With over 80% of its population living in urban centers and a national density exceeding 500 people per square kilometer — soaring to over 15,000 in Seoul — South Korea faces intense competition for usable land. In response, contemporary Korean architecture offers compelling examples of mixed-use interventions that negotiate tight urban lots to blend public engagement with high-efficiency utility. By vertically stacking distinct programs, integrating public art centers, corporate headquarters, and commercial hubs alongside residential and other functions, these multi-layered developments transform spatial constraints into dynamic urban interfaces.
The architecture of Birmingham reflects the city's history as one of the first industrial centers of England. The wealth generated in the city and the surrounding region led to the grandeur of the Victorian era in the nineteenth century. Heavy bombardment during the Second World War caused widespread destruction. This was followed by rapid reconstruction in the 1950s-70s, introducing rational modernism and brutalist ambition, which characterizes large parts of the city center today. A few decades later, erasure returned to Birmingham, with reconsideration of some of the decisions of the mid-twentieth century. Famously, the Bullring Centre and the Birmingham Library were torn down to make way for twenty-first-century redevelopments, adding new layers of richness to the city's built environment.
Pedestrian view of BCIE headquarters in Tegucigalpa. Image Courtesy of Banco Centroamericano de Integración Económica (BCIE)
Central America's nations occupy a narrow land bridge between Mexico and Colombia, but they were not born as separate countries. They emerged from a single entity: the Federal Republic of Central America in 1823. That federation collapsed, yet the ideal of a unified region never fully died. In 1951, the governments signed the Charter of San Salvador, creating ODECA, the Organization of Central American States. Four decades later, the 1991 Protocol of Tegucigalpa replaced it with SICA, the Central American Integration System, the framework guiding regional cooperation today. Within this integration process, the Central American Bank for Economic Integration (BCIE) was founded in 1960 by Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua, establishing its headquarters in Tegucigalpa. On the surface, it is a conventional late-20th-century office complex, but look closer at its façade, and the building becomes an argument about identity. One written in pink quarry stone from the very hills that surround the Honduran capital.
On the Caribbean coast of Honduras, lies the Leán valley, a narrow coastal strip lined by the Nombre de Dios Mountain Range to the South and the Caribbean Sea to the North. For a long time, this was the last frontier: dense jungle, swamps, no infrastructure, and difficult inland access. However, all of that started to change with the arrival of the Garífuna, who settled the area between the Danto and Cangrejal Rivers, setting the foundations of what would become the City of La Ceiba. An urban hub in the Honduran Caribbean whose history has been defined by migration waves: Central Americans, Afro-Caribbean people, Europeans, and corporate North America. These movements from all around the world did not merely contribute to economic growth, but actively produced the city's spatial logic, identity, and architectural form.
Grand Stade Hassan II in Morocco by Populous and Oualalou + Choi. Image Courtesy of Oualalou + Choi
The conclusion of the FIFA World Cup 2026 marks the end of the tournament's largest edition to date. Hosted across Canada, Mexico, and the United States, the competition expanded to 48 national teams and brought together sixteen host cities distributed across three countries. For decades, FIFA World Cups have served as catalysts for architectural production. Each edition has generated a distinct collection of stadiums, transportation investments, public spaces, and urban interventions that often remain part of their host cities long after the tournament concludes. While recent competitions have become associated with landmark stadium projects and ambitious national building programs, the 2026 edition followed a different trajectory, relying primarily on existing venues adapted to FIFA's technical and operational requirements.
Every building begins somewhere else. The sand in its concrete, the stone on its façade, the lithium that may one day power its systems. It arrives, already stripped from a mountain, a riverbed, or a salt flat thousands of kilometers away, having passed through a chain of trucks, ships, and customs declarations that erase almost everything about where it came from. Architecture tends to treat material as a starting condition, something simply available, but extraction is where construction actually begins.
The global trade in construction sand alone now moves on a scale that rivals the illegal markets in timber, gold, and fish combined, run through networks violent enough to have cost reporters and activists their lives. A single mountain in Tuscany has yielded more marble in the past few decades than in the two thousand years before them, hollowed out by a workforce whose own history of revolt has been almost entirely forgotten. Beneath the salt flats of three South American countries and the copper belt of Central Africa, the minerals that will supposedly power a cleaner future are pulled from ground that Indigenous communities have inhabited for generations and that children, in some cases, mine by hand. Each of these is sold as ordinary commerce; each is also a territorial transaction whose terms were set somewhere far from where the material was taken.
Architecture this week looked as much to the past as to the future. Across museums, restored landmarks, and large-scale urban redevelopments, the featured stories explored how architecture is continually reinterpreted through new cultural, political, and urban lenses. From reconsidering the architectural legacy of post-independence West Africa to transforming former prisons into energy-neutral neighborhoods and restoring twentieth-century cultural landmarks, the projects demonstrate how existing buildings and histories remain active participants in contemporary discourse. Alongside these interventions, the announcement of the World Architecture Festival shortlist and renewed attention to global urban growth provide a broader picture of a profession negotiating heritage, environmental responsibility, and rapidly changing cities.
A trainera under the transporter Bizkaia Bridge. Image via Wikipedia user: Javier Mediavilla Ezquibela Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0
What role do transportation infrastructures play in shaping the culture and economy of societies? How do they bridge cultural, ideological, and geographic divides while transforming the lives of the communities they serve? One of the most remarkable iron structures of the European Industrial Revolution stands west of Bilbao, spanning the Nervión River at the mouth of the Ibaizabal Estuary. It is the Bizkaia Bridge, which combines nineteenth-century ironworking traditions with the innovative use of lightweight alternating-twist steel cables. Recognized as the world's first transporter bridge, it became a model for similar structures built throughout Europe, Africa, and the Americas.
Constructed to connect the opposite banks of the Nervión estuary, it was the first bridge in the world to allow ships, passengers, and vehicles to cross simultaneously by means of a suspended gondola. This innovative system improved communication between two small seaside resort towns while allowing uninterrupted navigation through one of Europe's busiest inland ports.
As Barcelona hosts the UIA World Congress of Architects for the second time in its history, thirty years after the 1996 edition, the city becomes a site for reflecting not only on architecture but also on the changing conditions under which it operates. Titled Becoming. Architectures for a Planet in Transition, and developed by the six-member curatorial team of Pau Bajet, Maria Giramé, Mariona Benedito, Tomeu Ramis, Pau Sarquella, and Carmen Torres, the 2026 Congress expands the discussion beyond the city toward planetary questions, addressing architecture through ecological, social, political, and material systems rather than as an isolated discipline. During the opening day of the Congress, ArchDaily spoke with Mariona Benedito and Carmen Torres, two members of the curatorial team, about how this edition revisits Barcelona's architectural legacy, why uncertainty has become central to architectural thinking, and what they hope participants will take away from the event.
Every year on July 11, World Population Day draws attention to the demographic trends reshaping societies around the globe. In 2026, the United Nations marks the occasion under the theme, "Realizing the Hopes and Aspirations of Young People – Today and for the Future," highlighting how young people's decisions about education, employment, housing, relationships, and family life are increasingly influenced by the cities they inhabit. Drawing on Lives, Choices and Futures, a global survey of more than 108,000 young adults across 73 countries, this year's campaign underscores the close relationship between demographic change and the social, economic, and spatial conditions of cities.
Hudson's Detroit mixed-used development. Aerial view.. Image Courtesy of Bedrock
Urban planning is often confused with adjacent disciplines: urban design, environmental policy, civic strategy, local politics, or data analytics. Moreover, the overlap in training and responsibilities between planning and urban practices makes the field difficult to define clearly. In practice, it is often easier to recognize the consequences of bad planning than to articulate the outcomes of good planning. When planning is working well for residents, it should disappear altogether. It should remove friction from daily life so that people would not think to credit a discipline at all. At its core, urban planning is the relationship people have with their environments, and when that relationship is functioning, the mechanics of housing, transportation, affordability, access, and inclusion should feel ordinary and expected.
The built environment has historically served humans as a mechanism of environmental control. Through our intellectual capacities and ability to organize, we have used buildings to actively influence and terraform the immediate context in which they are inserted, often treating geography, water, and ecosystems as resources to be extracted and managed. However, more and more, architecture is transitioning from exploiting physical and biological matter to actively collaborating with it. This shift demands that architects explore how buildings and their materials grow, transform, decay, and persist beyond human timelines. This thinking also serves as a starting point for the profession to reflect on how it influences the natural world, as well as the non-human species around it, creating networks and connections between humans, buildings, living organisms, and natural environments.
17 x 17. Image: Courtesy of Sharon Figueroa / Camilo Amézquita (Colectivo Microurbanismo)
Tactical urbanism, a practice that has gained prominence in recent years, has proven to be an appealing strategy for activist collectives, architects, urban planners, and designers worldwide. By proposing low-cost, micro-scale, targeted urban interventions, it aims to promote the right to the city. This approach to thinking about public spaces in the city operates through a non-hierarchical logic, where civil society (whether or not in collaboration with the state and/or private enterprises) proposes alternatives to the traditional design process in the urban sphere.
An informal vendor selling balloons along La Séptima in the Plaza de Bolívar. "Bogota, Colombia" by szeke is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0
This article is the winning entry of the Epistle Writing Prize 2025, an annual competition dedicated to recognizing outstanding writing on design, architecture, and the environment.
It's wet season, but this morning's downpour does little to deter the rhythm along La Carrera Séptima. Cyclists and pedestrians weave past ambulatory vendors with carts of avocados, ginger sweets, and phone cases. Toy cars, lightbulbs, and hand-beaded jewelry glisten with raindrops, arranged neatly on tarps that demarcate vendors' territories. Police officers approach a recycler gathering bottles; a tourist bargains for a jacket; two women find each other in the middle of the road, embracing as their coats grow heavy with rain.
La Séptima, or Bogotá's Seventh Avenue, is the most emblematic road in Bogotá, traversed by more than two million people every day. Along this single road — part marketplace, part protest route, part transportation hub — Bogotá's history unfolds. For nearly a year, I traced its rhythms as a pedestrian, commuter, inhabitant, and researcher. In all these moments and their historical incarnations, one image endured: the road is a living body. It is imagined as Bogotá's backbone, its vital artery, its heart. It bleeds, bears scars, and demands care.
Mexico City. Image by Eduardo Enriquez, via Unsplash
Mexico City is a sprawling metropolis of layered temporalities, where architecture operates as a continuous negotiation between deep-seated history and intense urban mutation. Built over the aquatic traces of Tenochtitlan, the city's fabric is an ongoing dialogue between eras: the monumental scale of the Pre-Hispanic Templo Mayor and the Viceroyalty architecture of the Catedral Metropolitana coexist with the modern and contemporary impulses that define its skyline. This dense juxtaposition creates a unique urban canvas where sacred geography, colonial imposition, and 20th-century ambition intersect.
The mid-century marked a definitive era of experimentation, forging a Mexican Modernism that masterfully synthesized international structural rationalism with local identity and materiality. This synthesis is epitomized by the sweeping, plastic integration of art and architecture at the Ciudad Universitaria, the structural poetry of Félix Candela's hyper-parabolic shells, and the raw, monumental brutalism of Teodoro González de León and Abraham Zabludovsky. Parallel to this, the intimate, introspective mastery of Luis Barragán and Juan O'Gorman redefined domestic space, experimenting with light, vernacular color, and tectonic honesty to create spaces of profound spatial stillness.
Every twelve years, the banks of the Ganges at Prayagraj become one of the largest cities on Earth — and then disappear. The Maha Kumbh Mela draws over 400 million pilgrims across six weeks, requiring the construction of a full urban infrastructure: pontoon bridges, field hospitals, kilometers of temporary roads, a grid of tent cities visible from space. When the festival ends, it is dismantled entirely. No gathering in human history produces a more complete architecture of movement; built for arrival, engineered for transience, and designed to leave no permanent trace. The Kumbh Mela is exceptional in scale, but not in condition: movement has become a defining spatial problem of the century.
This month, ArchDaily explores Architectures of Movement: Land, Borders, and the Politics of Belonging, a theme that examines how mobility reshapes architecture's relationship to territory, ownership, and identity. The topic does not treat movement as a crisis to be managed, but as a fundamental lens through which to reconsider what buildings, cities, and borders actually do: who they accommodate, who they exclude, and what they make permanent.
