The fragility—and temporal beauty—of neon has captivated audiences since the early 1900s. First shown commercially by French engineer Georges Claude at the 1910 Paris Motor Show, neon spread rapidly, achieving broad popularity in the United States from the 1920s through the 1950s. Mid-century America saw it everywhere: from the casinos of the Las Vegas Strip to roadside motor inns along Route 66 and the spectacle of Times Square. By the latter half of the century, however, many signs were scrapped or left to decay, and numerous municipalities restricted neon as visually garish or power-hungry—despite the technology's comparatively modest energy use. In the U.S., renewed interest in neon arguably didn't meaningfully return until the early 2000s.
In Hong Kong, by contrast, neon was embraced with unusual enthusiasm at a time when it began to lose popularity elsewhere. Even as installation slowed in recent decades—largely due to updated ordinances requiring removal of overhanging signs whose support structures failed to meet safety standards—the city's affinity for neon never fully disappeared.
Urban renewal is inherently fraught—financially complex, politically exposed, stakeholder-dense, and almost guaranteed to leave someone dissatisfied. Precisely for these reasons, many cities default to inertia rather than risk the upheaval that comes with reworking entrenched urban fabrics, their residences, and their dynamics; once the "sleeping bear" is prodded, unexpected complications tend to multiply.
Miyashita Park (Miyashita Kōen), located in Shibuya, Tokyo, crystallizes this dilemma. Its current form—a layered, mixed-use complex balancing commercial activity with a publicly accessible park—emerged from years of negotiation, critique, and recalibration. The result is a distinctive example of a public-private partnership that seeks to align urban amenity, everyday leisure, and economic viability, producing a new piece of city that hosts public life while underwriting its own upkeep.
Living by the beach has long been a defining aspiration—drawn by the promise of tempered nature, privacy, and immediate access to the water. Historically, beach houses tended to be rustic and pared back: partly because servicing remote sites and delivering materials was difficult, and partly because their charm lay in being closer to the elements—simpler, rougher, more direct.
Accordingly, many early beach houses were built in timber. Wood offered clear advantages: it was lightweight, adaptable, quick to work with, and could be erected with minimal heavy machinery. While timber weathers and fares poorly in salt-laden humidity, exterior-grade lumber carries a raw, natural character that reinforced the appeal of the beach-house ideal.
Balcony House / Ryo Matsui Architects. Image Courtesy of Ryo Matsui Architects Inc
We walk on "flat" ground every day and rarely think twice—but how flat is it, really? In the city, curbs are chamfered, sidewalks pitch toward grates, and roadways are crowned to shed water into shallow gutters. In suburbs and on unpaved paths, irregular terrain is the norm. Inside buildings, by contrast, we pursue near-perfect horizontality—structural frames, slabs, and finishes are all disciplined to create level walking surfaces in the name of safety and accessibility. Yet flatness is inherently at odds with water. A closer look reveals a quiet repertoire of accommodations: slight falls at entries, thresholds raised a few millimeters, wet areas with barely perceptible pitches. The floor is read as flat, but it is in fact carefully tuned—micro-topographies masquerading as plane—to manage water without calling attention to themselves.
What are the common ways architects "keep things flat" while actually managing water—the perennial enemy of buildings? A useful way to look at it is by zooming into three recurring conditions: exterior or roof decking, bathrooms and other wet rooms, and exterior ground planes. Each relies on a slightly different toolkit—pedestal systems over sloped waterproofing, micro-gradients to floor traps, hidden perimeter drains, split slopes—to maintain the illusion of a seamless, level surface. Studying these situations side by side reveals just how much design effort goes into reconciling perceptual flatness with the messy reality.
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?
Domestic workers in Hong Kong and Singapore are the city's quiet infrastructure. In Hong Kong alone, there are a total of roughly 300,000 domestic workers, serving a portion of the approximate 2.7 million households. Their care labor sustains dual-income family routines: childcare, eldercare, cooking, cleaning, and the everyday logistics that make professional life possible. Yet the people who hold this balance together remain largely invisible in policy—and, crucially, in space.
On Sundays in Hong Kong's financial district, that invisibility becomes visible. Elevated walkways and podium forecourts—underused on weekends—turn into ad-hoc commons. With cardboard mats, small tents, towels, food and water, and a music speaker or two, domestic workers assemble places to sit, rest, and socialize. These improvised rooms in the city are often their only chance to exercise spatial agency—something they rarely have in the homes they maintain or in formal public infrastructure. In the absence of sanctioned, serviced places for rest, quieter bridges and passages become practical stand-ins.
Architecture—one of the few cultural artifacts made to be publicly lived with, preserved, and often capable of standing for centuries—contributes significantly to the cultural identity of places and people. Historically, buildings have expressed institutional attitudes, influence, and power; they are clear demonstrations of culture. Yet longevity complicates preservation: when a structure is rebuilt, repaired, or entirely reassembled, in what sense is it still the same building?
There's the classic Ship of Theseus puzzle from Plutarch. if a ship's planks are replaced one by one over time, is it still the same ship? Thomas Hobbes adds a twist—if the original planks are reassembled elsewhere, which ship is "the original"? The paradox tests what grounds identity: material fabric, continuous use and history, or shared recognition. In architecture and conservation, it reframes preservation as a choice among keeping matter, maintaining form and function, or sustaining the stories and practices that give a place meaning.
Historically—like other cultural forms—architecture has been documented, shared, and promoted primarily through print. Books, journals, and magazines carried the discipline's arguments and images, and because architectural practice relies so heavily on visual communication, printed journals created a bridge between academic publications and commercial magazines. Through the postwar decades, beautifully produced volumes curated a collective point of view, signaling what the field broadly considered discussion-worthy or exemplary.
Across major cultural centers, a handful of publications shaped this discourse: Their perspectives were typically sophisticated, professional, and carefully edited—distilling an unruly global output into a small constellation of remarkable projects. The system arguably privileged certain practices and geographies, but it also amplified architecture for wider audiences. Buildings began to lodge in public imagination; cultural travel—journeys taken expressly to experience architecture—moved from rarity toward ritual.
The museum and gallery visit has long been a highly curated experience. Visitors are guided through a carefully orchestrated sequence of rooms, with hand-picked works arranged to tell a specific narrative, supported by signage, graphics, scenography, and calibrated lighting. Even the rarely changed exhibitions - the permanent collections, also typically rely on a strong curatorial voice— led by noted artists or curators—to set institutional stance and shape interpretation.
At the same time, storage areas for museums and galleries are typically kept separately—often within the same building but under tightly controlled access, and not infrequently off-site in dedicated facilities, such as the Louvre Conservation Centre. These zones have long been understood as highly controlled spaces not only in terms of access, but also in relation to climate, humidity, archival order, handling protocols, maintenance, and repair. For fear of thefts and that the spatial, environmental, and sequencing requirements of the archive could be disturbed, storage has traditionally been somewhat secretive and primarily serves academic researchers and art practitioners by request. Rarely does the general public gain a comprehensive picture of the works safeguarded by any given institution.
Architecture's design process has always been shaped by the tools at hand. We once drew with pen and ink on fragile sheets, copied by blueprint and guarded against smudges and tears; then Mylar arrived, making revisions and preservation easier and nudging drawings toward a leaner, more deliberate economy of lines. Computer-aided drafting followed, speeding coordination and changing how we think about scale and precision. Today, AI adds another layer—gathering information in seconds and spinning images on command—promising new efficiencies while raising fresh questions about authorship and craft. What we make, and how we make it, has evolved with each tool; the history of our methods is the history of our ideas.
Beginning in the post-war era, Mylar (developed in the 1950s) eased drawing reproduction and hastened the shift from blueprint to whiteprint processes. Before Mylar, simply preserving drawings—keeping an idea intact, legible, and undamaged—was a significant task. Post-war design priorities often leaned toward efficiency, simplicity, and an industrial minimalism aligned with reconstruction needs. The tools reinforced this: architectural work remained predominantly hand-drawn, where every line took time to lay down and even more time to erase. That labour sharpened the economy of drawing; each stroke had to earn its place.
Overprovision can be seen as an architecture strategy through the lens of resilience—making spaces adaptable to changes, reinterpretations, and future needs. However, could overprovision also offer a productive lens for rethinking spatial design? Are there parallels in architectural theory or practice that align with this concept, as explored by notable figures in the discourse on space?
This question becomes particularly relevant in residential design, especially in regions like Hong Kong or Tokyo, where the demand to maximize space is a cultural and practical norm. Designers are frequently tasked with "making use of every inch" for storage or function, reflecting a tendency among residents to accumulate belongings disproportionate to their living spaces.
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.
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.
When we think about cities and urban life, we often focus on infrastructure, culture, commerce, nightlife, and density. In metropolises where there seems to be an endless array of activities—especially for adults—play rarely enters the conversation. Yet, the act of playing should be considered a vital part of urban life. Play directly influences how we shape our future cities—starting with how children engage with their environments. The experience of play, and more specifically, the design and presence of playgrounds, leaves lasting impressions on how young people grow up in cities. These spaces form a child's first, physical connection to the urban landscape. In this way, play deserves far more attention in conversations around urban wellness, livability, and the design of public space.
In much of China, concrete remains the dominant construction material. Despite growing concerns over its environmental impact, concrete continues to align with the priorities of many developers and clients—it is fast, cost-effective, and highly durable. As a result, most building types in China still rely heavily on concrete. This reliance is further reinforced by China's position as the world's largest producer of Portland cement. A deeply entrenched supply chain, rooted in raw material manufacturing and economic infrastructure, ensures that concrete remains the default choice in the construction industry.
Yet historically, Chinese architecture was built upon a rich tradition of timber construction. The Forbidden City is a prime example: not only is it emblematic of China's architectural heritage, but it also remains one of the largest and best-preserved collections of ancient wooden structures in the world. This legacy prompts an important question: does timber construction have a meaningful future in China's contemporary building industry?
While Hong Kong is widely celebrated for its iconic harbor view, glittering skyline, and fast-paced urban lifestyle, its origins tell a different story—one deeply rooted in its relationship with water. Before transforming into a dense, vertical metropolis, Hong Kong's architectural identity was closely tied to its maritime context. Today, the city is often associated with slender, glass-clad towers that symbolize modernity. While visually striking in their pursuit of height and form, many of these buildings appear disconnected from their immediate environment, often overlooking natural site conditions, ecological responsiveness, and contextual sensitivity.
Historically, however, this was not the case. Hong Kong's earliest built environments—rural fishing villages in areas like Tai O, Aberdeen, and Shau Kei Wan—emerged through organic, community-driven spatial practices that engaged closely with their surroundings. These coastal and riverside settlements developed architectural systems tailored to the marine environment and to the rhythms of fishing life. Villages were sited around water, and construction strategies were adapted to fluctuating tides, terrain, and social use.
