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.
Contemporary Japanese architecture continues to demonstrate how to adapt the evolving needs of modern residents to a rich building tradition and artisanal legacy. Wood has always been the soul of Japanese architecture. In many recent residential projects, this material transcends its structural role to become the primary finish for various surfaces — ranging from floors and ceilings to furniture and architectural elements. These environments strike a delicate balance between elegance and coziness.
In many high-density cities across Asia, the staircase is often treated as a necessary evil. Whether in apartment buildings, private homes, or retail interiors, it is frequently hidden, tucked away, or pushed to the margins—an element to be minimized so more area can be given to "usable" space. Yet as density intensifies and square footage becomes increasingly scarce, architects and designers are forced to rethink this vertical puzzle.
In South China, there is occasionally an urban myth—especially across Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou—about choosing a home that avoids western light. Over decades, the west-facing sun has proven to be a particularly difficult condition to live with: its low angle in the afternoon, its aggressive heat gain (especially in summer), and the way it penetrates deep into interiors. With global warming and longer, hotter seasons, that much-romanticized "afternoon glow" is increasingly experienced less as romance and more as glare, heat, and fatigue. Although this wisdom circulates as a community-driven rule of thumb, it carries an undeniable architectural clarity about building orientations: avoiding western light is not only about thermal comfort, but also about avoiding the sharpest, most intrusive form of direct illumination—light that strikes at the most unforgiving angle, washing surfaces, flattening depth, and turning rooms into high-contrast fields of discomfort.
The relationship between architecture and gastronomy goes beyond the simple function of providing a place to eat. It is a sensory symbiosis in which the environment prepares the palate as much as seasoning does. The visual composition of a dish can be understood through principles such as volume, balance, contrast, and rhythm — concepts that are equally fundamental to architectural design. In the same way, a restaurant’s architecture — its colors, lighting, and material choices — acts as an invisible ingredient, capable of elevating the dining experience and shaping the perception of flavor even before the first bite. Both disciplines are dynamic, directly reflecting social behaviors and cultural trends that influence how we occupy space and how we nourish ourselves.
"Feeling at home" is more than just an expression—it is the sense of warmth and comfort that transforms a space into a true refuge. To achieve this, elements like color, texture, lighting, and materials play a crucial role in shaping an environment that fosters relaxation and well-being. Backed by research in environmental psychology and neuroscience, the connection between physical spaces and human behavior highlights how architecture can directly influence the atmosphere, turning chaos into tranquility.
How did a material conceived for bridges, factories, and large-scale structures make its way to the living room bench, the apartment bookshelf, the café table? For centuries, metal was associated with labor, machinery, and monumentality—from the exposed structures of 19th-century World’s Fairs to the productive logic of modern industry. Its presence in domestic interiors is not self-evident but rather a cultural achievement: the transformation of an industrial material into an element of everyday, intimate use, in close proximity to the body.
In contemporary architecture, commercial spaces have become more than points of sale; they are stages where identity, image, and experience converge. Stores, showrooms, and branded interiors often operate as laboratories where architects experiment with form, material, and light, translating corporate narratives into spatial experiences. In this context, the architect emerges as a mediator of desire, shaping atmospheres that guide perception, evoke emotion, and subtly influence behavior. This role reveals a complex intersection between design and capitalism: the creation of spaces that sell not only products, but also aspirations, lifestyles, and cultural meaning. By transforming commerce into an architectural performance, these projects invite reflection on how the discipline negotiates its agency in a world where visibility and image have become as essential as function.
Theaters serve as cultural and social institutions, shaping society by providing spaces where stories of identity, race, and justice are brought to life. These venues foster community through shared, live experiences, sparking conversations that resonate beyond the stage. Architecturally, theaters are more than performance spaces—they are landmarks that embody both the history and future of the arts. Their design often reflects the cultural importance of storytelling, while their refurbishments ensure they remain relevant in a modern context.
What is the link between architecture and pastry? What design strategies are applied in the contemporary interiors of bakeries and pastry shops? While architecture can serve as inspiration for the design of forms and configurations of edible elements, it also contributes the techniques of descriptive drawing, architectural composition, and staged planning to the culinary language. Focusing their thinking on people and their needs, both disciplines strive for precision, with interior design being a broad field where the use of figures, colors, materials, and various equipment can be explored to enhance user experiences.
In the pursuit of connecting with the architectural traditions of cities and integrating their natural environments into design projects, the contemporary reinterpretation of colonial homes in Mexico faces the challenge of enhancing the contrast between the old and the new. Through the conservation of historical elements, the reuse of materials, and the fusion with contemporary design, the architecture of Mérida recognizes in its original colonial configuration new opportunities to create spaces in line with today’s demands. From achieving a direct connection with nature to naturally lighting and ventilating interior spaces, numerous ancient constructions, whether in ruins or not, choose to highlight their architecture by giving them a new life.
In contemporary Japanese and Chinese kindergarten design, architects are transforming the interior spaces from a simple container into an active, multi-sensory environment. This shift seems to follow Studies in developmental psychology that suggest that a child's experience of space begins with a sensorimotor engagement through touch and manipulation. Thus, they place a strong emphasis on the use of materials and the approach of learning through play. Architects seem to be moving beyond traditional classrooms, into environments that are tactile, stimulating, and rooted in their specific contexts. The buildings themselves become tools for education, encouraging children to learn and explore through direct physical engagement.
In contemporary interior architecture, service provisions—mechanical, electrical, HVAC, plumbing—are almost always treated as elements to be concealed. Thickened wall cavities, extensive dropped ceilings, and, in regions where solid construction such as brick or concrete prevails, furred-out walls are routinely employed to hide these systems. This approach has become so normalized that it often forms the starting assumption for spatial planning, inherently constraining imagination and reducing the range of spatial possibilities. The priority shifts towards covering-up, rather than exploring how these systems might coexist visibly within a design language.
From the interior design of sports facilities to wellness spaces, contemporary architecture continues to experiment with incorporating different uses, installations, and materialities that make it possible to reach broader audiences, generate new spatial experiences, and enhance the simultaneous development of various activities. While each sport requires its own type of architecture, such as climbing training, for example, architecture and design professionals are striving to create atmospheres where exercise becomes more than just a physical experience, but also a psychological one, connecting mind and body through a state of physical renewal, relaxation, and sociability.
When designing a space—whether at the scale of interiors, architecture, or infrastructure—materiality is a central concern. Beyond aesthetics, materials determine how a project functions, ages, and endures. Some architects—such as Wang Shu and Kengo Kuma—have built their practices on a deep sensitivity to the potential and limits of materials. But even in the most pragmatic sense, the question arises: What lasts? What doesn't? And how do materials change over time? Naturally, materials shape atmosphere and appearance—qualities that often matter most to clients. Yet increasingly, the discourse around materiality has shifted from structural substance to surface treatment. When did we start focusing more on "decorating" our spaces by layering one material over another, rather than relying on the inherent beauty and performance of the building fabric itself?
Glass bricks have been widely used in architecture, eventually becoming a staple of the 1980s architectural styles. Some examples of construction with this material could be the classic "Maison de Verre" by Pierre Chareau and Bernard Bijvoet in Paris or the more modern take of Hiroshi Nakamura & NAP with the Optical Glasshouse in Japan. In recent years, glass bricks are becoming increasingly popular, no longer relegated to older aesthetics. Instead, they have evolved into versatile design elements that bring light, texture, and character into contemporary interiors. Their ability to diffuse natural and artificial light while maintaining privacy has reignited interest among designers seeking innovative ways to enhance indoor spaces while taking advantage of natural light.
Earth-based flooring materials comprise natural elements such as clay, sand, silt, lime, and organic fibres. They offer both structural performance and sensory engagement when used in both outdoor and interior spaces. Due to their thermal properties, durability, and sustainable qualities, these materials have evolved from vernacular construction techniques into high-value architectural elements that are always being reinvented and optimized. There are several types of earthen floorings, each offering unique benefits, and they are increasingly used in interior settings.
Cafés in museums and galleries do more than provide convenience — they have become an essential part of today’s cultural experience. As Claire Bishop explains in her idea of the “expanded aesthetic experience,” cultural spaces now include hybrid environments that encourage new ways of engaging, socializing, and reflecting. In this context, cafés are not just places to rest; they extend the visit on both sensory and symbolic levels, offering moments of interaction and contemplation in carefully designed settings. By blending architecture, art, and hospitality, they help create immersive and welcoming atmospheres — a concept already hinted at by Brian O’Doherty, who viewed exhibition spaces as an integral part of the artwork itself.