Exterior of the Cinema Studio Namibe, Angola. Photo credit: Walter Fernandes
What sustains the purpose of architecture that has never been occupied? For decades, this was the question surrounding the Namibe Cinema-Studio, built on the coast of Angola in 1973. Conceived as a film screening venue, the building remained closed and abandoned, never fulfilling the role for which it was created. Yet it withstood the passage of time, becoming an icon of the Angolan landscape and architecture, until finally screening its first film nearly fifty years later.
But what kept this building alive in the collective imagination for so long? Was it precisely its bold, singular architecture that was able to give meaning to a project that never had a use?
On Spain's Costa Brava, the little-known brutalist housing block Les Feixes, in L'Estartit, becomes the main stage of "Caçador de Geometries" (Geometry Hunter), a short film produced by Simon and directed by filmmaker Matilda Vidal de Llobatera. Its premiere marks the launch of the sixth edition of the Living Places – Simon Architecture Prize, the only award that uses video to explain architecture from the perspective of those who inhabit it. Curated by Fundació Mies van der Rohe since 2016, it is now open and, coinciding with its tenth anniversary, it joins the program of Barcelona 2026, World Capital of Architecture.
In many Asian cities, eating has never belonged entirely to the private home. It spills into markets, hawker centers, street stalls, and wholesale districts embedded within larger buildings or areas. These are places where the city exchanges information and watches other people pass through. They are not restaurants in the conventional sense, nor are they simply markets. In some way, their vibrancy and usage reflect the society's conditions at that moment. They are public kitchens: shared infrastructures where domestic routines are partially transferred into collective space.
Hong Kong's Municipal Services Buildings and curbside dining are where food is understood not only as culture, but as urban organization. The cooked-food center in the city folds eating into a larger civic machine of wet markets, libraries, and sports halls. The dai pai dong and street-side table, meanwhile, transform the curb into a temporary dining room. Looking beyond Hong Kong, similar questions emerge across the region. How do cities make room for social eating? Where does cooking happen when domestic space is limited? What kind of architecture supports the mess and heat of everyday food?
Brick is one of Colombia's most widely used materials, helping its local architecture stand out globally. This is due to the excellent quality of the clay found in several regions of the country. In addition to cladding most of the buildings that define Bogota's urban landscape, the material is used in all its forms, from adobe to floor tiles in rural homes.
Relatively close to the capital are the iconic artisanal brickworks that have supplied the materials defining Colombian architectural trends, as was the practice of architect Herbert Baresch, who even had custom brick formwork designed for his concrete columns, and whose adobe bricks were manufactured by local artisans directly on the construction sites. This material seems destined never to become obsolete; on the contrary, technological advancements continue to reveal new methods of application. Below are 12 examples of houses that employ it as an exposed surface.
When African countries gained independence from European colonial rule during the mid-twentieth century, nation-building involved more than establishing new governments and political institutions. Newly sovereign states also needed to establish a built identity that could distinguish them from their colonial past, and architecture became an important tool in this process. Across the continent, monumental civic buildings, universities, conference centers, and cultural institutions were commissioned to embody progress and national unity. Yet this created a fundamental contradiction: many of these buildings adopted modernist and Brutalist architectural languages that had originated in Europe, while some were even designed by architects from former colonial powers. The Maison du Peuple in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, provides a particularly revealing example of how an architectural language associated with Europe could be appropriated and transformed into an expression of postcolonial independence.
The Pyramid of Tirana opened as a museum to Enver Hoxha in October 1988, three years after his death and three years before the regime collapsed. In the decades that followed, it served as a radio station, a conference venue, a nightclub, and a base for NATO during the Kosovo war. In 2023, MVRDV reopened it as a park and technology school, adding steps to the façades so that the building could be walked over. The inauguration was timed to the Western Balkans Summit on 16 October, a date that some critics pointed out was Hoxha's birthday. Two projects of national self-definition, thirty-five years apart and built on opposite political premises, have used the same structure.
Architectural prototypes are often used to test decisions before construction begins. But in some practices, prototyping begins while those decisions are still taking shape. Moving an idea from drawing into matter introduces questions that depend on making itself: how a material can be cut or joined, how much a piece weighs, how an assembly comes together, whether parts can be reused, or even what form the project should take.
TAKK, salazarsequeromedina, and Ensamble Studio each make physical experimentation part of their design process, but they ask different things of it. For TAKK, prototypes help test how materials and components come together as a construction system. For salazarsequeromedina, models and built systems remain open to dismantling, recombination, and later uses. Ensamble Studio uses physical experiments to generate geometry and construction knowledge that can move into engineering and full-scale building. What distinguishes these approaches is not simply that they prototype, but what each practice expects to learn through the prototype.
Between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, traveling through Rome, Paris, Venice, Florence, and other European cities was considered an essential part of a newly graduated architect's education. At a time when access to photographs and publications was extremely limited, these trips were the primary way to experience architecture up close. In the early twentieth century, Le Corbusier reinterpreted this tradition in his own way: at 23, he embarked on the Voyage d'Orient, passing through the Balkans, Istanbul, and Athens, producing travel notebooks he would return to throughout his life.
Argentina's vast territory reveals multiple ways of building shaped by its geographic, climatic, and cultural diversity. When designing single-family homes in Córdoba, Mendoza, Santa Fe, and Buenos Aires, numerous young Argentine architecture firms respond to distinct material, landscape, and cultural conditions by working with the resources, construction systems, and crafts available in each area. The house becomes a means of interpreting its context, engaging with local traditions, and incorporating new approaches to architectural production.
As the setting for everyday life, the house is part of an ongoing experience, acting as a complex and subtle organism that responds not only to its inhabitants' way of life but also to the landscapes in which it is situated. After presenting different perspectives and definitions by figures such as Le Corbusier, Ernesto Rogers, and Lewis Mumford, Argentine architect Eduardo Sacriste emphasizes in his book Qué es la casa its role as a reflection of the past, sharing the present and illuminating the future.
Across the Gulf, Bedouin heritage often enters architecture first as an image. Airport terminals recall tent silhouettes, visitor centres incorporate woven screens, and pavilions reinterpret traditional textiles as decorative façades. These references have become a familiar visual language for expressing regional identity. They also risk reducing one of the world's most sophisticated vernacular building traditions to an architectural motif. Long before the Bedouin tent became a cultural symbol, it was an environmental technology: a lightweight, adaptable structure capable of creating comfort in one of the planet's most demanding climates. What contemporary infrastructure may inherit is not the tent's silhouette, but the construction intelligence woven into it.
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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.
