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.
From October 9 to 11, "Oficios en obra" (Trades at Work) will take place at the Parque Cultural de Valparaíso in Chile, a learning and collaboration event centered on the city's traditional construction trades. Organized by the Municipality, the gathering seeks to highlight and preserve work techniques historically tied to the construction of Valparaíso, promoting their recognition and helping ensure their continuity among new generations through activities that are open and free to the public. Once the most important port on the South Pacific, Valparaíso's architecture bears witness to diverse applications of structural timber, rammed earth, and industrial technologies imported during the 19th century. This makes it a subject of study for traditional trades and construction techniques that are being revalued in contemporary contexts of climate and economic crisis, serving as an alternative path forward.
During the last week of August, the New York City government announced a new project for the MADE Bush Terminal in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. It involves the transformation of the old industrial building into a center for the recovery, storage, sorting, and redistribution of construction materials during a one-year pilot program. The initiative echoes a wave of similar circular construction hubs recently launched or announced across Europe: a converted warehouse in Brussels, an industrial site adaptation in East London's Royal Docks, and a cross-border network supported by CirCoFin spanning Munich, Copenhagen, Lisbon, and Scotland, each repurposing industrial buildings and infrastructure to support the reuse of construction materials.
National Congress under construction, seen from the STF (Supreme Federal Court), 1958. Image from the National Agency Collection, National Archives, Public Domain
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.
Architects are trained to choose materials, compare their properties, and decide how they should be used. Some practices are taking on a different task: developing the material itself.
For Material Cultures, BC architects, and Studio Ossidiana, this can begin with hemp grown for construction, earth excavated from building sites, or mixtures of concrete, pigment, stone, and shells. Their work connects material research with processing, fabrication, and construction.
Architectural prototypes are often used to test decisions before construction begins. But in some practices, prototyping begins while those decisions are still taking shape. Moving an idea from drawing into matter introduces questions that depend on making itself: how a material can be cut or joined, how much a piece weighs, how an assembly comes together, whether parts can be reused, or even what form the project should take.
TAKK, salazarsequeromedina, and Ensamble Studio each make physical experimentation part of their design process, but they ask different things of it. For TAKK, prototypes help test how materials and components come together as a construction system. For salazarsequeromedina, models and built systems remain open to dismantling, recombination, and later uses. Ensamble Studio uses physical experiments to generate geometry and construction knowledge that can move into engineering and full-scale building. What distinguishes these approaches is not simply that they prototype, but what each practice expects to learn through the prototype.
Second Prize Winner: A stair, a spiral, or a park. Image Courtesy of Buildner
Buildner has announced the results of its third edition Architect's Stair international architecture ideas competition. The event invited designers to reflect on one of architecture's oldest and most symbolic elements: the stair. Beyond its functional role as a connector of levels, the stair was positioned here as a medium of architectural storytelling—an invitation to explore ideas of procession, sequence, space, and form.
August 2023; An aerial perspective captures the sprawling scale of the horizontal construction sequence as the structure begins taking its organic shape across the site.. Image Courtesy of Clark Construction
The recently opened David Geffen Galleries at LACMA are the result of more than a decade of effort across many fronts: the city, the county, the public, the architect, the engineers, the general contractor, and the many builders involved in translating an ambitious and visionary design into built form. The project has also been subject to unusually intense scrutiny, with responses ranging from admiration for its meticulous construction and architectural ambition to criticism of its scale, cost, concrete mass, and engineering complexity in earthquake-prone Los Angeles. Whatever one's position, the building remains an exceptionally sophisticated case study in how architecture is negotiated through construction.
This conversation approaches the David Geffen Galleries from the perspective of Clark Construction, the general contractor responsible for helping bring Peter Zumthor's design to completion. Carlos Gonzalez, Group President at Clark Construction, oversaw the construction process and shared with ArchDaily some of the technical, material, and logistical challenges behind the building. These range from its monolithic concrete structure and extensive post-tensioning system to the 56 seismic isolators that allow the building to move during an earthquake; from unpredictable ground conditions near the La Brea Tar Pits to the fabrication of solid bronze mullions and the integration of mechanical systems within the building's double-deck concrete structure.
In many homes, the entry is treated as leftover space or a narrow strip transition before the living room begins. Yet in dense Asia-Pacific interiors, sometimes despite the small sizes, the entrance often performs far more work than its size suggests. It is the threshold that dictates the transition: street is filtered, body adjusts, shoes are removed, guests are received, privacy is negotiated, and domestic order begins. Before the living room became recognizable as interior, the entry sequence and space had already staged the first act of inhabitation.
The Japanese genkan is perhaps the most familiar version of this condition, but the logic extends far beyond Japan. Across apartments, terrace houses, public housing units, and compact urban homes, the entry threshold becomes a small but charged architectural device. It manages hygiene as well as spatial sequencing through various deliberate architectural elements. It can be a recessed floor, a thickened wall, a compressed corridor, a screen, or a small foyer between public circulation and private life. Its importance lies not in its size, but in the number of transitions it holds.
Bamboo is often praised before it is understood. It grows quickly, carries a long history of building cultures, and appears to offer architecture an immediate ecological language. In photographs, it can seem almost self-explanatory: light, natural, renewable, and already aligned with a more sustainable future. Yet this apparent clarity is also what makes bamboo difficult to discuss with precision. Once it becomes a symbol of environmental responsibility, the material itself can disappear behind the image it produces.
This is the risk of bamboo's contemporary revival. It can be imagined too easily as a green substitute for industrial materials, a regional atmosphere, or a softer alternative to the harder languages of steel and concrete. In each case, bamboo is admired before its conditions are understood. The more important question is not whether bamboo is sustainable in a general sense, but what kind of architectural culture it requires: what forms of knowledge, maintenance, regulation, labor, and time are needed for its sustainability to become real.
Across different climates and building cultures, many contemporary projects are working with local ways of building in new ways. Earth walls, bamboo structures, shaded thresholds, and collective construction processes are being reconsidered not as references, but as tools for the conditions architecture is facing now and will continue to face.
In these projects, vernacular knowledge appears through practical decisions: how to cool a building without machines, how to build with what is nearby, how to make a structure easier to repair, and how to keep construction knowledge within the community that will use it. The conditions making this knowledge necessary are not coming. They are already here.
In an industry defined by engineering tolerances and performance certainty, interior finishing still relies on a process that introduces variability into every project. Even experienced applicators often depend on judgement-based mixing—estimating water ratios and adjusting by feel until the material appears workable. While skill reduces variability, it does not eliminate it. The result is inherent inconsistency that transfers directly onto the finished surface.
Twenty years after its ideation, Herzog & de Meuron's controversial Tour Triangle in Paris is reaching completion. The triangular, all-glass tower located in the city's 15th arrondissement topped out at 42 stories on April 24, 2026. The project's progress was marked by opposition, financial roadblocks, and legal disputes before construction began in 2022. The 180-meter tower is now the third-tallest building within Paris city limits, behind the 330-meter-tall Eiffel Tower, the 231-meter-tall The Link in La Défense, and the 210-meter-tall Tour Montparnasse. The building will retain this title indefinitely due to a skyscraper ban reinstated in 2023 by Mayor Anne Hidalgo, following persistent opposition to tall buildings in the city. The recent progress was documented by photographer Stefano Candito, ranging from an urban view of the building to a close-up look at its nearly completed structure.
Heritage, in interiors, is increasingly rarer to be only a matter of preservation alone. More often it arrives as friction: the encounter between what a building already is—its plan logic, its scars, its structural inconsistencies—and what contemporary life demands of it.
Some of the most convincing projects today are not those that "restore" an interior back to a single moment, nor those that erase the past under a seamless new skin. They are the ones that stage a relationship between old and new—allowing contrast to do more than tell a story, and letting the clash become a pragmatic tool for construction, budget, and speed.
Daryan Knoblauch's work sits at the intersection of architecture and live cultural production, with a focus on how space is made legible through tension and atmosphere. Rather than treating temporary work as a lesser category of architecture, Knoblauch approaches installations, stages, and event architectures as full disciplinary problems—where enclosure, stability, light, and movement must be resolved with the same seriousness as any building, often under tighter constraints and faster timelines.
Across projects, a consistent thread is the productive tension between high-modern precision and an intentionally raw clarity of assembly. Membranes and lightweight systems are not deployed as surface effects, but as structural and spatial instruments—tuned to wind, load, and occupation, and calibrated to produce a sublimity that is felt as much as it is seen. Here, ephemerality is not simply a duration, but a design condition: temporality makes forces—weather, wear, performance—more visible, and demands an ethic of making that is both exacting and adaptable.
Studio NEiDA operates at the intersection of architectural practice, research, and curatorial work, with a consistent focus on how buildings emerge from the material and cultural conditions of a place. Rather than treating materiality as a finishing language, the studio frames it as the beginning of an architectural narrative—starting from what is locally available, they look at what craft knowledge exists on the ground, and how those resources and skills situate a project within an architectural lineage. This approach foregrounds limitations and possibilities as productive forces, and positions design as an iterative process of aligning spatial intent with the realities of construction culture and vernacular intelligence.
Across their work, NEiDA's interests extend beyond form toward the socio-political and climatic contexts that shape how architecture is made and inhabited. They emphasize learning from non-authored, vernacular, and informal building practices as a way of establishing a shared grammar for intervention, and they describe an indoor–outdoor continuity not as a stylistic preference but as a response to local life and ventilation logics—where outdoor rooms can be as spatially defined and programmatically central as interior ones. Collaboration, in this framework, is not auxiliary: the studio highlights on-site exchange with craftspeople and builders as a core methodology, where projects evolve through collective intelligence and adaptive communication.
The construction industry today faces an unavoidable paradox: the urgent need for sustainable solutions for the future of cities collides with the exhaustion of the term "sustainability" itself, often reduced to a hollow commercial label. In this scenario, Arquivo – one of the winners of ArchDaily's 2025 Next Practices Award – emerges as a facilitator and mediator between different stakeholders in the construction field through disassembly – or rather, de-construction – and the reuse of building elements. Etymologically, if "construction" derives from the Latin construere (to heap up, assemble), the prefix "de-" imposes a conceptual inversion: it is not about destroying, but about disassembling with intelligence to understand the logic of the parts.
As a major driver of natural resource consumption, energy use, and greenhouse gas emissions, the construction industry has a significant impact on the environment, consuming 32% of global energy and contributing to 34% of global CO₂ emissions. Building materials play a crucial role in shaping the built environment. Through principles of circular economy, renewable and self-sufficient solutions, and technological innovations, analyzing the environmental performance of each material highlights the opportunity to review and assess the different stages of its life cycle.
By establishing a common framework for measuring and managing the environmental impact of building materials, Life Cycle Assessment (LCA) emerges as a key approach. This methodology provides a comprehensive evaluation of the environmental impacts associated with products, processes, or activities throughout their entire life cycle. From raw material extraction, manufacturing, and transportation to construction, use, and end-of-life treatment, the analysis considers the environmental burdens linked to each stage. In the context of building materials, LCA offers a holistic and systematic approach to assessing environmental performance and identifying opportunities for design optimization, among other improvements. In this way, it quantifies impacts such as carbon emissions, energy consumption, water use, air pollution, waste generation, and ecosystem depletion.
