Brands and Materials Senior Editor. Architect and Master from Federal University of Santa Catarina (UFSC).
As cities struggle to provide adequate and affordable housing, examining built examples of collective housing can help inform decisions about what to build and how. These projects offer opportunities to assess solutions, understand their limitations, and consider what might be applied elsewhere. In Paris, two recent examples combine apartments of different sizes with access to gardens, courtyards, and other outdoor spaces, working with structures already in place.
Created by California surfers who wanted to bring the lines of surfing onto asphalt, skateboarding soon outgrew its role as a simple alternative for flat days. It established itself as a practice that reads the city through a different logic, reinterpreting steps, handrails, walls, and interstitial spaces as possible lines, challenges, and opportunities. Over time, it evolved into a global urban culture, a way of inhabiting and transforming public space through movement. What was once marginal has become a catalyst for community building and new uses for overlooked spaces. At its core, skateboarding reveals how many cities coexist within the same city, depending on who moves through them and how each person is able to reinterpret their surroundings.
In the story of the Three Little Pigs, the choice of material determines the fate of each house. The wolf's breath brings down the structures made of straw and wood, while the brick house remains standing. The moral is that the more solid the construction, the greater its ability to resist. A building, however, has to respond to much less straightforward questions. Remaining standing is still essential, but heat, light, air, and sound are not forces that necessarily need to be blocked. Sometimes sunlight needs to be kept out; at other times, daylight needs to be let in. Retaining heat may be desirable in winter and counterproductive in summer. Air needs to circulate, sound may need to be absorbed, and the conditions that determine these responses change throughout the day, across seasons, and over the life of the building itself. More material does not necessarily mean better performance. In some cases, it can simply add complexity without improving how the building responds.
"Let us take a hard look at the facts." With this direct and hardly reassuring sentence, the director of the Office of Civil and Defense Mobilization opened The Family Fallout Shelter, a 32-page manual published by the U.S. government in 1959 amid Cold War tensions. The document taught families how to build shelters capable of protecting them from radioactive fallout after a possible nuclear attack and, through technical drawings and sketches, outlined solutions using concrete blocks, walls filled with earth or sand, underground structures, and ventilation systems. It was a survival manual that, in many ways, also functioned as a construction manual.
The 9th Oslo Architecture Triennale unfolds in a setting that already embodies many of the questions it raises. Sofienberg Church, a 19th-century Gothic brick building now being converted from a place of worship into a cultural center, serves as the main venue for an edition organized around a central question: "What if Nature Comes First?" From September 17 to October 1, 2026, seminars, debates, workshops, and exhibitions examine what this shift in priorities could mean for architecture, from the way resources are used to how buildings relate to their surrounding ecosystems.
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.
Building a city from scratch is no easy task. It never has been, and it never will be. The very idea of creating something that would otherwise develop and grow gradually demands resources, organization, and, above all, labor. This was the case in 1958, when Brazil's Central Plateau became one of the largest construction sites of the 20th century for the building of Brasília. Tens of thousands of candangos (migrants coming predominantly from northeastern Brazil, many without prior technical training) arrived to build an entire capital in just over three years, under then-president Juscelino Kubitschek's motto of achieving "fifty years of progress in five." Oscar Niemeyer's architecture and Lúcio Costa's plan would not have been possible without the assumption that enough workers were available and willing to endure low wages and extremely harsh conditions to transform concrete and curves into a national symbol.
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.
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.
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.
Communicating an idea using only the essentials is a far greater challenge than it often appears. From Japanese haikus to the refined sculptures of Constantin Brâncuși, many artistic expressions have sought to condense the maximum meaning with the minimum of elements. This economy of form is not a sign of scarcity, but of intensity: every stroke, every word, every silence gains weight. There is something intrinsically appealing in what presents itself as simple and well-resolved, whether it is a text that wastes no words, a tennis player who moves with purposeful gestures, or a melody that is both direct yet unexpectedly profound.
That same principle, which transcends various artistic languages, resonates deeply in contemporary design. When reduced to the essential, furniture or everyday objects reveal a form of beauty that arises from precision and transcends their function. This is exemplified by HUM, the new collection of taps developed by designer Philippe Malouin for QuadroDesign, in which a simple gesture is transformed into a complete language.
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.
There is a big difference between looking at an image of a building and experiencing the space it represents. The atmosphere of a place, shaped by its light, sounds, materiality, and relationship with the surrounding landscape, has long belonged to the realm of physical experience. Today, real-time rendering technologies are beginning to narrow that gap, allowing projects to be explored and experienced before they are ever built.
Long before a building is constructed, it exists as drawings, physical models, perspectives, photographs, and, more recently, photorealistic renderings. Each new representational tool in history has sought to communicate not only the appearance of a project, but also the experience of inhabiting it.
Some of the world's most innovative regional architecture never makes the headlines simply because no one is telling its story. For the sixth episode of the Room For Dreams podcast, recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, host Claire Brodka of designboom dissects this exact bottleneck with architects Niroop Reddy, Sujit Nair, and Aman Aggarwal, tracing how a historic lack of architectural storytelling has obscured a massive design revolution taking place across the Indian subcontinent.
The accelerating rise of a homogenized, worldwide aesthetic is forcing creators to confront a critical reality: design trends are effortlessly transcending geography, but local identity is paying the price. The fifth episode of the Room For Dreams podcast tackles a head-on investigation into whether a boundaryless market is quietly erasing design diversity. Recorded live at Milan Design Week 2026 in cooperation with INDX|GLOBAL, host Claire Broadka of designboom sits down with Sachi Gupta, Shilpi Sonar, Krithika Subrahmanian, and Sumit Dhawan to map out the reality of the borderless creator.
On December 18, the winning projects of the national architecture competition for the restoration and modernization of the monument building of the Museu Paulista (MP), located in the Ipiranga neighborhood of São Paulo, were announced. The competition was launched on September 7, as part of the "Museu do Ipiranga em Festa" celebrations. Out of a total of 13 entries, nine qualified to participate. The evaluation criteria included aspects such as rationality, functionality, and technical feasibility; respect for the building's material, structural, compositional, and documentary characteristics; creativity, aesthetic solution, and design innovation; compliance with specific uses and circulation and accessibility solutions; and the adoption of environmental sustainability criteria and solutions.
The winning project was selected by a judging committee comprising 11 members appointed by the competition promoter, including representatives from federal, state, and municipal heritage preservation agencies, the Brazilian Institute of Museums (Ibram), and institutional partners such as the Institute of Architects of Brazil (IAB) and the Council of Architecture and Urbanism of São Paulo.
Born in Slovakia in 1921, architect Hans Broos began his career in Brazil in 1953, after graduating in Germany in 1949. His brief European career was marked by the reconstruction of Germany, during which he worked alongside architect Egon Eiermann as his assistant at the Technical University of Karlsruhe. During this period, Broos came into contact with Le Corbusier and his principles of modern architecture. Aligned from the beginning with the architects of the Modern Movement, Broos developed his first works in Blumenau and Florianópolis, in the state of Santa Catarina, far from major Brazilian urban centers. Throughout his professional life, the architect addressed a wide range of programs—from residential and industrial to religious, commercial, and social projects—over a career spanning more than 50 years and nearly 400 projects. Of these, approximately 100 were built in various states, including Santa Catarina, São Paulo, Pernambuco, and Goiás. The architect passed away in 2011.
The results of the public design competition for the Santa Iria da Azóia Health Unit Project in Loures were recently announced. Organized by the Loures Municipal Council with technical support from the Southern Regional Section of the Order of Architects (OASRS), the team from LXM Studio, led by architect João Lisboa, was awarded first place. The jury, consisting of architects João Félix and Carlos Santos from the Loures Municipal Council and architect Victor Neves (appointed by OASRS), noted that of the 35 proposals evaluated, the winning entry stood out for its seamless integration with the surroundings, contributing to an effective visual and landscape revitalization of the adjacent space. The jury also noted that “the solution designed for the exterior openings is innovative and highly functional.”
Santa Iria de Azóia is a Portuguese town in the municipality of Loures, with an area of 7.52 km² and 18,240 inhabitants (2011 data). The site is located in the Pirescoxe area of Santa Iria da Azóia, where the built cultural heritage closest to the intervention area features two prominent buildings: the Pirescoxe Castle, classified as a Property of Public Interest, and the Pirescoxe Convent. The general objectives of the competition were:
