrial becomes mutually reinforcing. Beyond craftsmanship itself, then, why not make visible the processes that bring it into being?
Founded in Quito in 2017 by Martín Real and Florencia Sobrero, Taller General works across housing, rehabilitation, exhibitions, and community projects. What ties them together is less a type of building than a way of building: architects, builders, craftspeople, students, organizations, and communities move in and out of the process, and each project takes shape from whatever is already there.
This approach grew from direct experience with construction. Before Taller General was formally established, Real and Sobrero became involved with Actuemos Ecuador, one of the civil society initiatives formed in response to the earthquake that affected Ecuador's coast in 2016. Working within the realities of building connected architectural decisions to materials, budgets, available labor, and local knowledge, this established a relationship with construction that has remained central to the practice.
For years, advances in architectural visualization have been measured by image quality. Physically accurate lighting, sophisticated material systems, and real-time rendering have made photorealistic imagery an industry expectation. Yet architectural practice has evolved in a different direction.
Today, clients, consultants, engineers, and design teams contribute earlier and more frequently throughout the design process. Design reviews no longer simply present decisions. They increasingly become part of how those decisions are made.
In 2021, a collaboration between the Italian architecture studio Mario Cucinella Architects and WASP, an Italian 3D-printing company, led to the development of TECLA: a house 3D-printed entirely from raw earth. Five years later, the technology behind it has grown, quietly spreading across several continents and design practices. By controlling the speed, angle, and path of the extruder nozzle, architects are able to create more than just walls. Throughout the years, they have been experimenting with how to shape the 3D-printed material into detailed surface motifs, reintroducing relief, texture, and intricate patterns directly into the structure. In this way, they are attempting to bridge earth-building traditions with digital computation, in an era where code is starting to influence form and material expression in architecture.
In 2021, the IBGE (Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics) released a survey regarding the number of cultural and social facilities in Brazil's cities. The findings were alarming: only 29.6% of Brazilian municipalities had cultural and social facilities such as museums, while theaters and concert halls were present in only 23.3% of cities. This overview speaks volumes about the scarcity of such spaces in Brazilian cities. In this context, when a women's cooperative in Maranhão or a volunteer group in Bahia decides to build their own cultural and community facility, the gesture not only fills a material gap but reclaims, on their own initiative, a right that should be guaranteed by public policy.
Architecture has long been understood as a discipline created by humans and for humans. But in We the Bacteria: Notes Toward Biotic Architecture, Beatriz Colomina and Mark Wigley challenge that assumption, arguing that "microbes invented architecture." From this premise unfolds an alternative history of architecture that shifts the focus away from human exceptionalism and toward the microorganisms that have shaped life, environments, and the built world for billions of years.
The book explores the idea that architecture cannot be understood separately from the microbial worlds that shape it, suggesting that "architecture inhabits humans just as much as humans inhabit architecture." Rather than inert objects, buildings emerge as dynamic ecosystems that Colomina and Wigley go as far as describing as "an expanded gut shared with others," where microbes, materials, people, and countless other forms of life continuously coexist, exchange, and evolve.
A war can erase a skyline overnight. Roofs collapse, streets become impassable, and landmarks that once oriented everyday life are reduced to rubble. The most profound loss often remains invisible. Buildings can be surveyed, photographed, scanned, and, eventually, rebuilt. The knowledge that produced them is far more fragile. It survives in the hands of stonemasons who understand how a limestone vault carries its load, carpenters who know how timber joints respond to seasonal movement, plasterers who mix lime by memory rather than measurement, and residents whose everyday rituals keep these buildings in use. When these people are displaced, killed, or forced to abandon their trades, reconstruction inherits a problem that no drawing or digital model can solve. Stone can always be quarried again. Recovering the knowledge to shape it takes much longer.
With over 80% of its population living in urban centers and a national density exceeding 500 people per square kilometer — soaring to over 15,000 in Seoul — South Korea faces intense competition for usable land. In response, contemporary Korean architecture offers compelling examples of mixed-use interventions that negotiate tight urban lots to blend public engagement with high-efficiency utility. By vertically stacking distinct programs, integrating public art centers, corporate headquarters, and commercial hubs alongside residential and other functions, these multi-layered developments transform spatial constraints into dynamic urban interfaces.
