Architecture has never been confined to the act of building. It constantly negotiates between material practice and intellectual reflection, yet throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, many architects felt that the built project alone was insufficient to address the full range of questions facing the discipline. Economic pressures, political contexts, and programmatic demands often narrowed the scope of practice.
Exhibitions and curatorial platforms, by contrast, created spaces of experimentation and critique, opening arenas where architecture could interrogate itself, where its past could be reinterpreted, its present challenged, and its future projected. In this tension, the figure of the architect-curator emerged, treating curating itself as a form of design — not of walls or facades, but of discourse, narratives, and frameworks of meaning.
Titled "Chinampa Veneta", the Mexican exhibition for the 19th International Architecture Exhibition – La Biennale di Venezia seeks to promote reflection on how we inhabit, cultivate, and design the world we share. In the face of the global ecological crisis, the project draws attention to chinampas, an ancient Mesoamerican agricultural system with more than four thousand years of history. This ancestral knowledge, interweaving landscape, infrastructure, and technique, is reimagined in the context of the Biennale, activating a living environment within the city of Venice. The Mexican Pavilion consists of two "enactments," one located in the Arsenale and the other built on water.
Teatro del Mondo, Venice 1979. Image by Antonio Martinelli
The first edition of the Venice Architecture Biennale took place in 1980, immediately revealing its role as a platform for images and ideas that would become essential references in contemporary architectural theory and practice. This disruptive character was embodied from the very beginning by the strangely familiar floating structure designed by Aldo Rossi, titled Teatro del Mondo. At once temporary and archetypal, the project introduced central themes that would shape Italian architectural discourse in the years that followed. To this day, it continues to inspire reflections on timelessness, imagination, and the memory embedded in cities.
Lighthouses have stood along the margins of continents and islands for centuries as points of light in vast maritime territories. Rising in solitude from rocky cliffs, reefs, and headlands, these towers were tools for navigation and instruments of spatial clarity, shaping coastlines and marking the boundary between land and sea. Built to guide, warn, and locate, they constituted a global network of visibility long before the advent of digital mapping. Yet as maritime technologies evolved, many of these structures lost their original purpose. The typology, once essential, now stands at the edge of obsolescence. What remains is not merely an architectural relic, but a powerful spatial form — resilient, symbolic, and increasingly open to reinterpretation.
Sustainability in architecture is often framed as a universal challenge, leading to standardized solutions that prioritize efficiency over context. However, architecture is inherently tied to its environment — buildings interact with climate, topography, and cultural history in ways that demand specificity. Instead of relying on standardized sustainability checklists, how can architecture embrace site-specific solutions? This conversation is deeply connected to the concept of Genius Loci, or the spirit of a place, introduced by Christian Norberg-Schulz and embraced by architects advocating for designs that resonate with their surroundings. It suggests that architecture should not be imposed upon a site but rather emerge from it, informed by its materials, climate, and cultural significance. This philosophy challenges the widespread application of generic sustainable technologies, instead proposing that sustainability must be inherently tied to the location in which it operates.
The Pritzker Prize is the most important award in the field of architecture, awarded to a living architect whose built work "has produced consistent and significant contributions to humanity through the art of architecture." The Prize rewards individuals, not entire offices, as took place in 2000 (when the jury selected Rem Koolhaas instead of his firm OMA) or in 2016 (with Alejandro Aravena selected instead of Elemental); however, the prize can also be awarded to multiple individuals working together, as took place in 2001 (Herzog & de Meuron), 2010 (Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa of SANAA), and 2017 (Rafael Aranda, Carme Pigem, and Ramon Vilalta of RCR Arquitectes).
Architecture has deep wells of research, thought, and theory that are unseen on the surface of a structure. For practitioners, citizens interested, and students alike, books on architecture offer invaluable context to the profession, be it practical, inspirational, academic, or otherwise. So, for those of you looking to expand your bookshelf (or confirm your own tastes), ArchDaily has gathered a broad list of architectural books that we consider of interest to those in the field.
In compiling this list, we sought out titles from different backgrounds with the aim of revealing divergent cultural contexts. From essays to monographs, urban theory to graphic novels, each of the following either engage directly with or flirt on the edges of architecture.
The books on this list were chosen by our editors, and are categorized loosely by type. Read on to see the books we consider valuable to anyone interested in architecture.
https://www.archdaily.com/901525/116-best-architecture-books-for-architects-and-studentsArchDaily Team
In the aftermath of the Second World War, a drastic housing shortage spread across Europe, and Milan was no exception. Various plans and solutions were conceived to address this crisis, outlining satellite communities for the city to accommodate between 50,000 and 130,000 residents each. The first of these communities began construction in 1946, just one year after the war's end: the Gallaratese project.
San Cataldo Cemetery. Photo by Trevor Patt, via Flickr. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 license
Cemeteries are among the architectural programs with the greatest symbolic value. They suggest rituals, rigor and solemnity while offering some comfort or hospitality, if not for those who bid farewell to their loved ones, at least to "guarantee" a dignified afterlife for those who have passed away. The San Cataldo Cemetery, designed by Aldo Rossi and Gianni Braghieri, fulfills the first part of the previous statement. Partly because the project was not entirely built, austerity and empty spaces predominate. But when considering the proposed project, perhaps the aridity would remain, and the harshness would be felt more forcefully. Composed of buildings with almost abstract, pure shapes, without noble details or cladding, the cemetery project is a good example of Aldo Rossi's production at the time of its conception, around 1970.
While the city of Berlin has a long history, dating back to the 13th century, its architecture and urban fabric has undergone the most significant changes during the last century, reflecting the impact of major historical events that took place in the German capital. During the early 20th century, Berlin transformed into a modern metropolis, marked through the construction of grand buildings and imposing structures to demonstrate the city’s growing economic and political power. The 1920s and 1930s saw the emergence of the Modernist movement, which, together with the Bauhaus school of architecture founded in 1919, influenced the image and urban fabric of Berlin.
During the Second World War the city was heavily bombed, resulting in the destruction of many historical buildings. During the post-war period, reconstruction efforts focused on rebuilding infrastructure and housing, while the city remained divided until 1989, with the fall of the Berlin wall. After this period, Berlin witnessed a renewed interest in architecture and urban design. Interventions such as David Chipperfield’s Neues Museum aimed to rebuild historical monuments without erasing the markings of their difficult past. Other projects such as the renovation of the Reichstag had a different purpose. Norman Foster’s intervention intended to keep the image of this building but change its symbolism from a structure representative for the Nazi regime to one embracing the ideals of democracy and equality.
Through the “Search History” exhibition at MAXXI Museum in Rome, Lara Lesmes and Fredrik Hellberg, directors of the architecture and art studio Space Popular, set out to explore the work of Also Rossi and to translate his notions of “urban fact” and “analogous city” to the virtual realm. The installation is a reflection on the proliferation of metaverse platforms and the concept of virtual urbanism. The exhibition is part of the fifth edition of Studio Visit, a partnership between Alcantara and the MAXXI Museo nazionale delle arti del XXI secolo, which challenges designers to put forward a personal reinterpretation of the works of the masters in the MAXXI Architecture Collections.
In the 1960s and 1970s, a series of critiques of the modern city appeared. Jane Jacobs’s attack on those intent on redeveloping New York City was the most immediately impactful, loosening the grip of Robert Moses and his followers, but others had a broader influence on practicing architects and planners. As an observer of San Francisco Bay Region’s cities, I wondered if their books from this period would shed light on current issues of adding density in urban contexts.
https://www.archdaily.com/985024/how-do-the-critics-of-yesteryear-think-about-urban-densityJohn J. Parman
Architect Cino Zucchi (b. 1955) grew up and practices in Milan, Italy. He was trained at MIT in Cambridge and the Politecnico di Milano, but claims to be largely self-taught, although influenced by such of his countrymen as Aldo Rossi and Manfredo Tafuri. He is internationally known for diverse projects across Europe. Many are both abstracted and contextual residential complexes in Italy, particularly in Milan, Bologna, Parma, Ravenna, and, most notably, in Venice. Zucchi’s D residential building in Giudecca, attracted international attention and praise when it was completed in 2003. I met Cino Zucchi last year during the Venice Architecture Biennale; that meeting led to an extensive interview that we recently engaged in over Zoom between New York and the architect’s sunlight and books-filled Milan studio.
After a year-long absence, Milan Design Week has wrapped up yet another year of creativity and innovation. From the 5th to the 10th of September, thousands of design companies displayed their creations to more than 200,000 visitors hailing from different countries, demographics, and industries. And while the design fair gravitated towards the world of interior design, many renowned architects such as Bjarke Ingels, Foster + Partners, and Herzon & de Meuron participated in the week-long exhibition and joined forces with interior and furniture design brands to create signature pieces.
Boats offer delightful distractions for a surprisingly large number of architects. So many in fact, that there seems to be something about boats that appeals specifically to those trained in architecture.
Ada Louise Huxtable once described him as “a poet who happens to be an architect.” Italian architect Aldo Rossi (3 May 1931 – 4 September 1997) was known for his drawings, urban theory, and for winning the Pritzker Prize in 1990. Rossi also directed the Venice Biennale in 1985 and 1986—one of only two people to have served as director twice.
As the dust settled following the Second World War much of Europe was left with a crippling shortage of housing. In Milan, a series of plans were drafted in response to the crisis, laying out satellite communities for the northern Italian city which would each house between 50,000 to 130,000 people. Construction the first of these communities began in 1946, one year after the end of the conflict; ten years later in 1956, the adoption of Il Piano Regolatore Generale—a new master plan—set the stage for the development of the second, known as 'Gallaratese'. The site of the new community was split into parts 1 and 2, the latter of which was owned by the Monte Amiata Società Mineraria per Azioni. When the plan allowed for private development of Gallaratese 2 in late 1967, the commission for the project was given to Studio Ayde and, in particular, its partner Carlo Aymonino. Two months later Aymonino would invite Aldo Rossi to design a building for the complex and the two Italians set about realizing their respective visions for the ideal microcosmic community.[1]
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