
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.

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.

Anyone expecting the following words to offer a discourse on materiality, sustainable building techniques, ways of carving wood, or methods of weaving straw is mistaken. Instead, this article seeks to shift our gaze beyond the aspects that frequently define the debate on Indigenous peoples' culture when it comes to "architecture."
In a worldview where the very term "architecture" is foreign, approaching their structures—if indeed that word can adequately name them—from an exclusively material or technological standpoint remains an attempt to frame their ways of producing space within Western categories. This reduces a complex cosmology to a set of measurable attributes, as if it could be transformed into a checklist applicable to any architecture, thereby erasing the very thing that distinguishes it: the relationships between territory, body, and memory.





By Adalberto Vilela and Sylvia Ficher
Even when driving through an exclusively residential neighborhood of the city, one can spot the *Casa dos Arcos* (House of Arches) in the distance. This is how the Nivaldo Borges residence is known, placidly sprawling across the gentle topography of an immense site, unmistakable for its reddish hue. The temptation to approach is strong; paradoxically, the absence of fences or gates is intimidating. With no way to announce our arrival, we ignore the uncomfortable feeling of trespassing and head forward.






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.
