What happens to a house when the life it was designed for ends? In Casa sobre el Arroyo, the answer developed gradually as the building changed use, ownership, and condition over nearly eight decades. Even as these conditions changed, the structure, circulation, and relationship to the site remained central to how the house was understood and, eventually, restored.

Designed by Amancio Williams and Delfina Gálvez Bunge de Williams beginning in 1943 for Amancio's father, Alberto Williams, Casa sobre el Arroyo grew directly from the conditions of its site in Mar del Plata, Argentina. Rather than treating the Las Chacras stream as something to work around, the project uses it to organize the house itself. A reinforced concrete arch crosses the water and lifts the living spaces above it, turning the stream into part of the experience of moving through and inhabiting the house.

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Symbols have always traveled through architecture. They appear in carved stone, woven textiles, painted ceilings and walls, door hardware, and everyday objects, carrying the beliefs, rituals, and histories of the cultures that first created them. Across contemporary interiors, designers continue this dialogue with place by revisiting historical symbols and translating them through new materials, manufacturing techniques, and architectural forms.

The Ruyi knot is one such example. For centuries, the interwoven motif has been part of the Chinese knotting tradition, symbolizing continuity, harmony, and good wishes. Its gently looping geometry has appeared across decorative objects and ceremonial crafts, demonstrating how cultural references can become part of a design vocabulary that extends far beyond ornament.

Nestled at the foot of the Alborz mountain range, Tehran grows beneath a ridge that protects and suffocates it at the same time. The same landscape that blocks the winds and traps pollution over the city also holds, along its slopes, centuries of disputes over this strategic territory. It is a capital built on unstable ground, both geologically and politically. Active seismic faults run beneath its avenues, while above them accumulate the traces of successive reconstructions, demolitions, and forced reinventions. Thus, the city continues to expand, a silent witness to a country that, for more than two centuries, has constantly negotiated between memory and erasure.

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Public space is often intended to be perceived as universal, but access is unevenly experienced. For many women, moving through the city involves a continuous assessment of exposure, visibility, proximity to others, lighting, transport access, escape routes and the likelihood of harassment. These calculations are shaped by spatial conditions as much as social ones. Safety is a question of urban form, maintenance, mobility, governance and the distribution of public investment. While the built environment may not cause gender-based violence, it can intensify vulnerability and normalize unequal access, especially to public spaces.

For architects and planners, there is a critical distinction between designing for security and designing for safety. Security strategies tend to focus on surveillance, control, policing and the management of movement, while safety depends on whether people can see and be seen, if routes are legible, whether public spaces support activities throughout the day, and how long-term maintenance is supported. The role of design is to alter the conditions under which public life takes place.

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Filippo Brunelleschi and the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, completed in 1436 in the Italian city of Florence, represent an important chapter in the history of architecture, often associated with the growing distance between drawing and building. This separation, gradually consolidated over time, finds a decisive turning point in the Renaissance. Drawing becomes an instrument for anticipating and asserting authority over construction. The building site, once a space for invention and decision-making, came to be understood primarily as a place of execution.

Over the following centuries, this distance becomes increasingly pronounced, particularly with modern construction. Industrialization, technical specialization, and corporate organization fragment the building process into increasingly distinct stages. Those who design rarely build; those who build do not always participate in decision-making; those who finance, manage, and inhabit occupy positions that are even further removed from one another. The efficiency of this model made it possible to build at scale, but it also concentrated knowledge and decision-making power in the hands of certain agents.

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This article is part of our new Opinion section, a format for argument-driven essays on critical questions shaping our field.

For centuries, most of the world has looked at itself through a 16th-century instrument of spatial representation. On September 4, the United Nations General Assembly voted to change that, adopting a resolution that asks governments, schools, media organizations, and technology companies to retire the Mercator projection wherever the relative size of countries actually matters, in favor of equal-area alternatives like the 2018 Equal Earth projection. The vote passed 164 to 1. The United States was the sole vote against.

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In broad terms, a structure is a testament to its time. An architectural project's proposal and material scale often exceed the lifespan of a single human being, becoming, in this way, part of a historical narrative. This cross-cutting characteristic is particularly evident in specific project typologies: memorial sites, cemeteries, museums, and even educational and community centers. Lately, this value has extended not only to buildings but also to construction techniques, ancestral forms and geometries, and to nature itself. This historical value and its symbolic connotation are represented in this selection of five buildings designed by ArchDaily readers, still unbuilt, in Kosovo, Canada, China, Egypt, and Bangladesh.

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Historically, the way we design has been closely linked to the way we build. Architecture moved through physical testing, trial and error, projection drawings, mock-ups, and physical models: each introducing a new layer of abstraction, but still remaining tied to material, scale, and construction. The introduction of CAD significantly changed this dynamic. At first, it was largely understood as the computerization of precise geometry for construction. Over time, however, digital tools moved earlier into the design process, replacing sketching, physical trial and error, model-making, and other forms of thinking that had once kept scale and material close at hand.

The lineage of architectural design can therefore be understood, in part, as an evolution of abstractions. Some have been extraordinarily productive. Plans and sections, for example, isolate particular dimensions of architecture while still allowing the mind to reconstruct the whole. They flatten, cut, and reduce, but they do not abandon the building. Through the combination of drawings, one can understand rooms, circulation, structure, openings, and spatial relationships without becoming lost in the complexity of the project. Their abstraction is disciplined because it remains tied to an architectural reality that must eventually be measured, built, and inhabited.

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Oslo is the capital of Norway as well as its largest city, serving as the country's political, economic, and cultural center. Nestled at the head of the Oslofjord and surrounded by forested hills, it's home to roughly 700,000 people in the city, with over a million living in the greater metropolitan area. Founded around a thousand years ago, Oslo has a long history as a trading post and administrative seat. However, much of its modern character was shaped after a major fire in the seventeenth century led to a full rebuilding under Danish rule, when it was briefly renamed Christiania. Today it consistently ranks among the world's most livable cities, prized for its blend of urban life and easy access to nature.

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What transforms a space of living into a home? Beyond ownership or shelter, a home is tied to a quieter sense of certainty: the feeling that one can retreat, rest, and momentarily step away from the world's unpredictability. Homes are where routines accumulate, memories settle into spaces and objects, and where personal identity takes physical form through occupation and everyday rituals. Yet this sense of belonging depends on another condition that often goes unnoticed until disrupted: security. To feel "at home" implies a condition of comfort and stability. When domestic environments fail to provide this, spaces designed for rest become sources of unease, subtly affecting routines and well-being.

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How can daylight tackle global challenges? This question lies at the heart of Light of Tomorrow by VELUX, a global student competition that encourages architecture students to explore the future potential of daylight in the built environment. In its 12th edition, the competition received hundreds of responses from around the world, culminating in eight finalist projects presented to an international jury at the UIA World Congress of Architects in Barcelona. The 2026 global winner, Sun the Quilt, developed by students from Xi'an University of Architecture and Technology in China, was chosen for its strong concept, design thinking, and innovative use of daylight that transforms an everyday domestic ritual into an innovative facade system shaped by daylight, climate, and care.

Throughout the history of architecture, the circle has been associated with multiple meanings—from the cosmic geometry of ancient temples and the oculus of classical buildings to the rose windows of Gothic cathedrals and the portholes of ships. However, in the 20th century, the circle acquired a new cultural meaning. As aviation, space exploration, and technological innovation transformed the way society imagined the future, circular forms began to evoke machines, spacecraft, capsules, and even new forms of habitation.

At one point, Jakarta's future coastal defense took the form of a giant Garuda rising from the sea. The mythical bird, Indonesia's national symbol, gave form to a vast coastal intervention intended to protect the sinking capital from floods while creating new territory offshore. It was an extraordinary image: a seawall transformed into a city. The Great Garuda is revealing because it shows what happens when climate adaptation begins to overlap with urban development. Once protection infrastructure also creates valuable land, defending a city and remaking it can become difficult to separate.

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The original promise of BIM (Building Information Modeling) went far beyond the three-dimensional representation of a building. Its ambition was to turn the model into a coordinated information structure, in which geometry, components, systems, and data remained connected as the project evolved. Changes to one element could be reflected across corresponding plans, sections, elevations, and quantities; clashes between different disciplines could be identified before construction; and information associated with building components could follow the project through different stages of its life cycle.

Since the 2008 crash, a scatter of small practices (none more than fifteen years old and none large enough to need a manifesto in the traditional sense) have arrived, independently of one another, at some version of the same refusal: to sound too certain, too soon, in a discipline that had spent the previous decade selling confidence as a finish. They would probably resist being filed under one heading, but the coincidence itself is that something about practising architecture after 2008 made innocence look like the only posture worth trying.

At least from 2019 onwards, Fala has circulated a two-word description of itself, repeated verbatim across dozens of architecture outlets: a "naïve architecture practice." No footnote, no irony, just an office, founded in 2013, that built a decade of houses, birdhouses and institutional commissions on a term architecture had spent a century trying to outgrow. The question the phrase raises is not whether the buildings are any good (as they generally are) but what it means for a practice to choose innocence as a public position. Where does post-irony end and marketing begin?

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A greenhouse is a building designed to create one climate inside another. By controlling sunlight, heat, and ventilation through its enclosure, it produces conditions that differ from those outside. Traditionally, that controlled environment was designed around plants. In housing, the same principle is increasingly being used to shape spaces for people.

Bringing greenhouse construction into a house offers more than additional enclosure. It can create sheltered spaces without conditioning them like conventional interior rooms, capture solar heat when it is useful, provide ventilation when temperatures rise, and extend the periods of the year when certain areas of the home remain comfortable to occupy.

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Some of India's most convincing architectural worlds have never existed outside a film set. Courtyards, palaces, streets and even entire neighbourhoods have been constructed, lit and framed for the camera, then dismantled when filming ends. Their images remain. For millions of viewers, these spaces become references for how cities look, how wealth is displayed and how particular neighbourhoods or versions of India are remembered. Cinema constructs spatial worlds, compressing complex histories into images that audiences can recognise almost instantly. Those images can later shape how physical places are understood.

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The spatial consequences of urban form are revealed when health outcomes are mapped over neighborhoods. Neighborhoods that support walking, daily errands, social interaction, and access to essential services create opportunities to incorporate physical activity into routine tasks. Places that are organized around long distances and automobile travel suppress this opportunity. Physical activity and the motivation to incorporate it into daily life are shaped by the distance to a grocery store, the safety of a pedestrian crossing, the frequency of public transportation, the width of a sidewalk, and the quantity of services within walking distance.

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Since its launch in 2020, the ArchDaily Next Practices Awards have spotlighted forward-thinking architecture practices that are redefining the boundaries of the discipline. Over five editions, the initiative has recognized 105 practices from 44 countries, amplifying voices from around the world and fostering a global conversation about architecture's evolving role in society. Across the winning practices, recurring values emerge: contextual sensitivity, sustainable material use, co-creation with communities, experimental and interdisciplinary approaches, memory and heritage, social responsibility, and human-scale interventions.

The program reflects what is next: the ideas, practices, and projects that should be brought forward. 'Next' embodies practices that find solutions to today's urgent challenges while anticipating the needs of tomorrow. By spotlighting these practices, we hope to illuminate the paths that can lead to a more meaningful and resilient future for architecture and beyond.

Every housing crisis eventually becomes a land question, and every land question eventually becomes a values question. The United States' West Coast has arrived at that point. As cities from Los Angeles to Seattle search for parcels to build the affordable housing they have promised for years, they keep landing on the same answer: the park or the greenbelt. What looks like a zoning decision is a referendum on which form of wellbeing a city is willing to sacrifice for another.

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In compact homes, the kitchen is rarely only a room for cooking. It often operates as an edge: a service wall or a boundary between domestic work and social life. Its importance lies not only in food preparation, but in how it organizes the rest of the home, particularly due to limitations of plumbing and ventilation requirements. Before a living room can feel open, the kitchen often has to absorb the practical intensity of daily life: water, heat, smell, appliances, groceries, and storage.

This is especially visible in dense East Asian interiors, where domestic space is frequently shaped by limited area, changing family structures, hybrid work, and the cultural specificity of cooking. The open kitchen may be framed as a lifestyle feature, but in many apartments it is also a planning problem. It has to negotiate domestic labor, support informal gathering, and sometimes, as space-saving strategies, replace the hallway or foyer. More than a design gesture, the kitchen edge is therefore a spatial agreement between service and living.

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Designing a museum interior means negotiating between the needs of the collection and those of the visitor: objects must be protected and carefully displayed, while spaces need to remain accessible, legible, and engaging. Scale, circulation, security, lighting, structure, and technology all become part of the design, often working quietly in the background so that the exhibits remain the focus. So, how do you fit 4.5 billion years of Earth's history into a museum interior? The renovation of the Natural History Museum Oslo, home to one of the largest geological and anthropological exhibitions in the Nordic countries, offers a clear example of how these demands can come together within an existing architectural framework.

Mexico's rapid urban growth over recent decades has left many cities struggling with fragmented neighborhoods, high crime rates, and severe shortages of quality public spaces. In many low-income urban areas, informal development occurred alongside raw infrastructure like drainage canals, rail lines, and steep ravines, dividing communities and creating hazardous vacant zones. To address this spatial segregation and lack of civic amenities, public agencies and architects across Mexico are intervening in these abandoned buffer zones to construct public parks. By converting former physical barriers into accessible pedestrian corridors, these projects rejoin separated neighborhoods, re-establish safe visual sight lines, and provide spaces for community gathering and daily recreation.

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As a fundamental human right, inclusion requires that all people—regardless of their backgrounds, abilities, or circumstances—are recognized and respected, with equal access to the same resources and opportunities. For many people with disabilities and their caregivers, accessible washrooms still fail to provide what is most essential: a safe, private, and dignified place for assisted changing. While many facilities comply with ADA and ICC accessibility standards, conventional washroom layouts often do not accommodate users who require additional space, time, and support from caregivers. This gap has contributed to the growing adoption of adult changing facilities, which extend accessibility beyond conventional washroom requirements and respond to needs that standard fixtures cannot address.