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.
This shift reflects a broader change in architectural priorities: building less and reusing more. The practice of adaptive reuse responds simultaneously to environmental urgency and to the need for cultural continuity in urban environments.
For a long time, architecture was understood as an essentially individual activity, dependent on the figure of a creative genius and centered on the ability to solve problems through drawing. Over time, this image began to fade. The protagonism once concentrated in a few names reached its peak during the era of the starchitects and gradually became distributed among offices, collectives, and multidisciplinary teams. Today, architects are expanding their boundaries into other fields such as gastronomy, music, design, and the corporate world, applying spatial thinking to address challenges of various kinds. As social, environmental, and political crises deepen, the role of the architect continues to evolve from a solitary author to a mediator, activist, and collective agent of transformation. This shift reflects an ethical awakening and a recognition that design, regulation, and care are inseparable dimensions of contemporary practice.
What does optimism feel like in cities that can no longer rely on perfection as their ultimate ambition? Across the world, urban environments bear the weight of overlapping pressures: climate volatility, spatial inequality, political fragmentation, public distrust, and chronic infrastructural disinvestment. These realities render the idea of an ideal city increasingly detached from lived experience. Yet the hope for building better systems persists. While utopian visions may seem like an escape from the growing complexities of the modern world, the greater challenge for contemporary city-making is to confront those complexities rather than avoid them.
The municipality of Cunha, located in the state of São Paulo, Brazil, is a region known for its inland landscape, hilly terrain, and, especially, a major production of nationally renowned ceramics. It is within this context that the office messina | rivas has been working since 2017, with a set of projects located on a farm. Their work, which integrates design and construction in an indissociable manner, results in interventions that reveal a sensitive approach to pre-existing conditions and their surrounding environment.
The relationship between the office, led by architects Francisco Rivas and Rodrigo Messina, and the site began with a small renovation of a guest house for hosting friends. The project resulted in the transformation of two existing bedrooms into suites and the creation of an external kitchen. Since then, growing demands and the need to adapt existing buildings have driven the design of other projects distributed across the same site.
Foster + Partners has developed a master plan for the redevelopment of the former FIX brewery in Thessaloniki, Greece. The proposal, commissioned by Dimand, outlines a mixed-use district that integrates public space, housing, hospitality, and cultural programs. Positioned along the western seafront and within walking distance of the city center, the site serves as a key point of connection between emerging neighborhoods and the waterfront. The project builds on the industrial history of the brewery complex while introducing new spatial configurations intended to support broader urban regeneration efforts across Thessaloniki.
Meta fitting in Matte Black. Image Courtesy of Dornbracht
Are living spaces getting smaller? As cities densify and the global population continues its steady migration toward urban centers—projected to reach around 70% by 2050—domestic space is becoming increasingly compressed. Rising land prices, high construction costs, and a surge in single-person households push developers toward smaller units and tighter floor plans. At the same time, cultural shifts toward resource efficiency and minimal living support this move. Shrinking living spaces require fewer materials, consume less energy, and encourage people to live closer to their means.
While adaptive reuse has been increasingly acknowledged as a vital architectural strategy worldwide, its discourse and implementation in Asia are still expanding—driven by growing ecological awareness and a shifting understanding of architectural knowledge. Rather than accelerating a developmentalist model centered on demolition and new construction, architects today are confronted with a different approach to the built environment: treating the existing structure as a resource—an archive of materials, spatial organizations, and informal histories.
Adaptive reuse is often associated with the preservation of historic buildings and culturally significant heritage. Yet the vast field of seemingly 'less-valued' structures—abandoned houses, standard yet old dwellings, non-conforming office buildings, and overlooked urban voids—has become ground for experimentation. These sites challenge architects and designers to reconsider prevailing standards of efficiency and market-driven development, and to imagine spatial and ecological practices that avoid the continual loss of embodied material and cultural knowledge inherent in constant rebuilding.
For monuments worthy of sustained admiration, conservation practices have been selectively mobilized to reinforce their prestige and secure their place at the center of heritage narratives. Structures whose vernacular ought to be passed down miss the discerning eye of the experts. Rowhouses, shopfronts, and neighborhood structures that form the fabric of our cities are often left to deteriorate beyond repair. Much more is lost, apart from aesthetics.
In a world facing ecological exhaustion and spatial saturation, the act of building has come to represent both creation and consumption. For decades, architectural progress was measured by the new: new materials, new technologies, new monuments of ambition. Yet today, the discipline is increasingly shaped by another form of intelligence, one that values what already exists. Architects are learning that doing less can mean designing more, and this shift marks the emergence of what might be called an architecture of restraint: a practice defined by care, maintenance, and the deliberate choice not to build.
The principle recognizes that the most sustainable building is often the one that already stands, and that transformation can occur through preservation, repair, or even absence. Choosing not to build becomes a political and creative act, a response to the material limits of the planet and to the ethical limits of endless growth. That Architecture moves beyond the production of new forms to embrace continuity, extending the life of structures, materials, and memories that already inhabit the world.
Coldefy, in collaboration with Relief Architecture, has completed the Robert Badinter Secondary School, the first timber-framed school in northern France. Designed to accommodate 650 students, the project is situated on a former railyard adjacent to the city's train station and within walking distance of the town center. The new school forms part of a wider urban renewal strategy aiming to consolidate transportation links and introduce new civic amenities to the area.
Adaptive reuse is shifting from simple preservation to active revitalization, a process of structurally rescuing and reprogramming architectural typologies whose original functions are no longer relevant. The obsolescence of architectural spaces occurs for varied reasons: sociological shifts, leaving spaces uninhabited; technological advances, phasing out specific machinery; and economic changes, making centralized functions necessary. The strategy of repurposingfocuses on achieving spatial and functional longevity through minimal interventions, allowing the original structure to serve as the memory anchor of the project.
This wave of adaptive reuse treats the historic shell as a limited resource, prioritizing structural permanence over surface aesthetics. Designers are engaging in a sort of archaeological process by exposing the original structural essence: the heavy timber, raw concrete, or monumental masonry. Interventions are confined to meeting new programmatic needs, often appearing as an independent insertion within the ancient envelope. This contrast redefines the building's lifespan not as a singular narrative but as a layered story of continuous events.
Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur, Rajasthan India. Photo by Sanhitasinha. License Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International
India's palaces and former colonial warehouses are witnessing a new kind of restoration, one that happens beneath the surface. From discreet steel supports tucked behind centuries-old masonry to digital sensors embedded in frescoed ceilings, technology is quietly reshaping how heritage buildings are protected for the future. These upgrades are more about subtle precision and less about spectacle; invisible engineering wonders.
As the world moves towards adaptive reuse, architects and engineers are confronted with an evolving challenge to make historic structures safe for public access while maintaining the authenticity of the architecture. Whether it's upgrading palaces to cool efficiently or seismic reinforcement of Victorian godowns, the goal is beyond preservation. It's about the intelligent coexistence of the old and the new.
The history of the Olympic Games, while marked by athletic achievement, is consistently contrasted by infrastructure challenges. Across host cities, from Athens to Rio and Beijing, similar issues arise: significant cost overruns and the complex issue of legacy. The big question is: What is the best viable long-term use for purpose-built sport venues? Montreal's 1976 Games shared this fate after building an Olympic Park that faced heavy criticism for cost overruns and debt from specialized construction. Post-Games, venues like the Montreal Velodrome risked becoming a financial burden. However, the city demonstrated a proactive response by proposing the transformation of the building into a thriving civic asset that now stands as an internationally recognized example of successful Olympic venue repurposing.
Behind layers of plaster, paint, and finishes lies an intricate network of pipes, electrical conduits, beams, and other structural elements that make a building function and stand, yet remain invisible to the everyday eye. Within these layers, traces of different periods accumulate: replaced systems, improvised adaptations, and technical solutions that once responded to specific contexts and urgencies. In adaptive reuse, the greatest challenge often begins before construction even starts, which is understanding what lies within when little or no reliable documentation exists. During a renovation, pleasant or unpleasant surprises are inevitable. The unexpected is part of the process, but it also represents cost, delay, and risk factors that often discourage investors and professionals from engaging in this type of project.
Faced with the combined forces of population growth, economic prosperity, and urban expansion, cities are witnessing a significant rise in the movement of people and goods—mirroring the evolution of diverse mobility systems within urban environments. As technologies advance and modes of transport evolve, the adaptive reuse of train carriages, airplane cabins, and other service infrastructures reveals opportunities to explore their creative potential. Materials, technologies, and design tools converge around a shared goal: refurbishing and repurposing disused structures to give them new life.
In the low-lying deltas of Bangladesh, water defines both life and loss. Every year, millions are forced to rebuild after floods wash away their homes, crops, and livelihoods. In these precarious territories, the act of building has become an act of resilience. It is here that Khudi Bari emerges as a modest yet radical proposal. Designed by Marina Tabassum Architects, the project provides a lightweight, modular, and affordable dwelling for communities displaced by climate change. Recognized as one of the winners of the 2025 Aga Khan Award for Architecture, it represents a form of architecture that empowers rather than imposes.
There is growing awareness around sustainability—and the environmental cost of prematurely demolishing safe, structurally sound buildings only to replace them with new construction. In the broader race to reduce carbon emissions, corporations and institutions are placing greater emphasis on ESG performance (environmental impact, social responsibility, and governance). Many now require carbon accounting, set "carbon-neutral" targets, or purchase carbon credits to offset footprints.
This shift, together with a wave of exemplary adaptive-reuse projects worldwide—Herzog & de Meuron's Tai Kwun in Hong Kong, Powerhouse Arts in Brooklyn, David Chipperfield's The Ned Doha, and Xu Tiantian's transformations of factories, quarries, and rammed-earth fortresses in China—has accelerated serious reconsideration of reuse as a primary development strategy. Yet despite its many benefits, adaptive reuse is still not as prevalent as it could be. Why and what might be the main obstacles and tensions?
