Contemporary Vietnamese residential architecture stands out for its deep sensitivity to local microclimates and context. Detailed studies of weather patterns consistently drive strategic design decisions, resulting in buildings that act as adaptive shelters. Facing conditions that range from scorching summers to dry, cold winters, along with frequent exposure to heavy rains, storms, and floods, architects adopt protective facade elements and multi-layered spatial configurations to shield interior spaces from harsh environmental factors.
There is no harder place to build than a high mountain, and none where a building feels more provisional. From the Andes to the Himalaya to the Alps, high-altitude construction strips architecture back to its most elementary transactions. The rock reads as permanence itself, yet a structure set near the limit of habitation exists in negotiation with almost everything around it: with wind that arrives without obstruction, with a ground too steep and too frozen to excavate, and with everything it needs arriving from far below. What can be carried up, what can be assembled by few hands, and what can sustain itself are some of the terms of the problem.
Those constraints have produced a remarkably consistent building culture across otherwise unrelated ranges. The refuge, the hut, the bivouac, and the observatory belong to a shared typology in which shelter is inseparable from logistics, and where lightness, prefabrication, and self-sufficiency were structural necessities long before they became virtues.
While complex, layered with meaning, and categorized into various forms, heterotopia, a concept developed by the philosopher Michel Foucault, can broadly be understood as the manifestation of alternative realities. Unlike utopias – idealized, unreachable non-places – heterotopias are tangible, real-world spaces that operate according to their own internal logic, offering a lived alternative to dominant spatial and cultural paradigms.
Escapism, in an architectural sense, is not merely about fleeing standard realities; it is a critical tool for reimagining them under different cultural, social, and environmental conditions. Temporary installations serve as fertile testing grounds for these spatial possibilities. Often framed as sanctuaries or refuges, these works intentionally detach from pre-conceived norms – whether by seeking a return to a primal way of living or by provoking radical perceptual shifts.
Guangzhou Yunxi Botanical Garden / AECOM + Architectural Design & Research Institute of SCUT + Guangzhou Landscape Architectural Design & Research Institute . Image Courtesy of AECOM
Unlike many industrial programs traditionally concealed behind neutral facades and hermetic spaces, contemporary distilleries often showcase their production processes as an essential part of the architectural experience. The heat of the stills, the vapors of distillation, or the path of the raw materials cease to be mere technical operations, instead taking center stage within the space.
While they produce different beverages, the projects selected below share similar architectural challenges. All must organize industrial workflows, control specific temperature, ventilation, and storage conditions, and reconcile technical areas with visitor routes. At the same time, each distillery establishes its own response to its territory, revealing different ways of connecting production and landscape.
In recent years, Albania has undergone a rapid and visible transformation, emerging as one of the most active urban environments in Southeast Europe. This growth is not only reflected in the expansion of its built fabric but also in the scale and ambition of new architectural interventions that seek to redefine the country's image. Across its territory, a series of large developments, cultural institutions, and infrastructural projects are being introduced as part of a broader effort to reposition Albania and its capital, Tirana, within regional and international networks.
A significant number of these interventions are being designed by internationally recognized architectural offices, whose presence has become a defining characteristic of the city's current phase of development. Rather than relying primarily on incremental or locally embedded processes, Tirana's transformation is increasingly shaped through externally authored visions that introduce new formal languages, typologies, and urban strategies. These projects often operate as singular objects or large-scale fragments, contributing to a landscape where the city is assembled through distinct and highly visible gestures.
Leisure spaces are often where different generations cross paths. Without formal programs or assigned roles, they allow people to move, pause, and remain together, each engaging space in their own way. In a built environment increasingly shaped by specialization and separation, these shared spatial grounds have become less common, giving leisure-oriented architecture a renewed relevance.
Discussions around public space have repeatedly pointed to the value of openness and flexibility in supporting collective life. Reflecting on how people read, inhabit, and adapt space, Architect Herman Hertzberger speaks of architecture not as a set of instructions, but as a framework of possibilities—one that invites interpretation rather than prescribing behavior. As he puts it, "what we should make in architecture is something like competence, possibility – something that people can freely handle in their own way." Rather than attempting to create interaction, architecture shapes the conditions that make togetherness possible.
In recent years, food has taken on a renewed role within architecture, not simply as a program or typology, but as a shared spatial practice. Beyond restaurants or dining design, communal eating spaces are increasingly understood as environments where presence, ritual, and time intersect, allowing people to gather, stay, and coexist. In these settings, eating does not just happen within space; it actively shapes it, temporarily transforming ordinary, borrowed, or improvised environments into places of exchange.
This shift is visible across a wide range of built projects, installations, and community spaces that use shared meals as a way of bringing people together. Initiatives such as Fondo Supper Club frame dining as a social platform, using food to connect artists, designers, and local communities through conversation and collaboration. Similarly, sit.feast, presented during Milan Design Week 2024, approached the table as a spatial installation, one where sitting and eating together became the primary means of collectively producing space.
In much of China, concrete remains the dominant construction material. Despite growing concerns over its environmental impact, concrete continues to align with the priorities of many developers and clients—it is fast, cost-effective, and highly durable. As a result, most building types in China still rely heavily on concrete. This reliance is further reinforced by China's position as the world's largest producer of Portland cement. A deeply entrenched supply chain, rooted in raw material manufacturing and economic infrastructure, ensures that concrete remains the default choice in the construction industry.
Yet historically, Chinese architecture was built upon a rich tradition of timber construction. The Forbidden City is a prime example: not only is it emblematic of China's architectural heritage, but it also remains one of the largest and best-preserved collections of ancient wooden structures in the world. This legacy prompts an important question: does timber construction have a meaningful future in China's contemporary building industry?
Across Latin America, renovation has become less about preservation alone and more about responding to changing ways of living. Rather than freezing buildings in time, many contemporary projects work with existing structures to adapt them to new domestic routines, social dynamics, and spatial needs. Through strategic changes in materials, composition, color, and light, these interventions reinterpret everyday spaces while maintaining a strong connection to their original context.
In this process, houses and apartments become sites of transformation where flow, continuity, and shared spaces are carefully reconsidered. Renovation operates as a precise architectural tool, one that prioritizes natural light, openness, and flexibility to support daily life as it evolves. Instead of imposing new forms, these projects repurpose what is already there, aligning spatial decisions with the habits and rituals of those who inhabit them.
For several years now, the countryside has ceased to function merely as a picturesque counterpoint to the city and has instead become an active laboratory for new relationships between territory, landscape, and people. Here, environmental urgency meets collective memory; ancestral techniques converse with architectural experimentation; and local communities act as curators of their own territory. Contemporary rurality emerges less as a geography and more as a culture—inscribed in ways of life that care for the environment.
It is a vast rural expanse spread across the planet, assuming different expressions depending on context—from Asian rice fields to African agricultural settlements, from small European farms to the large estates and agro-extractive communities of the Americas. Yet, beneath this plurality, is there something that unites them? And, more importantly, how might architecture illuminate this quiet thread?
Sandibe Okavango Safari Lodge / Nicholas Plewman Architects in Association with Michaelis Boyd Associates
In Eastern and Southern Africa, safari lodges attract tourists from around the world wishing to witness the landscapes and fauna of the natural world. Usually situated in national parks and game reserves, their remote locations make for costly journeys and are therefore suitable for luxury stays. Often overlooked as an architectural typology, many lodges risk falling into the trap of being contextually insensitive or crudely mimicking vernacular building methods, resulting in pastiche. On the other hand, the safari lodge sits at the intersection of the man-made and natural worlds, bringing together rural dwellers and townfolk, wealth and poverty, wildlife and humans. Thus, it can be an opportunity to design with the highest social and environmental responsibility.
Once seen as purely utilitarian, bare concrete blocks have increasingly become part of an architectural transformation. In regions where warm climates make insulation unnecessary, this material can be left exposed, free of cladding, finishes, or embellishment. In doing so, texture, bond, and form can define the building's character and simplify construction while creating new opportunities for expression and identity. This also creates a platform to explore the concept of material honesty. Beyond its aesthetic value, using a material "as is" can significantly reduce construction costs and minimize maintenance during the building's lifespan.
When thinking about Japan, the first thing that comes to mind is the bustling streets of Tokyo, old fortified castles, and the cherry blossom-lined rivers in the urban areas. However, little is discussed regarding a real estate market problem currently ongoing in the country: Akiya, a Japanese term that translates to an empty house. In 2024, the number of Akiya in Japan went up to a record high of nine million units. Some believe that at the root of the issue is depopulation. When homes are passed down through family inheritance, they frequently become burdens rather than assets. As younger generations increasingly move to cities or live in apartments, they usually have no interest in living in or maintaining the old family home, especially if it's located in a less convenient or rural area. Cities like Tokyo see a smaller number of Akiya due to the elevated price of the land. Nonetheless, issues such as elevated costs of adapting the house to the new earthquake regulations and higher taxation on vacant land, still cause people to abandon them even in urban areas.
When we think about cities, we often assume the orthogonal grid is the norm: neat, predictable, and rational. However, many urban areas around the world, notably those shaped by hills and uneven terrain, defy this convention. In cities like Lisbon, in Portugal orthogonal grids appear only in flatter zones such as Baixa, while surrounding areas like Alfama adapt organically to topography. These areas create more layered, irregular, and visually dynamic urban forms. Yerevan in Armenia, offers another urban example of this adaptation: the Cascade Complex transforms a steep hill into a terraced public space that connects different city levels while framing panoramic views. For other countries, this response to topography becomes even more critical. Cities like Tegucigalpa in Honduras or Valparaiso in Chile are defined by steep, irregular terrain that requires architects to engage deeply with the land. Designing in these contexts, especially for residential projects, demands technical adaptation and a contextual understanding that allows the slope to become a generative element in the design process.
The concept of "sponge cities" has gained prominence since it was introduced by Chinese landscape architect Kongjian Yu, founder of Turenscape, and was officially adopted as a national policy in China in 2013 to combat urban flooding. This approach prioritizes nature-based infrastructure such as wetlands, rain gardens, and permeable pavements, creating landscapes with porous soil where native plants can thrive with minimal maintenance. When it rains, these systems absorb and slow down water flow, reducing flood risks. In contrast, traditional concrete- and pipe-based drainage solutions, though widely used, are costly, rigid, and require frequent maintenance, sometimes even making cities more vulnerable to flooding due to blockages and overflows.
The configuration of the mosque, the worshipping place for Muslims, traces its history to the courtyard of the religion's founder. The first mosques were, therefore, simple open spaces marked for ritual prayer use. Over the years and centuries, they would gain multiple standard, functional features, such as the mihrab, a niche that indicates the direction of prayer, and the minbar, a pulpit for the preacher to give the sermon. Other elements also became common, such as domes and minarets, which were historically used for the call to prayer. These had the additional purpose of signifying the function of the building as a mosque and were used by rulers and benefactors to elevate its grandeur.
In contemporary times, mosques are not immune from architectural debate. Elements that have no religious function are questioned, as is the relationship between a mosque and its context. The discussion is especially stark in parts of the world with relatively new Muslim communities, where some theorists have advocated for the removal of symbolic elements on the basis that they are 'pastiche,' while others are nostalgic about the sentimentality associated with historical forms. Nonetheless, contemporary architects have been successfully elevating mosque architecture, fulfilling its functional requirements creatively, while allowing the building's context to drive the form.
