The land-water interface has always played a fundamental role in the formation and development of cities. From ancient commercial ports to today's multifunctional waterfronts, maritime and riverfront areas represent spaces of immense economic and social potential. Within this context, contemporary nautical complexes increasingly serve as strategic urban amenities capable of integrating diverse activities, fostering a reconnection between city and water, and revitalizing often underutilized landscapes.

For centuries, chickens have lived alongside people in settlements of every scale, from rural farms and village compounds to dense urban neighborhoods. Across much of the world, keeping a flock has been part of everyday life, providing eggs and meat to residents, or pest control for the surrounding agricultural land. The structures built to house chickens varied according to local materials, climate, and cultural practices, yet they shared a common purpose: to create a space where chickens and humans could coexist. The chicken coop is not a new architectural typology nor a contemporary response to urban living. Instead, it is a form that has continually adapted to changing social, environmental, and spatial conditions.

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.

For centuries, architecture has been defined by unmoving permanence. A building is assumed to be fixed, its walls and foundation immobile in space. A growing number of architects are now challenging this assumption by incorporating movement into the very fabric and tectonic structures of buildings.

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.

Emerging in port cities and working-class neighborhoods throughout the nineteenth century, the shotgun house became a durable response to density, climate, and constrained urban parcels, becoming one of the defining domestic forms of the Southern United States. Its narrow footprint, sequential plan, and deeply shaded porches produced a spatial logic that was economical and environmentally responsive before either term became central to architectural discourse. From New Orleans and Mobile to Houston and Louisville, shotgun houses formed the physical fabric of neighborhoods shaped by migration, labor, community, and cultural life. Though often dismissed as ordinary, vernacular construction, the housing typology has long embodied sophisticated ideas about climate adaptation, social adjacency, and incremental urban growth, making it one of the most influential domestic forms in the history of the American city.

Modernism in architecture was perhaps the first truly global building design philosophy. Established at the beginning of the twentieth century, its early proponents were heavyweights from Europe, such as Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, and Mies van der Rohe. In 1923, Le Corbusier published his seminal written work, usually translated into English as Towards a New Architecture. Newness, and a rejection of history, was one of the central tenets of modernism. This manifested itself in the use of new materials such as steel and concrete, which gave rise to an unprecedented freedom of formal expression.

There is an ancestral gesture in shaping earth. Long before architecture emerged as a discipline, clay was already being molded by hand and transformed by fire, turning raw material into domestic utensils and cultural objects. In the history of this craft, ceramic factories marked the transition from manual knowledge to mass production, expanding in scale without completely breaking from their material origins. Scattered across different territories, these structures record the relationship between technique, landscape, and time. Over the decades, however, many of them eventually lost their original function, replaced by more technological processes or consumed by the surrounding urban development, coming to occupy an intermediate state between permanence and obsolescence.

What do lightweight materials bring to public space with an ethical, ecological, and non-extractive design principle? Various textile textures offer a point of entry, being closer to the body than heavy conventional structural materials. Through its flexibility and responsiveness, it enables a form of soft enclosure rather than a fixed boundary in architectural space. Responding to minimal environmental stimuli, the fabric brings continuous movements into space. When layered or assembled, it produces gradations of density, depth, and enclosure, while recent innovative fabrication technologies extend the possibilities of its form and structural durability.

At a time of ecological emergency, architecture cannot be separated from the extractive systems on which it depends. As the technosphere expands, linking material flows, energy consumption, and digital infrastructures, design becomes increasingly entangled in these processes. How can design practice intervene in anthropocentric systems and transform the architectural process and aesthetics through an investigation of material intelligence? More broadly, how does architecture engage with the agency and intelligence of non-human entities to rebalance the environmental burden?

Costa Rica is a small country in Central America, internationally renowned for its tourism, biodiversity, and tropical climate. Given this context, tropical design strategies for hotel design are often more studied, but residential cabin projects can represent a more surgical approach to understanding the landscape. Often situated in remote forest or jungle locations, these cabins, apart from the common tropical design strategies, have to prioritize long-term durability and low-maintenance costs, particularly in regions where access for repairs is logistically difficult. This necessitates a design philosophy that favors both structural and climatic resilience.

Education and culture have long stood as strategic pillars for driving profound social transformation. In this context, the quality of physical infrastructure is not merely a functional matter, but a structuring element for the implementation of consistent public policies—particularly in areas marked by urban precarity, historical inequality, and institutional fragility. Against this backdrop, school architecture can take on a role that goes far beyond the classroom, becoming a catalyst for social transformation.

Hospitality-driven programs, specifically coffee shops and social hubs, are partly defined by their role as "third places": social anchors that bridge the gap between private and public life. Unlike residential or commercial office programs that require rigid partitioning for privacy and utility, they rely on expansive, open-plan environments. This allows for an architectural strategy of minimal intervention, allowing the structural envelope to remain intact. By avoiding the subdivision of space, architects maintain uninterrupted sightlines to original masonry, timber frames, or decorative ceilings, ensuring the building's historical narrative remains the protagonist. Simultaneously, the commercial activity provides the necessary maintenance and public engagement to ensure the site's continued existence.

In the coastal and jungle regions of Costa Rica, high humidity and intense solar radiation dictate an architectural strategy centered on permeability rather than enclosure. Unlike the airtight envelopes required in cold climates to retain heat, Costa Rican architecture uses the building envelope as a climatic filter to maximize air exchange. The primary mechanism for managing these thermal gradients seems to be the oversized roof overhang. By extending the roof plane significantly beyond the floor plate, architects create a permanent buffer of deep shade that reduces solar gain and lowers the ambient temperature before air enters the structure. This strategy, combined with permeable or non-existent walls, allows for constant airflow. This is a critical technical requirement for humidity control and the prevention of material degradation through mold and rot.

In the mountainous regions of Vietnam, the borderlands of Thailand, and the rugged Western Ghats of India, building school projects remains a challenge defined by logistics. In areas where infrastructure and industrial supply chains are limited or distant, transporting each kilogram of material can significantly increase costs and logistical complexity. During 2025, several school projects in rural contexts in Asia showed how the architect's role often shifted from a designer of form to a strategist of procurement. The primary challenge was not merely aesthetic but a matter of durability: using locally available materials and protecting them from monsoon rains, high-velocity winds, and sometimes seismic instability.

In Vietnam, the tube house has almost become a vernacular form in densely populated cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City. This typology originated from ancient façade taxes and as a strategic response to urban land scarcity and optimization of street frontage for commerce. Their traditional structure typically relies on the front façade for daylight and ventilation. People living there often face the challenge of designing in a space defined by the deep plots, limited street frontage, and close neighboring buildings, restricting natural light and airflow. To counter this fundamental lack of perimeter exposure, Vietnamese architects usually employ several strategies oriented towards internal environmental manipulation. This curated collection explores tube houses under 100 m2, where their small size increased the need for absolute spatial economy and the verticalization of function, which directly influenced design decisions across all projects.

In cities across the world, the relics of industrial production have become the laboratories of a new urban condition. Warehouses, power plants, and shipyards, once symbols of labor and progress, now stand as vast empty shells, waiting to be reimagined. Rather than erasing these structures, architects are finding creative ways to adapt them to contemporary needs, transforming spaces of manufacture into spaces of culture, education, and community life.

Since 1895, the Venice Biennale has invited the world to witness the evolving landscape of contemporary art. In 1980, the event expanded its reach with the launch of the Architecture Biennale, which quickly became one of the discipline’s most influential global platforms. Today, alternating annually between contemporary art and architecture, the Biennale affirms itself as a space where disciplines and ideas intersect. Always timely and provocative, it fuels essential debates on the role of art and architecture in the contemporary world. Among its most recent editions are the 17th Architecture Biennale, themed How Will We Live Together? (2021), curated by Hashim Sarkis; The Laboratory of the Future (2023), by Lesley Lokko; and Intelligens. Natural. Artificial. Collective (2025), curated by Carlo Ratti and open to the public until the end of November.