The debate on crime and public safety in Brazil has been shaped by polarization between proponents of hardline measures—ranging from stricter sentencing and streamlined legal procedures to legal immunity for police violence—and critics of the public safety and criminal justice systems, who point to systemic abuses and the ineffectiveness of incarceration in curbing crime.

Beyond this often counterproductive dichotomy—which does little to address a problem affecting a vast portion of the Brazilian population whose physical safety and property are threatened daily—crime prevention has been rarely discussed and even less prioritized. Yet, successful initiatives do exist, and they all involve local governments taking a leading role in implementing programs and coordinating police action with other social actors.

“Waking up early, waking the kids, making and serving breakfast, showering, bathing them, heading to the bus stop. The bag drops, the child throws a tantrum, the bus is late. Arms, backpack, child... you lose track of the order. First task of the day: the first bus and the kids arrive at school; then, rushing to another stop and another wait until the second bus arrives. Boarding, standing, dodging fatigue and harassment on the way to work. At lunchtime, a quick run to the pharmacy, and maybe the nearby open-air market. Or is today the day to stop by the butcher? Heading home from work: bags, purse, and exhaustion. A stop along the way to pick up the kids, and an inconvenient reminder of what's missing at home drives a detour to the grocery store before finally arriving back home as the day ends—though not before making dinner. Phew!”

This excerpt recounts a fictional day. However, this routine is the daily reality in many households, especially low-income ones, in peripheral areas, and in single-parent homes headed by women, where the drama of constant back-and-forth travel can be intensified by intersectional factors such as gender, race, social class, generation, territory, physical ability, and sexual orientation.

Few people have the opportunity to design a city. Even fewer do so by chance. This is the story of illustrator and comic artist Eloar Guazzelli, who since 1990 has been developing an art project titled Cidade Nanquim. Working with A4 sheets of paper, the artist composes a kind of black-and-white urban mosaic that portrays fragments of an imaginary city. 

The administration of the Pontifical Catholic University of Goiás intends to dissolve the Professor Edgar Albuquerque Graeff School of Arts and Architecture. 

The justification for this unexpected move is institutional cost-cutting. This argument might even be acceptable; managing or reducing expenses is standard practice, and not only for philanthropic universities. What is neither clear nor reasonable, however, is why reducing ordinary operating costs requires dissolving one of its oldest and most recognized divisions. This is a School that has stood out exceptionally on the national stage, with a history that must be recalled here to fully grasp the tragic nature of this unfolding decision—one made without dialogue with the professors, artists, and architects currently there, and without considering the identity and memory of the thousands of architects, artists, and designers who have passed through its doors over the last 70 years.

On July 29, 2021, we once again reached Earth Overshoot Day. This date marks the point when our annual consumption of natural resources and ecological services exceeds what Earth can regenerate in that same year. In other words, we enter the planet's "overdraft," according to the Global Footprint Network, the organization that has calculated Earth's ecological footprint since 1970.

The Akatu Institute, an organization promoting conscious consumption, issued a statement noting that Earth Overshoot Day in 2021 fell on the exact same date as in 2019. This means we have returned to pre-2020 levels, after the pandemic temporarily pushed the date back to August 22 last year.

Designers and architects are looking to the future, challenged to think about how to create safe, functional, and comfortable environments. From more open floor plans to materials that help mitigate the spread of disease, professionals are looking ahead, considering what gives us room to breathe and live together. 

Environment and Health

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Half a century ago, a lethal fog of smoke and soot, also known as the Great Smog of 1952, blanketed London and killed at least 12,000 people. More recently, in 2013, Ella Adoo-Kissi-Debrah died as a result of air pollution. “[Ella] was the first person in the world to have air pollution listed as the cause of her death,” says 17-year-old Anjali Raman-Middleton, co-founder of the organization Choked Up and a friend of Ella's. Yet London's toxic air, a long-standing issue linked to 9,000 premature deaths per year, is more than an environmental and public health crisis.

Nothing represents this change better than the habitat humanity has created for itself. The generation before Toffler knew an eminently rural world, of humans bound to the land, born and dying within their communities. The generation yet to be born will inherit an already urbanized, hyper-connected world, characterized by extreme mobility between cities and countries. We, who live today, have both the privilege and the responsibility of watching this urban phenomenon reshape the face of the planet.

Half a century ago, when Future Shock was published, just over a third of the world's population lived in cities. Today that figure stands at 55%, a share projected to rise to 70% by 2050. Nearly 90% of this growth will occur in Africa and Asia. The number of people living in informal settlements has already reached one billion worldwide, and the UN estimates that, by 2030, about three billion people will need adequate housing.

Cities that are good for children are good for everyone. They are more humane cities, building stronger and more sustainable communities. Therefore, urban mobility and early childhood are deeply interconnected. They are intrinsic, inherent to one another. Children and their caregivers—whether parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, or nannies—experience the city more deeply than many adults caught in a daily home-to-work routine. And they need the city to grow well, both physically and socially. Cities must foster this necessary, holistic development. Without active participation in urban life, this development cannot occur as it should, resulting in the confinement of childhood—an outcome that benefits neither people nor cities.

In July of this year, UNESCO designated the Roberto Burle Marx Site as a World Heritage site. As a result, Brazil now has 23 sites and practices inscribed on the World Heritage List, which brings together properties, ensembles, and practices of tangible and intangible value.

According to UNESCO, the 23 listed properties and practices in Brazil can be divided into Cultural Heritage—"composed of monuments, groups of buildings, or sites that have outstanding universal historical, aesthetic, archaeological, scientific, ethnological, or anthropological value"—and Natural Heritage—"outstanding physical, biological, and geological formations, habitats of threatened animal and plant species, and areas of outstanding scientific, conservation, or aesthetic value." 

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When migratory flows do not head toward major urban centers, spontaneous architecture emerges to fulfill the fundamental need for shelter and protection—the primary function of a dwelling. Using techniques that adapt to and improvise with locally available materials opens up new ways of imagining architecture and how humans shape their surroundings to serve their needs and desires. In the striking Chapada Diamantina, in the village of Igatu, diamond mining drew approximately thirty thousand people to live in a remote region lacking infrastructure, challenging human creativity to solve the housing problem. The response came through direct interaction with the immediate environment: stone.

The 9th edition of the ArchDaily Brasil Building of the Year Award has arrived, and once again, we need your help to select the best architecture projects of the year. By voting, you become part of an unbiased network of jurors recognizing the most relevant projects published over the past year.

Over the next three weeks, the collective intelligence of our readers will filter through hundreds of projects from Portuguese-speaking countries—Brazil, Portugal, Mozambique, Angola, Guinea-Bissau, East Timor, Equatorial Guinea, Macau, Cape Verde, and São Tomé and Príncipe—published in 2024, selecting the best built works in the Lusophone world.

Have you ever heard of “agrowaste design”? This is how Filipino-Ghanaian architect Mae-Ling Lokko titles her work, a pioneering research initiative on the use of biomaterials in architecture. Alongside the growing demand for food production and housing in the 21st century, there is an equally fast-growing flow of material resources in the form of agricultural byproducts. This has the potential not only to close product lifecycle loops but also to foster forms of generative citizenship through upcycling.

Lokko seeks to rethink product cycles and use within the construction industry through a circular economy—where nothing is wasted and everything can be reused, even after it becomes obsolete.

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Transforming cities built for cars into environments that prioritize the well-being and mobility of all people can make urban centers more resilient and inclusive. Changing ideas and practices so deeply ingrained in city planning is no trivial task. However, a new report by WRI Brasil, "Complete Streets in Brazil – Promoting a Paradigm Shift", shows that the seeds of change have been sown and are already bearing fruit.

The publication documents the results of four years of work by the National Network for Low-Carbon Mobility, an initiative by WRI Brasil and the National Mayors Front (FNP) that brought together 21 Brazilian cities committed to shifting the paradigm of street and city design.

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The construction industry's role in the current climate crisis is deeply concerning: spanning material production, construction, and building operations, the sector is one of the largest emitters of greenhouse gases. At the same time, urban populations are growing at historic rates, and when looking at the development of large cities—which are major energy consumers—it seems that reducing the discipline's impact relies on small-scale community and individual initiatives rather than broad political and professional actions.

History shows us various local techniques and materials that have proven sustainable over time through the efficient use of resources that require no heavy industrial processing and eliminate the need for long-distance transportation. In some cases, at the end of their life cycle, materials like adobe and timber can even be returned directly to the environment.

Non-Visual City: An Audio Guide to Downtown São Paulo is an auditory and acoustic project essay exploring urban relationships and their events. Centered on how visually impaired people perceive the city, the proposal seeks to challenge and engage with their urban experiences to enhance their right to the city, autonomy, and citizenship. The spatial focus of this case study is the area where the open streets project for pedestrians was implemented in São Paulo's Centro Novo (República district). 

The COVID-19 pandemic deepened the crisis of urban centers, especially those whose vitality, like Rio de Janeiro's, is closely tied to commercial and service activities.

Lockdown mandates and the rise of remote work substantially reduced foot traffic, which previously sustained a range of local businesses—especially bars and restaurants, small retailers, and cultural venues.

When studying indeterminate architecture, there is an almost natural instinct to label it. If not to label it, then to resolve it so that it can—even if only momentarily—become something more concrete. But what happens if we do not try to define it?

In 2019, along with a few colleagues, I visited the Bonpland Building, designed by the Argentine firm Adamo Faiden. Before our visit, during a conversation with friends, I tried to explain the concept behind many 21st-century porteño buildings: the logic of site occupation structured as front and rear blocks connected by a centralized circulation core; the building envelopes; and, in the case of the Bonpland building, a floor plan where the only structural elements were the vertical circulation and the wet cores. I commented on the building's exercise in indeterminacy and received a highly interesting response: I was told that this lack of resolution in the interior layouts was simply laziness on the part of the architects. 

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Steel frame is a system composed of galvanized steel profiles, with a thickness between 0.80 mm and 3 mm, cold bent, and assembled as structural frames, with vertical and horizontal studs. To wrap the structural profiles, OSB, cementitious or plasterboard sheets are used, which can be finished and painted internally and externally. Inside the walls, insulating materials can be included, such as mineral, glass wool, or others, to increase the thermal acoustic insulation. In the steel frame system, all the electrical and hydraulic parts are installed before closing the panels, making the process more efficient and without breakage and material waste. Cleanliness of the work, efficiency and speed are key points in this constructive system that is widely spread around the world.

The remarkable research paper “A Long History of a Short Block,” by Bill Easterly, Laura Freschi, and Steven Pennings, analyzed the development of a block on Greene Street in New York's SoHo neighborhood over four centuries. Throughout this period, the city remained in a constant state of development, demonstrating that the question “What is the ‘original character’ of a neighborhood?” is far more difficult to answer than it seems.

To begin with, the skyscraper-filled Manhattan we know today is a relatively recent development in its history. Before the Dutch arrived in what they would call “New Amsterdam” in 1625, the region was dominated by forests and wetlands—a rich ecosystem that even included bears and wolves.

On August 17, Brazil celebrated National Heritage Day, 21 days after a protest set fire to the statue of Bandeirante Borba Gato in the southern zone of São Paulo. This contradiction opens up an important discussion: how are we constructing memory in our cities? What are we valuing as our country's heritage? 

The term historical and cultural heritage refers to the tangible and intangible creations of a given culture within society. What defines a cultural asset as heritage is its historical and social relevance, which can be linked to collective and individual memory, as it is through these memories that we understand the past. From an architectural perspective, the term heritage is constantly associated with historic buildings that typically embody Catholic religious values or the bourgeois lifestyle of the elite.

Before stamps and digital printing, wallpaper was a luxury item and a status symbol, as every design had to be hand-painted by artisans. As a symbol of wealth, it emerged to replace tapestries and paintings in 16th-century European homes. In Brazil, for instance, wallpaper only became economically viable in the 1930s, and its widespread popularization was only realized in the 1960s.

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“From the problem of locomotion derive all other problems of urbanization.” It was in 1882 that the Spanish urbanist Arturo Soria y Mata made this assertion, and in response to it, created and implemented the concept of the linear city. Based on a functionalist doctrine, this city model abandons traditional structures such as squares and blocks, subordinating the design to circulation paths in its most rational spatial configuration: the straight line.

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If your goal is to create an indoor forest, you have likely run into the challenge of not knowing where to put the plant you just bought. 

The following tips offer creative ways to organize your planters so that lack of space is no longer an obstacle.

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