This guide covers a workflow that moves from project parameters to generated floor plans, 3D perspective views, exterior design exploration, and site context visualization, using AI tools in place of preliminary CAD and rendering work.

The term ‘right to the city’ was on the lips of participants in the June 2013 protests, which were sparked by public transit fare hikes across several Brazilian states. It was also emblazoned on banners hanging from occupied vacant towers and abandoned buildings by the Ocupe Estelita movement, which has fought since 2008 to preserve the José Estelita Pier in Recife. Abroad, the phrase was splashed across Turkish signs when trees were felled in Istanbul’s Gezi Park to make way for a shopping mall.

But what, after all, does the right to the city actually mean—an expression vehemently invoked by social movements in recent years and one that, in Brazil, gained territoriality following the 2013 mobilizations?

Architect Francisco Javier Sáenz de Oiza is undoubtedly a pivotal figure in 20th-century Spanish architecture. Designer of iconic works like Torres Blancas and the current Castellana 81, Sáenz de Oiza was twice awarded the National Architecture Award (1946 and 1954), served as Director of the Madrid School of Architecture (1981–1983), and was a figure whose work and theoretical reflections shaped the course of the Modern Movement in Spain.

This year marks the centenary of his birth in the town of Cáseda (Navarra). To celebrate this milestone, the 15th Architecture Week will pay tribute to him with a major exhibition charting his entire career. Titled Centenario Sáenz de Oiza. 1918-2018 (Sáenz de Oiza Centenary. 1918-2018), the exhibition is organized by the COAM Architecture Foundation in partnership with the Directorate-General for Architecture of the Ministry of Development, and curated by his children, architects Vicente, Javier, and Marisa Sáenz Guerra.

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The 1970s and 1980s witnessed a new urban image in the Ecuadorian capital. Rafael Vélez Calisto graduated in 1970, going on to become one of its most prominent and prolific architects. He expressed his architecture for a thriving country and capital that offered unique opportunities to professionals, driven by oil exploitation, the growth of the public and private sectors, and rapid urban expansion.

The capital shifted the profile of its main corridors, gradually shaping itself as a vertical city. Along Quito's Avenida Amazonas, the dominant presence of large, still-functional estates gradually disappeared, replaced by high-rise buildings (1)—an urban landscape that continued to spread along new arteries toward the north.

In these areas, several of his notable, contemporary, and cosmopolitan buildings stand out.

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Originally published in Metropolis Magazine as El Equipo Mazzanti Heals a Gash in Bogotá’s Urban Fabric. With a Patchwork of Verdant Gardens, Anna Fixsen writes about Bicentennial Park in Bogotá. "Once a lightning rod for controversy, the innovative park now reconnects two areas at the heart of the city's historic center," she writes.

It is impossible to experience Bogotá without encountering the aura of Rogelio Salmona. Perhaps more than any other architect, Salmona shaped the urban identity of this Andean city through civic and poetic buildings. From a small balcony in his last office—located at the top of a tower he designed himself—a tableau of Salmona's legacy unfolds: directly ahead, the massive volumes of the Torres del Parque, a three-tower residential complex completed in 1970; and to the south, MAMBO, the Museum of Modern Art of Bogotá.

As we welcome the new year, don't miss ArchDaily's selection of the best architecture documentaries to watch this year!

Describing the work of an architect is sometimes an arduous task. Categorizing a production based on the various criteria to which a body of work is tied often subjects it to the constraints of its historical context. Eduardo Longo, however, represents a clear exception, as his work actively rejected the prevailing principles of his time in pursuit of continuous experimentation. Entering the School of Architecture and Urbanism at Universidade Presbiteriana Mackenzie in São Paulo in 1961, he encountered a unique moment in Brazilian architecture: the formation of the so-called “Escola Paulista” (São Paulo School) alongside national political instability, marked by the onset of the military dictatorship and the construction of the new federal capital, Brasília.

As a student, he distanced himself from the canons of the Escola Paulista, seeking instead to experiment and foster new architectural discourse. Against this backdrop, during his fourth year of university, Longo designed the Mar Casado beach house. Intended for his aunt and uncle, the project was heavily criticized by both faculty and peers due to its “independent way of interpreting architecture” [1] and its structural configuration—which featured a non-orthogonal design with acute and obtuse angles beneath a multifaceted roof—openly defying Paulista Brutalism. Despite the backlash, the house was built and eventually gained recognition: art critic Pietro Maria Bardi praised its relevance in 1967, followed by a feature in *Domus* magazine in 1968 and its inclusion in Yves Bruand’s seminal 1981 book [2].

Writing for the Fundación Arquia Blog, architect Enrique Parra outlines the main questions asked by first-year architecture students in Spain, where, despite the ongoing crisis in the profession, it remains one of the most sought-after degrees. This article offers a chance to compare these expectations with the realities and aspirations of students in different countries.

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The First Industrial Revolution took place in the United Kingdom in the late 18th century with the mechanization of the textile industry. Over the following decades, instead of making things solely by hand, the use of machines spread across the globe.

The Second Industrial Revolution began in the United States in the early 20th century with the assembly line, ushering in the so-called Era of Mass Production.

Today, we are living through a new industrial revolution, driven by digital culture and technology, with 3D printers serving as one of its key catalysts. And believe it or not, you will eventually own one. As they become increasingly affordable, these machines are capable of printing three-dimensional objects. The most common technique involves depositing and bonding, layer by layer, minute particles of materials such as plastic, ceramic, glass, or metal.

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.

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.

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.

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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