Comayagua is a city in central Honduras nestled in a valley with the same name. It holds a pivotal place in the nation's history, having served as its colonial and early republican capital for over 300 years. However, when the capital was relocated to Tegucigalpa in 1880, Comayagua's urban expansion halted, inadvertently preserving an ample and rich heritage. By the early 1990s, much of the city's architectural legacy was in a state of disrepair. Recognizing the urgent need to protect it, the governments of Honduras and Spain initiated a collaborative effort, with the objective of initiating a long-term restoration program to create a policy framework that would ensure the preservation of the city's historic center for years to come.
The Mir-i-Arab Madrasa. Image Courtesy of Uzbekistan Art and Culture Development Foundation
The inaugural edition of the Bukhara Biennial opened on September 5, 2025, bringing over 70 site-specific commissions by more than 200 participants from 39 countries to the historic core of the Uzbek city. Commissioned by the UzbekistanArt and Culture Development Foundation (ACDF) and Commissioner Gayane Umerova, the Biennial is described as the largest and most diverse cultural event in Central Asia to date. Curated by Diana Campbell under the theme Recipes for Broken Hearts, the ten-week event is staged across a constellation of newly restored sites, including madrassas, caravanserais, and mosques, all part of Bukhara's UNESCOWorld Heritage listing. Beyond an exhibition platform, the biennial is framed as part of a broader master plan, positioning culture as a catalyst for urban transformation and heritage renewal.
Architecture has always been more than bricks and mortar. It is equally constructed through words, ideas, and narratives. From ancient treatises to radical manifestos, from technical manuals to poetic essays, the written word has served as a spatial, pedagogical, and political tool within the field. Writing shapes how architecture is conceptualized, communicated, and critiqued — often long before, or even in the absence of, physical construction.
Historically, figures such as Vitruvius, Alberti, and Palladio employed writing to codify principles, project ideals, and legitimize architecture as a discipline. In the modern era, Le Corbusier, Adolf Loos, and Lina Bo Bardi wrote prolifically to expand the scope of architecture beyond form and function, often using publications as tools for persuasion and experimentation. The postwar period gave rise to new editorial strategies, as evident in the manifestos of Archizoom and Superstudio, and the polemical publications of Delirious New York and Oppositions, where writing served as both critique and project.
In historic Stone Town, the main city in Zanzibar, Tanzania, the story of one cinema building and its imminent restoration is reflective of the city's history and the narrative of cinemas generally. The early twentieth century saw the advent of cinema construction, peaking in mid-century, before declining against competition with multiplexes and home television. While many were demolished or irreparably altered, many also lay abandoned, like time capsules for a bygone era. They are a snapshot of the architecture styles and methods of their time, acting as a reminder of their role in their communities. Restoring and adapting a cinema like the Majestic is a recognition of its heritage and community value.
Amid the traffic-clogged arteries of Los Angeles, where cars have long ruled the streets, the future of urban mobility is being questioned. The reorientation focuses not on simply removing cars or introducing new technology, but on envisioning the city as an integrated system in which people, places, and vehicles coexist in balance. Automobiles are no longer the unquestioned centerpiece of urban life; instead, they are treated as one component of a broader, multimodal transportation network. Design now seeks to prioritize human needs and experiences over vehicular dominance.
Kindergarten architecture has long stood apart as a realm where design and imagination converge. Unlike most building typologies, these spaces are conceived not only to shelter and function but to shape the earliest experiences of curiosity, play, and social interaction. Throughout history, the design of kindergartens has evolved alongside pedagogical shifts, moving from modest, utilitarian beginnings to highly intentional environments that stimulate both learning and wonder. In this context, architecture becomes more than a backdrop — it becomes a silent educator, capable of nurturing emotional, cognitive, and physical development.
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.
Patio houses embody one of the most enduring architectural typologies, encapsulating the duality of openness and seclusion while nurturing a profound connection with nature. While the term is also used in contemporary American real estate to describe low-maintenance, single-story dwellings on small lots, its classic architectural meaning refers to an introverted design organized around a private, central courtyard. It is this traditional form, the subject of this article, that traces its origins back thousands of years. Patio houses emerged independently in various regions, responding universally to fundamental human needs: privacy, climatic adaptability, and spatial coherence. Despite diverse geographic and cultural expressions, the core principles of introversion, controlled openness, and environmental sensitivity remain remarkably consistent throughout the evolution of this typology.
Play Landscape be-MINE / Carve + OMGEVING. Image Courtesy of Carve
Playgrounds are spatial instruments through which society projects its expectations on childhood, testing the boundaries between control and autonomy, exposure and protection. They regulate how children relate to space, to others, and their bodies — encoding, often invisibly, social norms, fears, and aspirations. In this sense, playgrounds are not peripheral spaces of leisure; they are political constructs shaped by specific ideologies about what childhood is and how it should unfold. Since 1989, the right to play has been formally recognised in the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, affirming that play is a fundamental part of human development. To design a playground is not only to draw lines on a plan or to install equipment in a park; it is to define the conditions under which play is permitted, imagined, or constrained.
Nestled amongst the plethora of grandiose and carefully crafted national pavilions in the Giardini della Biennale in the Italian city of Venice is one pavilion by the city's perhaps most well-known modern architect. Sited between the pavilions of Russia and Switzerland is the VenezuelaPavilion, by architect Carlo Scarpa. In many ways, the structure typifies the design approach of its architect but has its idiosyncrasies. Built for Europe's most important biennial art exhibition, it is a member of a cohort of Modernist pavilions that came after the earlier, more classicist pavilions. This is its story.
In 2020, in the midst of the first wave of lockdowns due to the pandemic, the municipality of Amsterdam announced its strategy for recovering from this crisis by embracing the concept of the “Doughnut Economy.” The model is developed by British economist Kate Raworth and popularized through her book, “Doughnut Economics: Seven Ways to Think Like a 21st-Century Economist”, released in 2017. Here, she argues that the true purpose of economics does not have to equal growth. Instead, the aim is to find a sweet spot, a way to balance the need to provide everyone with what they need to live a good life, a “social foundation” while limiting our impact on the environment, “the environmental ceiling.” With the help of Raworth, Amsterdam has downscaled this approach to the size of a city. The model is now used to inform city-wide strategies and developments in support of this overarching idea: providing a good quality of life for all without putting additional pressure on the planet. Other cities are following this example.
Contemporary Mexican market architecture frequently draws inspiration from its pre-Hispanic precedents. The Tlatelolco Market in ancient Tenochtitlan, for example, featured a large, stone-paved open square with designated "streets", which were divided into sections for specific goods, serving as a significant gathering point for social and economic exchange. Similarly, the tradition of the Tianguis, an ephemeral market typology within the broader Mesoamerican tradition, also arranged stalls in aisles within a public plaza, reflecting organizational principles seen in Tlatelolco. These historical models established a base for the tradition of marketplaces in Mexico and the countries in Central America, where they merge public space and structured layouts for commerce. Today, even though many of Mexico's commercial spaces, notably Mexico City's Central de Abasto and other markets such as the Jamaica, Merced, and San Juan Markets, have taken on a stationary approach to serving their communities, tianguis maintain their foothold in Mexican society.
Concrete is often seen as the material of modernity, defined by its structural strength, raw finish, and unmistakable gray tone. It became the default palette of 20th-century architecture, a symbol of functionality and permanence. Yet, concrete is not bound to this chromatic identity. Its color is a byproduct of the cement, aggregates, and chemical composition used in its mix, and it can be intentionally altered through pigmentation. Among the many hues explored, red stands out — not only for its visual intensity, but for its ability to root buildings in place, evoke cultural references, and imbue architecture with a material presence that feels both elemental and expressive.
Pigmenting concrete involves the addition of mineral-based colorants — usually iron oxides — during the mixing process. Unlike paints or coatings applied to the surface, these pigments are integrated directly into the concrete mass, ensuring the color permeates the material and remains stable over time. Red pigments in particular are often derived from iron oxide (Fe₂O₃), a naturally occurring compound found in clay, hematite, and other iron-rich minerals. Their deep, earthy hue connects contemporary construction with ancient techniques — from Roman pozzolana mortars to the red earth buildings of West Africa and South America.
College Park. Image Courtesy of Hariri Pontarini Architects
As cities around the world respond to shifting environmental, cultural, and social dynamics, new architectural proposals are reshaping how we think about public life, community engagement, and the built environment. From Aldar's coastal wellness destination on Fahid Island in Abu Dhabi, to a flexible scaffolding-based office concept in Athens by Georges Batzios Architects, this edition of Architecture Now features diverse projects that reinterpret architecture as both infrastructure and interface. In Seoul, Heatherwick Studio is leading a resident-initiated redevelopment model for a housing complex near the Han River, while Toronto's College Park is set for a major transformation balancing heritage restoration with vertical intensification. In Oklahoma City, MANICA and TVS are designing a new sports arena that anchors an emerging entertainment district through material, landscape, and civic gestures. Together, these diverse yet interconnected efforts signal a broader shift toward integrated, future-oriented urban design.
According to the World Bank, the Angola National Urbanization and Housing Program (PNUH), launched in 2008, aimed to build one million new housing units. However, by 2024, it had delivered only approximately 220,000. Power2Build, an Angolan construction startup, estimates the current housing deficit in Angola at around three million homes, with the situation particularly critical in Luanda, one of the fastest-growing cities on the African continent. With an entirely Angolan multidisciplinary team, Power2Build aims to contribute to reducing this deficit through the use of automated 3D concrete printing technology. Implemented on-site with large-scale construction printers from Danish company COBOD, the system is expected to accelerate construction timelines and improve building quality. Large-scale cement-based 3D printing eliminates the need for traditional molds by precisely placing or solidifying specific volumes of material in sequential layers using computer-controlled positioning. The process involves three key stages: data preparation, material preparation, and printing.
At a time of ecological collapse and rising food insecurity, architecture is increasingly called upon to engage not only with landscapes but with the systems that sustain and regenerate them. Among these systems, agriculture occupies a paradoxical role, as both a leading contributor to environmental degradation and a potential agent of ecological recovery. Industrial farming has depleted soils, fragmented habitats, and driven climate change through monocultures, fossil-fuel dependency, and territorial standardization. In response, agroecology has emerged as a counter-practice rooted in biodiversity, local knowledge, and the cyclical rhythms of nature. It reframes farming not as extraction, but as regeneration of ecosystems, communities, and the soil itself.
This reframing opens space for architecture to contribute meaningfully. To align with agroecology is not only to support food production, but to engage with the broader cultural, spatial, and ecological conditions that sustain it. It implies designing with seasonal variation, supporting shared use, and building in ways that respect both the land and those who work it. Architecture becomes more than enclosure — it becomes a mediator of cultivation, reciprocity, and coexistence.
The circular economy, including the reuse of building materials, is fast becoming a key component in the fight against carbon emissions. This involves designing to minimize waste and utilize materials that can be reused at the end of the building's life. On the opposing side, the reuse of materials from partially or wholly demolished buildings can also reduce waste and carbon emissions that would have resulted from using virgin materials. Sustainability purposes aside, the reuse of building materials has a centuries-old history, both for symbolic reasons and simply out of necessity.
Immersive Resilience Garden / Changyeob Lee + Studio ReBuild. Image Courtesy of Studio ReBuild
The concrete canyon of Melbourne's Degraves Street was once a stark service corridor in functional obscurity. Today, the narrow laneway now pulses with life beyond its famous café. Native grasses cascade from carefully positioned planters while small shrubs create cooling microclimates. Challenging traditional ecological design models, community-led approaches to biodiversity invite a reimagining of how architects, planners, and communities collaborate to develop biodiverse urban futures.
