Happy New Year! Champagne, hugs, phone calls, and new goals. A few days pass, and it feels like this year you really will achieve everything you want. It's a great attitude, but not everyone is so clear on what those goals are or where to direct their career. In this day and age, anything seems possible. If a friend is traveling the world, you want to do it too. If another joined the gym, you want to do it too. If former classmates are pursuing a master's degree, you want that too—but we know we can't do everything at the same time.

On this occasion, the Arquia Foundation Blog, alongside architect Sabrina Gaudino Di Meo, presents an article on the urban antipathy of our cities—which has unfortunately become a daily experience, a naturalized condition, and a fixture of the collective imagination. Faced with this situation, who is responsible? Where are urban planning and social policies when it comes to making our cities friendlier?

Researchers recently announced the discovery of the world's largest termite mound complex, located in northeastern Brazil. The total volume of excavated soil is estimated to equal 4,000 Pyramids of Giza, with the complex itself averaging 4,000 years of age and covering an estimated area of 230,000 square kilometers—equivalent to the size of Great Britain.

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Together with an archaeologist and a visual artist, the team led by architect and University of Chile academic Claudia Torres has documented a series of industrial ruins in rural areas throughout Chile for the project “From Noise to Silence: Valuing Industrial Ruins in Rural Areas,” a research project funded by Fondart 2017.

With a diameter of 100 meters and the capacity to service 36 steam locomotives simultaneously, the authors of this article—Claudia Torres, Sandro Maino, Ricardo Labra, Valentina Soto, and Laura Gallardo—argue that the San Rosendo railway workshops must be declared a Historical Monument in Chile.

From the viewpoints of the town of San Rosendo (Chile), the railway workshop complex can be appreciated in all its splendor, situated at the foot of the town, on the banks of the Biobío River, and connected to the imposing railway bridge that crosses the Laja River.

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Over 469 years after the construction of the first Brazilian school—built in Salvador, Bahia, by Jesuits who taught reading, writing, arithmetic, and Catholic doctrine—school architecture remains indistinguishable within the urban fabric of most Brazilian cities. Characterless and rigid buildings, unable to connect with their surroundings due to enclosing walls, were once described by architect Mayumi Souza Lima as "structures [that] could just as easily be meant for children, bags of beans, or cars, since they are merely covered areas, with a ceiling and a floor."

On Thursday, October 25, we celebrated the first three years of ArchDaily Colombia in Bogotá. The Lamazone Gallery served as the setting for some of the local scene's most influential architects to connect with the ArchDaily Colombia team.

During his presentation, David Basulto, CEO of ArchDaily, highlighted the key milestones of ArchDaily Colombia's first three years, before moving on to an insightful analysis of Colombian architecture driven by the big data generated by our readers worldwide.

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'Syllogisms' is an architecture and illustration project that draws its research from archives, publications, and photographs concerning the history of modern construction in Mexico. It presents a graphic narrative on the continuity and transformation of seminal 20th-century works through the synthesis, interpretation, and juxtaposition of their ideals. These pairings confront thought and form with deductive inferences. The sum of their parts foreshadows critical meanings and architectural motifs for future reconstruction.

Colonia del Sacramento, on the shores of the Río de la Plata in southern Uruguay. From the ferry—if arriving from Buenos Aires—one can spot the famous lighthouse rising above a cluster of historic stone houses and cobblestone streets; a historic center declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, which features not only a colonial and post-colonial architecture blending Spanish and Portuguese influences, but also compelling restoration and renovation projects that demonstrate a thoughtful embrace of Uruguayan memory.

Its architectural landmarks emerge naturally from an atmosphere frozen in time as you explore the city on foot along its waterfront and green spaces. Below, discover a list of 10 sites you should visit.

What do dance and architecture have in common? It is difficult to explain how our experience of dance is stored in our bodily memory, yet our core recollection of a performance is often inseparable from the architectural space in which it unfolded. While the dance itself may be the focus, the venue remains integral to the experience. Ultimately, as we explore how cities and urban spaces are conceived and created, both dance and architecture serve as fundamental coordinates.

Unsurprisingly, many choreographers are exploring the intersection of these two disciplines. These works explore how our bodies navigate the built environment. This is far from a purely theoretical pursuit; instead, it engages specific communities and cultural groups through embodied movement. In the words of philosopher Marina Garcés: “The body no longer confines us to a single place, but instead integrates into and becomes part of the environment of every place. It is the zero point from which we can experience all space, enriching ourselves both materially and spiritually.”

Located on São Paulo's most iconic avenue, after eight years of construction, the new Sesc Avenida Paulista branch finally opened its doors last Sunday, April 29. Guided by the triad “Art, Body, and Technology,” the institution—which expects approximately 18,000 visitors per week—has already seen these expectations begin to materialize.

In this piece, the Arquia Foundation Blog, alongside an article by architect and educator Santiago de Molina, calls on anyone wishing to become an architect in the near future to maintain a cultivated skepticism of almost everything, to have the courage to trust nothing, and to make the effort to maintain and nourish a cultivated imagination.

The noias, identified by their abject bodies, evoke and challenge physical, social, spatial, symbolic, and moral boundaries, driving the creation of policies aimed at both their rehabilitation and their elimination. This article, organized by PISEAGRAMA based on the extensive ethnographic fieldwork conducted by the author up to 2012 and published in 2014 in the book Nas tramas do crack, offers an immersion into São Paulo's *cracolândia* (crackland), the most famous in the country, whose conflicts have replicated the term across the many others multiplying in various cities.
There, the *De Braços Abertos* (With Open Arms) program and heavy-handed repression have marked municipal and state administrations in recent years, highlighting the political conflict that emerges at the extremes of the territorial management of crack.

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In April 2018, the inaugural edition of the Provincia Festival was held, aiming to create an open forum for dialogue and the discussion of civic interest topics, with an emphasis on responsible engagement in regional architectural development.

The festival took place in the city of Tuxtla Gutiérrez in Chiapas, México—a region currently lacking high-quality urban spaces, planning, and a clear vision regarding the impact of architectural projects. Meanwhile, there is a constant drain of local talent, driven by a combination of factors that foster the belief that professional success can only be achieved through large-scale projects in major metropolises. We want to reaffirm the idea that architecture is everywhere, and that the true success of the profession lies in serving everyone, regardless of their gender, social background, or economic status.

On February 15, the exhibition ‘Joaquín Vaquero Palacios. The Beauty of the Colossal. Asturias, 1954-1980’ opened at the Museo ICO in Madrid. Curated by Joaquín Vaquero Ibáñez and organized by the Fundación ICO, the exhibition is sponsored by the Fundación EDP.

Joaquín Vaquero Palacios (Oviedo, 1900—Madrid, 1998) was an architect, painter, and sculptor. He studied at the Madrid School of Architecture (1921-1927), where his professors introduced him to the architecture of the Modern Movement. There, he witnessed firsthand how industrial architecture served as a rich source of inspiration for architects like Walter Gropius and Le Corbusier, offering a promising arena for the application of rationalist principles and concepts.

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Across different climates and building cultures, many contemporary projects are working with local ways of building in new ways. Earth walls, bamboo structures, shaded thresholds, and collective construction processes are being reconsidered not as references, but as tools for the conditions architecture is facing now and will continue to face.

In these projects, vernacular knowledge appears through practical decisions: how to cool a building without machines, how to build with what is nearby, how to make a structure easier to repair, and how to keep construction knowledge within the community that will use it. The conditions making this knowledge necessary are not coming. They are already here.

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This article is the winning entry of the Epistle Writing Prize 2025, an annual competition dedicated to recognizing outstanding writing on design, architecture, and the environment.

It's wet season, but this morning's downpour does little to deter the rhythm along La Carrera Séptima. Cyclists and pedestrians weave past ambulatory vendors with carts of avocados, ginger sweets, and phone cases. Toy cars, lightbulbs, and hand-beaded jewelry glisten with raindrops, arranged neatly on tarps that demarcate vendors' territories. Police officers approach a recycler gathering bottles; a tourist bargains for a jacket; two women find each other in the middle of the road, embracing as their coats grow heavy with rain.

La Séptima, or Bogotá's Seventh Avenue, is the most emblematic road in Bogotá, traversed by more than two million people every day. Along this single road — part marketplace, part protest route, part transportation hub — Bogotá's history unfolds. For nearly a year, I traced its rhythms as a pedestrian, commuter, inhabitant, and researcher. In all these moments and their historical incarnations, one image endured: the road is a living body. It is imagined as Bogotá's backbone, its vital artery, its heart. It bleeds, bears scars, and demands care.

Most of Europe's future housing already exists, yet renovation continues to happen too slowly to address climate, housing, health and resource challenges at the scale required. Re:Living explores how renovation can move from isolated projects to a scalable approach for transforming existing buildings. At the heart of the initiative is a new research project, The Housing We Need for the Future We Want, which examines how better use of the existing building stock can unlock new opportunities for architects, cities and communities.

Mexico City is a sprawling metropolis of layered temporalities, where architecture operates as a continuous negotiation between deep-seated history and intense urban mutation. Built over the aquatic traces of Tenochtitlan, the city's fabric is an ongoing dialogue between eras: the monumental scale of the Pre-Hispanic Templo Mayor and the Viceroyalty architecture of the Catedral Metropolitana coexist with the modern and contemporary impulses that define its skyline. This dense juxtaposition creates a unique urban canvas where sacred geography, colonial imposition, and 20th-century ambition intersect.

The mid-century marked a definitive era of experimentation, forging a Mexican Modernism that masterfully synthesized international structural rationalism with local identity and materiality. This synthesis is epitomized by the sweeping, plastic integration of art and architecture at the Ciudad Universitaria, the structural poetry of Félix Candela's hyper-parabolic shells, and the raw, monumental brutalism of Teodoro González de León and Abraham Zabludovsky. Parallel to this, the intimate, introspective mastery of Luis Barragán and Juan O'Gorman redefined domestic space, experimenting with light, vernacular color, and tectonic honesty to create spaces of profound spatial stillness.

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An experiential rebellion takes center stage in the fourth episode of the Room For Dreams podcast, hitting directly at the heart of today's screen-deep, image-obsessed design culture. Recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, host Claire Broadka sits down with four Indian architectural voices — Indrajit Kembhavi, Manish Gulati, Sanjay Singh, and Sidhartha Talwar — to explore a critical question: have we sacrificed the soul of architecture for the sake of a picture-perfect Instagram post?

Cities are increasingly designed to mitigate risk, and by doing so, need to collect data on climate, infrastructure, biodiversity, and social fragmentation so that the language of resilience becomes a fixture of planning. Yet the underlying conditions that produce polarization, civic disengagement, and ecological breakdown often remain unquestioned. The tools that dominate urban practice tend to address only one register of human experience, while the emotional and imaginative dimensions of transformation are not treated as reliable solutions.

Philosopher Felix Guattari proposed that sustained ecological transformation depends on simultaneous attention to three distinct ecologies: the ecology of the mind, the ecology of society, and the ecology of the environment. Mainstream environmental politics tends to concentrate on one or two of the three, flattening a complex condition into a defined problem with a clear answer. Ancient rituals remind us that transformation depends on practices that simultaneously engage the body, the community, and the environment.

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A monument is usually the most conservative building a state will commission. It is expected to stabilize memory, to make history legible, and to give public form to a shared narrative. Eastern Europe's twentieth century produced an entire body of work from the Baltic to the Balkans that resisted precisely those expectations, challenging the conventional relationship between monument, memory, and representation. Commonly grouped under the name spomeniks, these architectural exercises are perhaps the best-known examples of a much broader landscape of memorial architecture that emerged across the region. These were societies emerging from occupation, civil conflict, or revolution, and none of them possessed a single symbolic language capable of accommodating the complexity of their histories. Rather than searching for new heroes or new icons, many architects and artists turned to space itself as the medium through which remembrance could be constructed.

These monuments occupy an unusual position between sculpture and architecture. At one scale, they read as deliberate abstract compositions arranged with the clarity of a drawing by Kandinsky. At another, they seem less resolved, as if testing the limits of a spatial language still in formation. Their forms often appear caught between certainty and experimentation, the same monument readable as a controlled geometric object and as an open-ended search for how collective memory might inhabit space. But these readings coexist and give many of these works their enduring ambiguity.

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One of the defining qualities of contemporary interiors is flexibility. Offices, education facilities, hotels, and cultural venues need to be adaptable. They require spaces that can expand, divide, open, and close according to different activities, without sacrificing comfort, or accoustics. How a space is subdivided, then, is no longer a secondary decision, but a central component of architectural performance.

Every twelve years, the banks of the Ganges at Prayagraj become one of the largest cities on Earth — and then disappear. The Maha Kumbh Mela draws over 400 million pilgrims across six weeks, requiring the construction of a full urban infrastructure: pontoon bridges, field hospitals, kilometers of temporary roads, a grid of tent cities visible from space. When the festival ends, it is dismantled entirely. No gathering in human history produces a more complete architecture of movement; built for arrival, engineered for transience, and designed to leave no permanent trace. The Kumbh Mela is exceptional in scale, but not in condition: movement has become a defining spatial problem of the century.

This month, ArchDaily explores Architectures of Movement: Land, Borders, and the Politics of Belonging, a theme that examines how mobility reshapes architecture's relationship to territory, ownership, and identity. The topic does not treat movement as a crisis to be managed, but as a fundamental lens through which to reconsider what buildings, cities, and borders actually do: who they accommodate, who they exclude, and what they make permanent.

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A building material rarely begins where architecture encounters it. By the time concrete reaches a construction site, its limestone has already been quarried, processed, and transformed. Timber arrives long after the forest. Glass appears detached from the sand from which it was made. By the time materials enter construction, much of the landscape and industry that produced them has already disappeared from view.

Across India and the SWANA region, another material supply chain is becoming visible. Rice husks, coconut fibres, sugarcane bagasse, and date palm residues, once treated as agricultural leftovers, are increasingly entering architecture as insulation, composite panels, fibreboards, and cement substitutes. Rice mills, coconut plantations, sugar factories, and date farms are increasingly becoming part of the architectural supply chain.

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