From the large industrial roofs and galleries of the 19th century to the contemporary atriums of museums and public buildings, glass has been a recurring material in shaping large and monumental interior spaces. More than a technological or engineering solution, these horizontal glazed planes introduce a distinct luminous quality: light that comes from above. Unlike lateral daylight entering through façades, zenithal light is more evenly distributed, reduces harsh shadows, and lends spaces a sense of continuity and openness that is difficult to achieve otherwise.
Lampegiet Theatre in Veenendaal, Netherlands. Image Courtesy of MVRDV
Designed by MVRDV in collaboration with Buro Happold, the new Lampegiet Theatre in Veenendaal, the Netherlands, is scheduled to replace the existing theatre building from 1988. Approved by the Veenendaal City Council in January 2026, the project is expected to begin construction in 2027 and reach completion in 2029. Conceived as a contemporarycultural venue that responds to both current performance requirements and the city's historical identity, the new theatre introduces a compact, multi-volume composition wrapped in a porous ceramic facade that allows the building to act as an illuminated urban landmark.
Breakfast nooks emerged in the early twentieth century in response to increasing domestic density and shifting ideas about everyday life. Rooted in the American Arts and Crafts movement and popularized through bungalow housing of the 1910s and 1920s, they evolved from the more formal Victorian breakfast room into compact, built-in spaces embedded within the kitchen. As houses grew smaller and more economical, architects and millwork companies used fixed benches and tables to occupy corners, alcoves, and bay windows that might otherwise be inefficient. These light-filled enclosures provided an affordable means of concentrating daily activities while preserving comfort and spatial clarity.
Innovation is at the core of architecture, expressed through new approaches to design, material experimentation, and, of course, ways of living. As a result, the conception of buildings and indoor spaces is constantly evolving. This evolution is especially evident in regions with a rich cultural heritage, such as Spain, where innovation reinterprets traditional ways of relating to space. This attentiveness to memory and daily life extends into interiors, where each intervention has the potential to actively reshape how people experience a space and open new possibilities for living and interaction.
In preserving architecture, there are many possible approaches—ranging from treating a building as a static monument, meticulously restoring it in situ to the point of limiting public access, to more adaptive strategies that reprogram and modify interior spaces while retaining key architectural elements such as materiality and structural form. Yet one method stands apart, both in ambition and in controversy: to deliberately dismantle a building—brick by brick—meticulously label and document each part, and store it until a new site, purpose, or narrative emerges. Then, to reassemble it anew, possibly for an entirely different use. Though the original context is lost, this strategy aims to preserve cultural significance through transformation rather than stasis. This is the story of Murray House in Stanley, Hong Kong.
Originally constructed in 1846 as officers' quarters for the British military in Central, Murray House was one of the earliest examples of neoclassical architecture in Hong Kong—a unique and enduring trace of the city's colonial past. Its robust granite colonnades and symmetrical façade stood as a symbol of classical permanence. During the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong in 1941, the building's function was repurposed as the command center for the Japanese military police. It survived the war and continued to house various government departments throughout the postwar decades.
Architecture has historically produced many iconic buildings shaped by singular visions—often designed unilaterally for users, communities, and cities. While this top-down approach has enabled strong formal coherence and conceptual clarity, it has also prioritized authorship over engagement. The result: projects that may be celebrated as visionary, yet often feel disconnected from the everyday realities of those who inhabit them.
Designing for others is inherently complex. As architects, we are frequently tasked with creating environments for communities with whom we may have no personal or cultural familiarity. This distance, however, can offer valuable objectivity. It allows us to engage diverse perspectives with fresh eyes, critically analyzing the needs and constraints of multiple stakeholders. Through this process, the discipline of architecture has advanced—pushing boundaries in spatial thinking, material innovation, and structural experimentation.
Whether for design competitions or architectural awards, buildings are often judged for what they offer–the programmed functions, the form, or the visual delight. In a minority of cases, it is the absence or the reduction of intervention that made a project successful. In 1971, a high-profile architectural competition in Paris was won by a proposal that only utilized half the available site, giving the rest as an urban space to the city. In London, a proposal to convert a disused power station with minimal additions, leaving large spaces untouched, won a design competition in 1994. The Stirling Prize, the UK's most prestigious architectural award, in 2017 was won by a proposal that was little more than an empty platform. These examples of cultural buildings from Northwestern Europe illustrate how the absence of intervention can provide more.
At the turn of the millennium, the world was gripped by the looming threat of the Y2K bug, a potential failure of computerized systems that could disrupt everything from banking to aviation. As midnight approached on December 31, 1999, people withdrew their savings, major corporations issued warnings, and governments scrambled to prevent public hysteria. But as the sun rose on January 1, 2000, the feared bug had no material impact, and the crisis faded as quickly as it had emerged. However, this era left its mark in unexpected places — particularly in architecture. Amid the anxiety surrounding digital technology, one of the most iconic concert halls of our time, Casa da Música in Porto, was born. Designed by OMA (Office for Metropolitan Architecture), its origins can be traced to a much smaller project: the Y2K House. What began as an exploration of private domesticity during the digital scare evolved into a grand public structure — an architectural transition from home to a performance hall.
Much before humans constructed their first permanent shelters, they discovered the protective power of animal hides as a barrier against harsh environmental conditions. This fundamental principle of building with flexible materials finds influence in the architecture of today, despite the lack of strong precedents that have been lost to time. Textiles served as humanity's first architectural elements, predating ancient construction methods like stone masonry. The relationship between textiles and shelter would go on to shape the entire history of architecture, from prehistoric settlements to modern skyscrapers. What lessons might these ancient origins of architecture hold for future advancements in building design?
The housing crisis, the need for effective land management policies, and the growing demand for housing aid are global challenges, and Spain has taken significant steps to address these issues in recent years. While this effort is closely tied to rehabilitating obsolete buildings, it also tackles the challenges of densification and gentrification. These factors have prompted the exploration of new housing models and ways of living, leading to the development of affordable residential buildings designed to accommodate large numbers of inhabitants while maintaining high-quality living standards.
La Valiente Focaccería + Maíz / OHIO Estudio. Image Cortesía de OHIO Estudio
Creating spaces for social interaction involves design processes aimed at countering the individualization of people by fostering bonds and connections between them. While advancements in information and communication technologies provide new tools that optimize the development of certain activities and functions, their societal impact often tends to increase individual practices, such as remote work, virtual fitness activities through apps, or the digital consumption of goods, services, and events, among others. From architecture and interior design to urban planning, many emerging practices face the challenge of consolidating spaces for social interaction through design strategies, uses, and natural connections that prevent the replacement of physical space with virtual alternatives.
Buildings are deeply interconnected with their surroundings—the climate, culture, landscape, and the lives of their occupants. For Dorte Mandrup, a renowned Danish architect, context is more than a mere consideration; it is the driving force behind her designs. Her work demonstrates a profound curiosity about the people who will inhabit her buildings and the unique stories embedded within each site. Her buildings aren't just structures; they're thoughtful responses to their surroundings, without aiming to disappear within them.
Dorte Mandrup is featured, alongside Tosin Oshinowo, in the second installment of the documentary Women in Architecture, released November 12, 2024. Produced by Sky-Frame in collaboration with ArchDaily and directed by Boris Noir, the film builds upon the first episode, which highlighted Toshiko Mori, Gabriela Carrillo, and Johanna Meyer-Grohbrügge, offering a continued exploration of diverse perspectives within architecture.
Architecture has long been understood as a powerful tool for shaping the physical environment and social dynamics within it. However, its potential to foster social equity is often overlooked. Empathy-driven design invites architects to approach their work not only as creators of space but as facilitators of human connection and community well-being. This approach centers on understanding people's lived experiences, struggles, and aspirations — particularly marginalized communities — and responding to their needs through thoughtful, inclusive architecture. It goes beyond aesthetics and functionality, instead focusing on creating spaces fostering dignity, accessibility, and social equity. By prioritizing empathy, architects can design environments that uplift communities, address disparities, and create inclusive spaces that promote positive societal change in a tangible, human-centered way.
Are humans the only stewards of the built environment? For many architects and planners, spaces are designed with a focus on the needs, comfort, and health of humans. A spatial ordering, in constructed spaces and the urban fabric, designates humans as the default, singular user in this scenario. However, as much as humans have influenced the trajectory of the world, other species play a crucial role in designing, forming, and maintaining the urban landscapes of the twenty-first century.
The Roman Colosseum is arguably the most iconic versatile venue in the world. Although this structure was not intended for sporting activities, it hosted various events, from the well-known gladiatorial combats to theatrical performances and the dramatic naumachia (naval battles). This demonstrates that flexible use of space has been relevant since ancient times. Centuries later, in the context of the ever-changing built environment and urban development, sports venues have similarly evolved, becoming outstanding examples of multi-purpose spaces.
These athletic complexes have transformed from highly specialized venues into dynamic, multifunctional structures. Whether hosting major international events such as the Olympic and Paralympic Games or serving as gathering spots for local communities, these spaces strike a delicate balance between addressing the needs of specific sports and maintaining the flexibility to accommodate a range of activities. How do these diverse functions coexist and interconnect? This analysis will explore how sports facilities are configured as flexible hubs for other disciplines and everyday activities.
https://www.archdaily.com/1020243/from-wooden-shells-to-polycarbonate-panels-the-materials-shaping-flexible-sports-spacesEnrique Tovar
What is the vision for a 21st-century library? How can architecture professionals foster the interest of new and future generations in reading? Globally, the rapid growth of communication technologies, along with the increase in available information and the constant need to update knowledge, brings with it new educational approaches, cultural practices, and community activities that involve the creation of more dynamic spaces capable of adapting to different functions simultaneously. The connection with play, the integration of other uses, or even the incorporation of new technologies typically play a central role in the interiors of contemporary libraries designed for a young audience.
