In the 1970s, Cuba faced a severe nationwide housing shortage due to population growth, rural-to-urban migration, and the degradation of existing housing stock. The government's answer was a system that pulled ordinary workers off their regular jobs and put them on building sites instead. This program, known as the Microbrigadas (microbrigades), reshaped entire districts of Havana, where they combined collective self-construction and state-backed technical knowledge, which left a mark on the urban grid of its capital city that persists until today.
In the heart of Ahmedabad's Navrangpura district in India sits the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium. More than just a cricket ground, the stadium stands as one of India's earliest experiments in modernist public architecture. Built in the decades following the country's independence, the structure has not only become an engineering landmark, but also a major public space within Ahmedabad's urban fabric. Despite the building's architectural and historical significance, as well as its deep involvement in daily community life, it has suffered significant physical degradation as a result of decades of poor maintenance and lack of funding. That fragility is precisely why it has drawn international attention. In 2020, the World Monuments Fund (WMF) placed the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium on its World Monuments Watch, a global list highlighting cultural heritage sites facing urgent preservation challenges.
In 2021, a collaboration between the Italian architecture studio Mario Cucinella Architects and WASP, an Italian 3D-printing company, led to the development of TECLA: a house 3D-printed entirely from raw earth. Five years later, the technology behind it has grown, quietly spreading across several continents and design practices. By controlling the speed, angle, and path of the extruder nozzle, architects are able to create more than just walls. Throughout the years, they have been experimenting with how to shape the 3D-printed material into detailed surface motifs, reintroducing relief, texture, and intricate patterns directly into the structure. In this way, they are attempting to bridge earth-building traditions with digital computation, in an era where code is starting to influence form and material expression in architecture.
While pyramidal geometry appears in monumental historical structures, its contemporary application remains limited. The primary constraint is the sloping envelope, which contracts the building's floor area as it ascends and reduces usable interior volume compared to orthogonal or cylindrical forms. However, from a structural standpoint, the geometry offers lateral stability against wind and seismic loads due to its broad base, central mass distribution, and self-bracing triangular faces. Nonetheless, applying this shape at a residential scale introduces several layout constraints. These slanted walls limit vertical wall surfaces, which complicates the placement of standard windows, doors, and floor partitions. At the same time, the low clearance along the perimeter also creates unusable floor area at the edges of the room.
Pedestrian view of BCIE headquarters in Tegucigalpa. Image Courtesy of Banco Centroamericano de Integración Económica (BCIE)
Central America's nations occupy a narrow land bridge between Mexico and Colombia, but they were not born as separate countries. They emerged from a single entity: the Federal Republic of Central America in 1823. That federation collapsed, yet the ideal of a unified region never fully died. In 1951, the governments signed the Charter of San Salvador, creating ODECA, the Organization of Central American States. Four decades later, the 1991 Protocol of Tegucigalpa replaced it with SICA, the Central American Integration System, the framework guiding regional cooperation today. Within this integration process, the Central American Bank for Economic Integration (BCIE) was founded in 1960 by Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, establishing its headquarters in Tegucigalpa. On the surface, it is a conventional late-20th-century office complex, but look closer at its façade, and the building becomes an argument about identity. One written in pink quarry stone from the very hills that surround the Honduran capital.
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.
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.
The built environment has historically served humans as a mechanism of environmental control. Through our intellectual capacities and ability to organize, we have used buildings to actively influence and terraform the immediate context in which they are inserted, often treating geography, water, and ecosystems as resources to be extracted and managed. However, more and more, architecture is transitioning from exploiting physical and biological matter to actively collaborating with it. This shift demands that architects explore how buildings and their materials grow, transform, decay, and persist beyond human timelines. This thinking also serves as a starting point for the profession to reflect on how it influences the natural world, as well as the non-human species around it, creating networks and connections between humans, buildings, living organisms, and natural environments.
Best Presentation Award Winner. Image Courtesy of Buildner Unbuilt Award
In an industry defined by building codes, climate urgency, and the pressures of the real estate market, the architectural competition has quietly become one of the discipline's most generative spaces. Unburdened by budgets, clients, or city regulations, competition entries allow architects to think at the edge of what the built environment could be, and increasingly, that speculative work is being taken seriously as a cultural and intellectual contribution in its own right. Buildner's Unbuilt Award, now in its second edition, is one of those efforts, by treating the unbuilt project as a platform for architects and designers to share concepts that challenge boundaries and inspire future possibilities. In this way, competitions like this allow architecture professionals and students to showcase ideas and visions that, even without being constructed, reflect the spirit of exploration and ingenuity in architecture.
Every three years, the International Union of Architects' (UIA) World Congress lands in a different city, under a different theme set years in advance. A quick mapping of these host cities reveals a deliberate pattern: throughout the decades, the UIA has purposefully chosen a wide range of venues across all continents, rendering each edition a snapshot of what mattered in that specific place, at that exact moment. The result of this geographic rotation has been a diverse kaleidoscope of conversations, analyzing the profession from countless angles and adapting it to changing times. But 2026 is different; this time the UIA is repeating a host city for the first time: Barcelona, under the theme "Becoming. Architectures for a planet in transition".
Concept : Living and Working on the Moon. Image Courtesy of NASA
After Artemis II's return to Earth, NASA unveiled a new phased plan to establish a Moon Base. Although most of the media's attention went to rockets, budgets, and geopolitical competition, a quieter question was lingering for architects in the background: How can a human being actually live on the surface of the Moon, and for how long? The establishment of a permanent human presence on the Moon marks a fundamental shift in space exploration that requires a new architectural paradigm. In their presentation, NASA officials suggested the strategy would drift away from highly constrained, vehicle-dependent environments toward autonomous, site-adaptive, and eventually permanently habitable structures.
The conversion of disused religious temples through cultural programs constitutes one of the most compelling adaptive reuse strategies in contemporary urban planning. This functional compatibility seems to be rooted in the specific characteristics of churches: their central naves offer large-scale, clear floor plans and monumental cross-sections that easily accommodate the volumetric requirements of museums, theaters, or community hubs. Furthermore, the acoustic properties inherent to their vaulted ceilings, combined with intentional natural lighting filtered through stained glass windows or domes, create the spatial conditions for activities ranging from the performing arts to the exhibition of cultural artifacts. By assuming a public and cultural role, these buildings not only avoid demolition or physical abandonment but also preserve their status as urban and identity landmarks within the city fabric, revitalizing their immediate surroundings without altering their historical significance.
Deep in western Honduras, within a valley near the Guatemalan border, lies the ancient Maya city of Copán. Flourishing during the Classic period between the fifth and ninth centuries CE, the city developed as a regional epicenter through trade networks, dynastic politics, and monumental architecture. Today, the site is designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its extensive architectural remains, including stepped pyramids, sculpted stelae, and ceremonial core. Over a century of systematic archaeological research has documented its urban morphology, revealing distinct residential districts, civic spaces, and systems of movement and visibility.
This analysis examines the spatial organization of Copán through the framework of urban theorist Kevin Lynch and "The Image of the City". By applying Lynch's five structural elements — edges, districts, paths, nodes, and landmarks — it is possible to analyze how Copán functioned not only as a ritual center but as a legible urban landscape designed to reinforce political hierarchy and regulate collective movement. Historical data for this analysis was taken from books and articles linked throughout the text, and was possible thanks to the collaboration of historian Arnulfo Ramirez de la Costa, professor and coordinator of the History program in the Department of History at the National Autonomous University of Honduras (UNAH) in Tegucigalpa.
Recent years have seen a shifting paradigm in multi-family residential architecture, as more and more new projects are being built with engineered wood, specifically Cross-Laminated Timber (CLT) and glued-laminated timber (glulam). Because timber is lightweight, these systems can reduce dead load and ease foundation demands, which is especially useful on sites with limited bearing capacity or over existing infrastructure. From a sustainability standpoint, timber can store carbon over the life of the building and often reduces embodied carbon compared with conventional concrete-and-steel systems. In fire design, large timber members can be engineered to char at a predictable rate, allowing the structural core to remain protected for a defined period when detailed appropriately.
San Diego, California. Photo by Samuel Ramos on Unsplash
Very close to the Mexican border, in the southwest corner of the United States, lies the city of San Diego. Its urban history began in 1769 with the arrival of a Spanish military expedition commanded by Gaspar de Portola, which marked the first permanent settlement in the territory that was known as Alta California. However, unlike the more formally urbanized administrative capitals and towns of Mexico and Central America, San Diego was conceived as a frontier outpost. Today, it has become the second-largest city in California, just after Los Angeles, and its urban grid tells a story about the Hispanic heritage that is intertwined with the contemporary cultural environment of the United States.
When Mexico City hosted the Olympics in 1968, it was the first time the Games had been awarded to a Latin American country as well as the first time for a Spanish-speaking nation to host them. This made the games a good opportunity to project Mexico and its culture internationally, thus prompting the government to constitute an organizing committee with prominent local talent. They appointed Pedro Ramírez Vázquez as its president, a Mexican architect who held significant influence over the state's mid-century building program. His approach was explicit: architecture as a synthesis of international modernist technique with Pre-Columbian references and local material culture. Under his direction, the committee would oversee the construction and adaptation of venues distributed across the southern districts of Mexico City, nearly all designed and built by local architects, engineers, and technicians.
Remediation areas. Image Courtesy of Ezequiel Lopez, Maria Victoria Echegaray, and Agustina Durandez
When people think of Argentina, they often picture landmarks like the Obelisk of Buenos Aires. Yet the country spans over 2,780,400 km², making it one of the largest in South America and home to a wide range of landscapes and realities that frequently go unnoticed. In fact, the province of Jujuy in northern Argentina lies within the Lithium Triangle: a high-altitude region shared with Bolivia and Chile that contains roughly 54% of the world's lithium reserves. Within this territory sits the Olaroz Salt Flat, a site where today two competing dynamics converge: the expansion of industrial lithium extraction and the preservation of ancestral culture and lands inhabited by Kolla and Atacama communities, creating a clash of high-capacity industrial extraction and traditional, low-impact agrarian practices.
In light of this problem, one of the winning teams of the ArchDaily Student Project Awards, made up of Ezequiel Lopez, Maria Victoria Echegaray, and Agustina Durandez, decided to look into the issue. This was done as part of their thesis project for the Bachelor's in Architecture program at the National University of Córdoba. Their work stems from an interest in engaging with territories that remain peripheral to architectural discourse, using the thesis as an opportunity for sustained, in-depth research. This allowed them to formulate informed design responses grounded in both territorial and socio-economic realities. Rejecting the binary between extraction and preservation, the project approaches the territory as a system where both can coexist through spatial and technical mediation.
Honduras is the second-largest country in Central America, both in territory and population. Today, its urban fabric remains heavily influenced by modernist principles from the 1970s that prioritised high-speed arterial corridors and automobile-dependent "point-to-point" mobility. In addition, the country faced many challenges regarding public safety during the 2010s, which contributed to creating an urban space characterised by blind facades, high perimeter walls, and gated enclosures designed to isolate the interior from the public realm.
We had the opportunity to talk to Alejandra Ferrera, a Honduran architect raised in Danlí, a city in eastern Honduras. With over 15 years of practice across Brazil, the Netherlands, and Australia, she argues that while the security-driven design was a functional necessity of its time, it has resulted in a fragmented urban experience where the street serves only as a transit void rather than a place for social encounter. She suggests that even though this isolation was a justified safety measure, it created detachment between the inhabitants and the city. She also argues that overall, the public safety situation contributed to the creation of a wounded national identity that often looks outward for quality, dismissing the potential of its own context.
