In many homes, the entry is treated as leftover space or a narrow strip transition before the living room begins. Yet in dense Asia-Pacific interiors, sometimes despite the small sizes, the entrance often performs far more work than its size suggests. It is the threshold that dictates the transition: street is filtered, body adjusts, shoes are removed, guests are received, privacy is negotiated, and domestic order begins. Before the living room became recognizable as interior, the entry sequence and space had already staged the first act of inhabitation.
The Japanese genkan is perhaps the most familiar version of this condition, but the logic extends far beyond Japan. Across apartments, terrace houses, public housing units, and compact urban homes, the entry threshold becomes a small but charged architectural device. It manages hygiene as well as spatial sequencing through various deliberate architectural elements. It can be a recessed floor, a thickened wall, a compressed corridor, a screen, or a small foyer between public circulation and private life. Its importance lies not in its size, but in the number of transitions it holds.
What defines the quality of a bathroom beyond its basic functions? As one of the most private spaces within the home, the bathroom is closely connected to everyday rituals and moments of pause. While fixtures, circulation, and technical requirements establish the practical foundation, the atmosphere emerges through a combination of spatial decisions: how furniture meets the floor or deliberately avoids it, how materials interact with light, how storage is integrated, and how form and proportion shape perception.
Antarctica has no government, no permanent population, and no economy. It also, since 1959, has had no legally recognized owner as the Antarctic Treaty freezes every territorial claim on the continent. On paper, this makes Antarctica the closest thing on Earth to a true commons. In practice, close to thirty countries currently operate more than seventy research stations there, several of them within a short flight of one another, and one of those stations has a school, a chapel, a cemetery, and a civil registry office that has recorded eleven births since 1978.
None of that architecture is accidental, and very little of it is explained by science alone. A research station costs millions of dollars to build and supply in one of the most logistically hostile places on the planet; a country does not commit to that expense purely to measure atmospheric ozone it could, in several cases, measure somewhere closer. What a station does, reliably, is stake a claim to a territory that legally forbids exactly that.
Recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, the ninth episode of the Room For Dreams podcast brings together architects Rajiv Parekh of Red Architects, Hiren Patel of HPAD, and Rudraksh Charan of 42mm Architecture to discuss how design can serve as a powerful tool for emotional resilience and collective healing.
Images of the benches at New York City's High Line Park spread around the world when the project opened in 2009. Emerging diagonally from the same material and modular pattern as the paving, they transition seamlessly from concrete to wood, evoking the railway tracks that once occupied the site. To withstand decades of exposure to the elements, the project required a wood species of exceptional durability, and ipe, harvested from the Brazilian Amazon, was selected. Its slow growth produces a dense, low-porosity hardwood that is naturally resistant to wear, moisture, and biological decay. The choice, however, sparked controversy at the time amid concerns over the certification of the timber's forest management. This broader view changes how we think about materials. Their origin still matters, but so does what happens after the building's life comes to an end.
MTM—Made to Measure designed by Herzog & de Meuron for UniFor, Creative Direction by Studio Klass . Image Courtesy of UniFor
What allows a single architectural principle to generate many different outcomes? The answer lies in the systems that organize architecture: geometry, proportion, structure, and construction. Together, these can establish a set of rules that can accommodate different programs, contexts, and spatial conditions while maintaining a coherent identity. A structural grid, for example, can organize a variety of uses, just as a single construction detail can be repeated throughout an entire building without producing identical spaces. Can the same way of thinking be translated into furniture design without losing its identity? MTM—Made to Measure, developed by Herzog & de Meuron for UniFor, explores this question. Instead of designing each piece independently, the collection grows from a single structural principle that can be extended, adapted, and repeated across different functions while maintaining its internal coherence.
Architecture often inherits a paradox. The buildings that come to define a place are rarely the only ones that shaped it. Instead, they become symbols, repeated through guidebooks, tourism campaigns, conservation agendas, and architectural histories until they stand in for an entire region. Over time, the richness of a built landscape is compressed into a handful of familiar images. What falls outside that frame rarely disappears. It simply slips from architectural discourse.
Few places illustrate this more clearly than Odisha. For decades, its architectural identity has been represented through the monumental stone temples of Bhubaneswar, Konark, and Puri. The sculptural sophistication of the Kalinga tradition has rightly earned international recognition, becoming one of India's most celebrated architectural legacies. Yet this prominence has also produced an unintended consequence. Odisha is frequently understood as a land of temples, leaving other architectural histories comparatively unexplored. Royal residences, administrative buildings, colonial encounters, vernacular settlements, and former capitals occupy a far smaller place in the architectural imagination despite revealing equally complex stories of governance, diplomacy, ecology, and cultural exchange.
On the Caribbean coast of Honduras, lies the Leán valley, a narrow coastal strip lined by the Nombre de Dios Mountain Range to the South and the Caribbean Sea to the North. For a long time, this was the last frontier: dense jungle, swamps, no infrastructure, and difficult inland access. However, all of that started to change with the arrival of the Garífuna, who settled the area between the Danto and Cangrejal Rivers, setting the foundations of what would become the City of La Ceiba. An urban hub in the Honduran Caribbean whose history has been defined by migration waves: Central Americans, Afro-Caribbean people, Europeans, and corporate North America. These movements from all around the world did not merely contribute to economic growth, but actively produced the city's spatial logic, identity, and architectural form.
What does luxury mean when products are designed for quick obsolescence? Recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, the eighth episode of the Room For Dreams podcast brings together architects Priyanka Mehra, Simran Boparai, Ashmit Singh Alag, and Adreesh Chakraborty to dissect the evolving, often contradictory relationship between exclusivity, sustainability, and purposeful craftsmanship.
Anyone expecting the following words to discuss materiality, sustainable construction techniques, woodworking methods, or ways of weaving thatch will be mistaken. This article seeks precisely to shift the focus beyond the aspects that so often define discussions about Indigenous cultures when the subject is "architecture."
In a universe where the very term "architecture" is foreign, approaching Indigenous constructions—or whatever word might best describe them—through an exclusively material or technological lens is itself an attempt to fit their ways of producing space into Western categories. In doing so, a complex cosmology is reduced to a set of measurable attributes, as if it could be transformed into a checklist applicable to any form of architecture, erasing precisely what makes it distinct: the relationships between territory, body, and memory.
Every building begins somewhere else. The sand in its concrete, the stone on its façade, the lithium that may one day power its systems. It arrives, already stripped from a mountain, a riverbed, or a salt flat thousands of kilometers away, having passed through a chain of trucks, ships, and customs declarations that erase almost everything about where it came from. Architecture tends to treat material as a starting condition, something simply available, but extraction is where construction actually begins.
The global trade in construction sand alone now moves on a scale that rivals the illegal markets in timber, gold, and fish combined, run through networks violent enough to have cost reporters and activists their lives. A single mountain in Tuscany has yielded more marble in the past few decades than in the two thousand years before them, hollowed out by a workforce whose own history of revolt has been almost entirely forgotten. Beneath the salt flats of three South American countries and the copper belt of Central Africa, the minerals that will supposedly power a cleaner future are pulled from ground that Indigenous communities have inhabited for generations and that children, in some cases, mine by hand. Each of these is sold as ordinary commerce; each is also a territorial transaction whose terms were set somewhere far from where the material was taken.
National Museum of Ecuador Proposal (MuNA). Image Courtesy of Studio Campo Baeza
The announcement of the winning proposal for Ecuador's new National Museum (MuNA) sparked one of the country's most significant architectural debates in recent years. The public response has since reshaped the competition itself while also raising broader questions about how a national museum gives architectural form to an interpretation of a nation. While the discussion began with a single design, it exposed a challenge that extends far beyond Ecuador.
National museums are not simply asked to represent a nation. They are asked to give it architectural form. Yet identity cannot be built directly. Before it becomes architecture, it must first be interpreted and translated through architectural decisions.
On June 24, 2026, a severe seismic event consisting of two major earthquakes with magnitudes of 7.2 and 7.5 struck north-central Venezuela just 39 seconds apart. The widespread destruction was concentrated along the country's northern coast, heavily impacting the capital city of Caracas and the neighboring state of La Guaira, where fragile urban infrastructure and vulnerable housing stock led to the collapse or severe damage of thousands of residential structures. This disaster mirrors previous devastating events observed during other major seismic events, including the 2008 Wenchuan earthquake and 2011 landslides in Sichuan, the 2014 Ludian earthquake in Yunnan, and the 2017 earthquake across central Mexico. When high-magnitude natural disasters damage entire communities, architects have the opportunity to help by proposing post-disaster architecture with strategic recovery models. Rather than relying on generic, standardized emergency shelters, conscious architectural design can deliver low-cost, rapidly deployable residential infrastructure that preserves human dignity through culturally contextual and dignified spaces.
For most children, the journey to school is an everyday geography of street life and traffic, repeated so often that it becomes almost invisible, folded into the background of childhood and growing up. Yet for cross-boundary students who live in Shenzhen and attend school in Hong Kong, the school day begins much earlier, and much farther from the classroom. It begins at the border.
Their commute is not simply a matter of distance. It is shaped by two legal systems, two administrative cultures, and a set of infrastructures designed to make daily crossing a little bit more feasible for individuals under 18. On a typical morning, the route to school may pass through a boundary control point before it reaches a classroom. It may involve a government-approved school coach, a restricted access road, an immigration hall, a fingerprint scanner, or a clearance procedure that takes place while the child remains seated on the bus. What appears from a distance as a school commute is, in spatial terms, a carefully managed architectural corridor between two cities.
What will the future of steel be?How can this material build the foundation for sustainable economic development and the transition to a low-carbon society?
Steel plays an essential role in modern societies, shaping countless aspects of daily life and supporting sustainable development through its contribution to the built environment, transportation, and energy infrastructure. From automobiles and buildings to cargo ships and refrigerators, steel is a durable and versatile engineering and construction material with a distinctive strength-to-weight ratio compared with other building materials. By offering fast, durable, and flexible solutions with temperature control and resistance to extreme weather conditions, steel has become an integral part of modern construction systems. Its long-term performance also places it at the center of the debate on how to transition toward a lower-carbon world.
A trainera under the transporter Bizkaia Bridge. Image via Wikipedia user: Javier Mediavilla Ezquibela Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0
What role do transportation infrastructures play in shaping the culture and economy of societies? How do they bridge cultural, ideological, and geographic divides while transforming the lives of the communities they serve? One of the most remarkable iron structures of the European Industrial Revolution stands west of Bilbao, spanning the Nervión River at the mouth of the Ibaizabal Estuary. It is the Bizkaia Bridge, which combines nineteenth-century ironworking traditions with the innovative use of lightweight alternating-twist steel cables. Recognized as the world's first transporter bridge, it became a model for similar structures built throughout Europe, Africa, and the Americas.
Constructed to connect the opposite banks of the Nervión estuary, it was the first bridge in the world to allow ships, passengers, and vehicles to cross simultaneously by means of a suspended gondola. This innovative system improved communication between two small seaside resort towns while allowing uninterrupted navigation through one of Europe's busiest inland ports.
A profound generational evolution is rewriting the rules of the contemporary landscape, bringing an end to the era where architects and designers merely mimicked the tenets of Western modernism. Recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, the seventh episode of the Room for Dreams podcast leads an insightful session on how a new generation of Indian practitioners is stepping onto the global stage with a confident, self-aware perspective.
Barcelona has just become the first city in the history of the UIA World Congress of Architects to host the event twice. Thirty years separate the two editions, and the distance between them says as much about architecture's changing self-understanding as anything spoken from a stage. In 1996, the congress placed the city at the center of the debate, consolidating a post-Olympic urban model that would go on to be studied and contested for decades.
Marina Opatija and the Kvarner Bay shoreline from above. Image Courtesy of Smart & Sustainable Marina Rendezvous
M3 Monaco's Smart & Sustainable Marina Rendezvouscompetition returns for its sixth edition with an open-architecture Call for Ideas centered on Marina Opatija, on Croatia's Kvarner Bay. This article sets out what the competition asks of designers: a focused, high-impact intervention built around three required buildings, the pillars and sustainability criteria behind the brief, the key dates leading to the August 2026 deadline, and how to enter, free of charge, for professionals and students alike, with the top finalists pitching their work at the Yacht Club de Monaco.
