Elevation is often framed as progress, lifting movement above the friction of the city and smoothing circulation into uninterrupted flow. Every act of lifting produces a secondary condition in its wake. Beneath flyovers, metro lines, and railway viaducts, a second ground emerges as shaded, ambiguous, and rarely planned with the same intent as what moves above. These spaces are not incidental leftovers. They are the spatial consequence of a design decision that privileges speed, clearance, and efficiency, redistributing value and visibility across the city in the process.
What lies below is not empty. It is structured, constrained, and defined by infrastructure, left without a clear role. Studies on elevated highways consistently describe these undercroft zones as residual spaces, formed when transport systems are conceived independently of the ground they pass through. An Arup report on spaces beneath viaducts notes how they often disrupt pedestrian continuity while remaining outside formal planning frameworks. Similarly, recent academic reviews of under-flyover environments highlight that these areas are rarely integrated into urban design strategies at all. The result is a peculiar condition: space that is physically present and structurally determined, but programmatically undefined.
Twenty meters tall and four thousand years old, the Western Deffufa towers over the adjacent date orchards and ancient city remains in the desert. It is a former religious and administrative building near the modern-day Sudanese town of Kerma. Its significance is not only in its age and size, but also in that it is one of the oldest mud brick buildings in the world. And as the nearby mud brick houses also attest, earth is a material of continuous use from ancient times to the present. Yet, conversations around contemporary building systems have largely ignored this essential material. Some architects on the continent of Africa, however, are changing that.
In recent decades, cities across the world have seen an increase in the demolition of elevated concrete freeways. Taipei, Seoul, Portland, and Boston, for example, have all seen the rise and fall of these infrastructures to give way to parks and new urban regeneration ideas. In other cases, like Montreal in Canada, some people opposed the freeways even before they were built, effectively rerouting viaducts, preserving heritage, and freeing waterfront views. For San Francisco, in the United States, the story of the Embarcadero Freeway is one of those narratives that serves as a case study of the city's mid-century infrastructural ambition, people's reaction to the project, and its eventual reversal in favor of urban connectivity.
Across Europe and North America, pedestrianisation is increasingly being deployed as a context-specific urban strategy shaped by distinct economic, social, and spatial pressures. As cities continue to reassess the role of streets in the wake of economic shifts, climate pressures, and changing mobility patterns, pedestrianisation is emerging as a tool in current urban transformation efforts. Across London, New York, Houston, and Stockholm, ongoing pedestrian-first projects are testing different pathways toward more resilient and walkable cities, ranging from statutory planning and capital construction to research-driven visioning. London's Oxford Street is advancing through consultation and governance reform to address retail decline; New York's Paseo Park is moving from a temporary pandemic intervention into permanent infrastructure; Houston is accelerating the pedestrianisation of its downtown core in preparation for a global sporting event; and Stockholm's Superline is using design research to rethink the future of an inner-city motorway. These initiatives reveal how pedestrianisation is being actively negotiated, designed, and built today, adapting to local motivations while converging on a shared objective of streets that perform as resilient public spaces rather than traffic conduits.
In recent years, Albania has undergone a rapid and visible transformation, emerging as one of the most active urban environments in Southeast Europe. This growth is not only reflected in the expansion of its built fabric but also in the scale and ambition of new architectural interventions that seek to redefine the country's image. Across its territory, a series of large developments, cultural institutions, and infrastructural projects are being introduced as part of a broader effort to reposition Albania and its capital, Tirana, within regional and international networks.
A significant number of these interventions are being designed by internationally recognized architectural offices, whose presence has become a defining characteristic of the city's current phase of development. Rather than relying primarily on incremental or locally embedded processes, Tirana's transformation is increasingly shaped through externally authored visions that introduce new formal languages, typologies, and urban strategies. These projects often operate as singular objects or large-scale fragments, contributing to a landscape where the city is assembled through distinct and highly visible gestures.
In our current cities, urban density and rising land values often force a choice between large-scale civic buildings and open public space. Traditionally, plazas have been treated as areas surrounding a building's footprint, but this strategy was modified when pilotis were introduced by the early 20th-century modernist movement. While the original intent was to create a sense of lightness that would allow circulation and light to flow beneath a structure, contemporary requirements for seismic loads, fire egress, and heavy occupancies render thin columns insufficient for the needs of current large-scale civic projects.
However, the pursuit of architectural lightness is not a strictly contemporary phenomenon. Following the modernist introduction of pilotis, several mid-century projects began experimenting with the illusion of suspension to achieve civic transparency. In 1953, the National Congress of Honduras in Tegucigalpa, designed by Mario Valenzuela, applied these principles to a legislative setting. The building consists of a solid assembly chamber elevated on a series of slender columns. Because the site sits on a terrace at the end of a sloping street, the resulting void does more than just provide circulation; it frames views of the city, creating the impression that the heavy legislative mass is lightly suspended above the urban fabric.
Beneath the ground lies a material that has quietly shaped the architecture of the modern world. Petroleum is rarely discussed within architectural discourse, yet the extraction, circulation, and consumption of oil have profoundly reorganized the spatial logic of territories. Pipelines, refineries, drilling platforms, ports, highways, and petrochemical complexes form a vast infrastructural landscape that sustains contemporary life, composing a dispersed architecture of energy.
Throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, oil became the material foundation of industrial society. It fueled transportation, powered factories, and supported the growth of cities whose spatial organisation depended on continuous energy flows. Yet the infrastructures that enable these flows rarely become objects of architectural inquiry. Attention remains largely directed toward form, typology, or urban density, while the material systems that sustain these environments tend to remain displaced within the discipline.
At the edge of most cities, beyond the ring roads and interchanges, a different kind of architecture is taking shape. It is not designed to be seen, visited, or remembered. It does not gather people; it moves things. Inside, thousands of parcels travel continuously, being sorted, lifted, scanned, and dispatched with minimal interruption. These buildings rarely enter architectural discourse, yet they are among the most consequential spaces of our time. The defining typology of the 21st century is increasingly the warehouse.
The scale of this transformation is difficult to grasp because it unfolds horizontally, across territories rather than skylines. Global warehouse space now exceeds tens of billions of square feet, expanding rapidly alongside the rise of e-commerce. During the COVID-19 pandemic, demand for logistics infrastructure accelerated by several years, compressing future growth into an already strained present. In India, the warehousing sector continues to grow at double-digit rates, reshaping peri-urban land into storage and distribution corridors. Logistics is no longer a background system; it is a territorial condition.
Documentation work in Deir ez-Zor. Image Courtesy of Deir ez-Zor Heritage Library
The historic city of Deir ez-Zor in eastern Syria has had more than its fair share of calamity after the outbreak of the war in 2011. After seeing destruction caused by fierce battles between armed groups and the central government, as well as occupation by ISIL, the earthquake in February 2023 brought further damage. Behind the headlines, however, is an ancient city tracing its founding to the dawn of civilization on the banks of the Euphrates River, with living architecture from the Ottoman and French Mandate periods. A winner of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the Deir ez-Zor Heritage Library aims to revitalize the city and support sensitive reconstruction by documenting and promoting its built heritage.
House with Seven Gardens / Civil Architecture. Image Courtesy of Civil Architecture
For centuries, domestic architecture throughout the Gulf has been organized around the courtyard. Houses presented thick exterior walls and limited openings to the street, turning inward toward a shaded garden that structured everyday life. This spatial arrangement responded to both climate and culture. The courtyard brought daylight into deep plans, enabled cross-ventilation, and provided a protected outdoor environment within dense urban fabrics. In the House with Seven Gardens, in Diyar Al Muharraq, Bahrain, the Bahrain-based practice Civil Architecture, one of the winners of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, revisits this spatial tradition through the conditions of contemporary suburban housing. Rather than reproducing the courtyard house as a historical model, the project reinterprets its environmental logic within the regulatory frameworks and spatial conditions that shape much of today's urban development in the Gulf.
For centuries, large-scale infrastructure operated in the background. Ports, power plants, and energy facilities were positioned at the edges of cities, designed primarily for efficiency, and rarely considered part of civic life. Their function was indispensable, yet their architectural presence remained secondary. These structures supported urban growth and global exchange while maintaining a spatial distance from everyday urban experience.
Today, this condition is gradually shifting. As global trade intensifies and energy systems expand in complexity, the buildings that coordinate and house these networks are becoming more visible within the urban landscape. Rather than remaining neutral containers for technical operations, they begin to assert spatial identity. Infrastructure is no longer only operational; it is increasingly institutional, symbolic, and urban. The architecture that supports these systems now participates in how cities project themselves.
How heavy is a house? In his 1965 essay A Home Is Not a House, Reyner Banham observed that modern American dwellings were becoming structurally lighter while growing heavier in mechanical services, such as plumbing, wiring, heating, and cooling. The true weight of architecture, he argued, was no longer in walls and roofs, but in the energy-intensive systems that sustained comfort.
Decades later, the question was updated at the 7th Lisbon Architecture Triennale. Curators Ann-Sofi Rönnskog and John Palmesino asked: How heavy is a city? The scale shifted from the domestic interior to the territory. The technosphere, materialized in the estimated 30 trillion tons of human-made matter on Earth, reframes the discussion entirely. Cities, data centers, oil fields, logistics hubs, satellites, cables, and waste streams form a planetary system in which architecture is neither object nor backdrop, but participant.
In January 2026, the World Monuments Fund/Knoll Modernism Prize was awarded to Australian firm Architectus for their conservation of the Africa Hall in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. The award recognizes that Modernist buildings, once seen as a vanguard of architecture, are falling into disrepair and are underappreciated by the public. The situation in Africa is typical of this global sentiment, and this was the first time a building on the continent was graced with this award. The prize also spotlights Ethiopia's rich Modernist inventory, which marks its continental role in the mid and late twentieth century.
Manresa Wilds Zoomed Aerial. Image Courtesy of BIG
ManresaIsland Corp. has unveiled the final vision for Manresa Wilds, a 125-acre waterfront park planned on a former power plant peninsula along Long Island Sound in Norwalk, United States. Developed in collaboration with landscape architecture firm SCAPE and architecture studioBIG, the proposal outlines the transformation of a polluted and long-inaccessible industrial shoreline into a publicly accessible coastal landscape. Following the receipt of a stewardship permit from Connecticut's Department of Energy and Environmental Protection in December 2025, the project will move forward in phases, beginning with the opening of the 28-acre Northern Forest in spring 2027. Subsequent phases, extending into the early 2030s, will deliver the majority of the restored landscape and the adaptive reuse of the 1960s-era power plant as a year-round civic and educational hub, opening nearly two miles of coastline that have been closed to the public for decades.
Porous City / MVRDV and The Why Factory. Image Courtesy of Frans Parthesius, MVRDV and The Why Factory
This article is part of our new Opinion section, a format for argument-driven essays on critical questions shaping our field.
Every architectural epoch has been defined by its instruments. The compass, the drawing board, the camera, and the computer have each altered how architects think and produce. Yet the current moment feels qualitatively different. As artificial intelligence and generative systems enter daily workflows, tools cease to be passive extensions of the architect's hand and begin to operate as semi-autonomous agents. They propose, optimize, and simulate, producing outcomes that are, at times, beyond the author's full anticipation.
