Climate: The Latest Architecture and News

Solar panels are often treated as equipment added to a building. What happens when they become part of the architecture itself? Once integrated into the envelope, photovoltaics can generate energy while also influencing the building's form, construction, and environmental performance.

Roofs are often the most obvious location for photovoltaic panels, yet other parts of the building can generate power while performing additional architectural functions. Facades can provide shading, louvers can control sunlight, and ventilated rainscreens can combine weather protection with energy generation. Their orientation, position, and integration into the building envelope therefore become part of the architectural design rather than a separate technical decision.

Far from simply transporting goods from A to B, shipping containers have become a go-to building material across the US, forming the basis of everything from tiny homes to container pools, site offices to workshops. But given the size of the country, and the range of climates found within its borders, the approach to container architecture can vary significantly from state to state, even county to county.

A container conversion in the desert Southwest faces very different conditions from one in New England, while projects along the Gulf Coast must account for humidity, storms, and salt air. These regional differences can influence everything from insulation and ventilation to roofing, foundations, and exterior protection. Let's take a closer look at these regional approaches, the local climate challenges to consider before a build, and the adaptations that can address them.

Volcanic landscapes make geological change unusually visible. Lava hardens into new ground, and plants slowly take hold across it. Ash can remain in the landscape for years. Around active volcanoes, these processes are still underway, affecting where and how people build.

Yet these landscapes continue to attract houses and places of retreat. Their isolation and unusual terrain are often part of the appeal. Building there means bringing everyday life into a landscape that can still change.

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There is no shortage of ways to imagine what the world will look like after a climate catastrophe. Genres of movies and novels have been built around the question of what happens when contemporary safeguards fail, from dystopian fiction and post-apocalyptic literature to disaster films, graphic novels, and video games. Burning forests, submerged cities, abandoned infrastructure, resource scarcity, and mass displacement are a familiar visual and narrative vocabulary. We have become remarkably fluent in imagining the consequences of a world that fails to respond to climate change.

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Wood and coastal architecture have always gone together. It's one of the defining materials of coastal structures. But creating that aesthetic in an environment where weather is a constant part of life demands more from the wood you choose.  

Rain isn't unique to coastal areas. What makes the coast different is the combination and frequency of exposure. Humidity, ocean winds, salt-laden air, direct sun, and frequent storms repeatedly take wood from wet to dry and back again. In many coastal regions, these aren't occasional weather events. They are simply part of the climate. That makes two characteristics especially important when selecting wood for coastal construction: durability and dimensional stability.

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How can daylight tackle global challenges? This question lies at the heart of Light of Tomorrow by VELUX, a global student competition that encourages architecture students to explore the future potential of daylight in the built environment. In its 12th edition, the competition received hundreds of responses from around the world, culminating in eight finalist projects presented to an international jury at the UIA World Congress of Architects in Barcelona. The 2026 global winner, Sun the Quilt, developed by students from Xi'an University of Architecture and Technology in China, was chosen for its strong concept, design thinking, and innovative use of daylight that transforms an everyday domestic ritual into an innovative facade system shaped by daylight, climate, and care.

A greenhouse is a building designed to create one climate inside another. By controlling sunlight, heat, and ventilation through its enclosure, it produces conditions that differ from those outside. Traditionally, that controlled environment was designed around plants. In housing, the same principle is increasingly being used to shape spaces for people.

Bringing greenhouse construction into a house offers more than additional enclosure. It can create sheltered spaces without conditioning them like conventional interior rooms, capture solar heat when it is useful, provide ventilation when temperatures rise, and extend the periods of the year when certain areas of the home remain comfortable to occupy.

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Water management, air quality, and heat mitigation are usually planned through systems much larger than the spaces where people actually experience them. Drainage networks sit below the street. Air pollution is measured across entire cities. Yet these conditions are felt much closer to the body: while waiting for a bus in the sun, walking through a flooded street, crossing an exposed plaza, or looking for somewhere to sit when the air itself feels difficult to breathe.

Heat makes this question especially urgent. As cities become warmer, streets, parks, transit areas, and other public spaces are increasingly becoming sites where design can reduce exposure through shade, planting, airflow, and water. For architecture, that brings part of climate adaptation into the spaces people use every day.

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A lower section of a Himalayan glacier collapsed on Wednesday, August 26, creating an ice and rock avalanche down the Lhende River valley that triggered severe flash floods on the Nepal-Tibet border. The floods destroyed entire villages, with at least 350 confirmed dead and more than 1,300 people still missing. Characterized by their sudden and violent nature, flash floods occur within the first six hours after heavy rainfall or another floodwater source. In this case, the event has been attributed to a glacier collapse higher in the Himalayas, linked, in some scenarios, to a heat wave in the area. The speed of the movement is also distinctive of this type of flood, whose path of destruction in this case follows the Trishuli River basin in Nepal. According to the International Federation of Red Cross, the most affected areas are the Nepalese Rasuwa and Nuwakot districts. A more detailed assessment is expected in the coming days as floodwaters recede; in the meantime, it is already possible to outline some of the evidence from a territorial point of view.

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The idea of a "Great Green Wall" designates a large-scale reforestation initiative undertaken specifically to halt desertification. Currently underway in Africa to prevent the advancement of the Sahara Desert and in China around the Gobi Desert, it is a landscape, agriculture, economic, and social development project in reaction to the rise of global temperatures, over-farming, and unsuitable land management. Both projects, currently underway, are intersectional initiatives involving governments from different countries, civil society organisations, and both individual volunteers and organised groups, guided by the idea of a unified response to global environmental issues through wildlife restoration. It is a large-scale, infrastructural application of a 'green' or 'wildlife corridor': a linear strip of vegetation or natural landscape that connects fragmented ecosystems and wildlife populations separated by human development on a continental scale.

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What makes a home resilient? Extreme weather events are becoming increasingly frequent around the world. From power outages, hurricanes, and earthquakes to wildfires, floods, and droughts, the world is experiencing a process of transformation and adaptation that requires collaboration among diverse disciplines. The role of architecture in the built environment reflects an opportunity to rethink how homes perform under changing environmental conditions—not only by anticipating the unexpected. Designing for resilience means thinking holistically, considering material choices, energy systems, landscaping, and construction details that anticipate disruption and help homes recover quickly. It involves creating architecture that evolves with the environment, is worth preserving, and endures for years and generations.

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Australian artist, director, and BAFTA-nominated producer Liam Young creates imaginary worlds as a way of thinking through the futures we fear, desire, and are already making. As a creator and designer of atmospheres, he proposes speculative landscapes reflecting the possibilities of a world to come, whether ideal or truthfully unsettling. In his worldbuilding practice across the film, television, and video game industries, fiction becomes a tool for navigating the environmental urgencies of the present. He is considered a "futurist" working across design strategies, technological scenarios, and collective imaginations, grounded in his academic research yet reaching a wider audience in exhibitions such as "In Other Worlds" at the Barbican Centre in London and "Age of Nature" at the Danish Architecture Center in Copenhagen. In February 2026, he was interviewed by Marc-Christoph Wagner for Louisiana Channel, where he shares his visions of our future: from architecture consolidating as a boutique industry to the need for a new kind of planetary punk at the scale of the climate crisis.

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The image is familiar, a façade layered with brise-soleil, light softened into a patterned shadow, interiors kept cool without machines. It appears as intelligence made visible, architecture that understands the sun. This image is rarely examined closely. The same devices that temper heat also organize access, distribute comfort, and depend on particular forms of labor. What looks like a climatic response is also a decision about who gets relief from heat, and how. Tropical modernism, often reduced to a visual language of shade and porosity, emerges instead as a set of situated practices where climate, labor, and power are negotiated differently across contexts.

At the scale of the element, tropical modernism begins as a technical problem. In hot climates, solar radiation is not incidental but constant, requiring buildings to mediate light, heat, and air before they reach the interior. Architects like Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew approached this with a level of precision that resists any reading of these elements as decorative. Shading devices are calibrated according to solar angles, orientation, and seasonal variation. Brise-soleil are dimensioned to block high-angle sun while admitting diffuse light; overhangs extend just enough to prevent direct gain at peak hours; openings are aligned to encourage cross-ventilation. Mid-century research further tested these strategies, measuring temperature reductions and airflow improvements. In this sense, the language of tropical modernism is not symbolic. It is performative: each projection, void, and screen is part of an environmental system.

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Architecture is often understood as a matter of enclosure. Walls define space, separating interior from exterior and establishing clear limits. Yet across many projects in Latin America, this distinction becomes less precise. Rather than operating as closed objects, buildings often remain open, allowing air, light, and movement to pass through them.

This condition is tied to more than form. Across the region, architecture has long responded to climates marked by heat, humidity, strong solar exposure, and seasonal rainfall, as well as to building cultures shaped by adaptation, collective labor, and direct engagement with the environment. In these contexts, fully sealed interiors are not always the most effective response. Space is often organized through shade, ventilation, and intermediate zones that regulate rather than isolate.

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This article is part of our new Opinion section, a format for argument-driven essays on critical questions shaping our field.

The modern sustainability project is built on the promise that evolving technologies can reconcile urban and economic growth with ecological responsibility. By the metrics developed by the built environment professions and the policies adopted by governments, progress is tangible and accelerating: buildings consume less energy per square foot than they did a generation ago, vehicles emit fewer pollutants per mile, and urban infrastructure is more integrated and measurably cleaner in many cities. And yet total resource consumption continues to rise. Sustainability, as currently practiced across the built environment professions, has become a strategy for optimizing consumption rather than reducing it. Until the profession is willing to question the scale and structure of demand rather than the efficiency with which that demand is met, its most celebrated achievements will continue to fall short of the problem they claim to address.

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On a hot afternoon in May, when the air over western India turns metallic with heat, no one remembers façade composition. They remember where the shade falls. They remember which corridor breathed. They remember the house that was cooler than the street. What stays in memory is comfort beyond the form. Repeated thermal preference stabilizes into spatial configuration, and over time, those configurations become building types.

Heritage is usually catalogued by what can be drawn, not by what changed temperature. In heat, buildings are learned first through skin, only later through sight. Generations learn, through their bodies, what works. Shade reduces glare and radiant heat. Air movement shifts perception by several degrees. Thick walls slow temperature swings. Over time, these experiences accumulate into a spatial preference. What feels right is repeated. What is repeated stabilizes into type.

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As climate variability intensifies, extreme storms are becoming more frequent in some regions while water scarcity deepens in others. Architects are increasingly pressed to reconsider how buildings engage with rainfall as an environmental force and a design resource. How can architecture move beyond shedding the excess water to actively collect, store, and reuse it? What would it mean to treat rainwater as a material that shapes resilient and meaningful spaces?

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"In various regions of the planet, nature imposes adverse conditions on the human body. In these places, designing a building is almost like creating a garment: an artifact that protects and offers comfort. This challenge requires technological performance that must be combined with aesthetics. Making human beings feel good involves more than just meeting notions of comfort and safety; it's also a question of working with spaces in their symbolic and perceptual dimensions." This is the beginning of the description for the design of the Brazilian Antarctic Station in Antarctica, by Estúdio 41, located on the Keller Peninsula, where the surrounding sea freezes for around six to seven months of the year, where everything and everyone arrives by plane or ship and the nearest hardware store is days away. If designing a building in normal circumstances already presents numerous complexities, it's not hard to imagine the additional challenges when developing something in an extreme environment, such as locations with very high or low temperatures, or in places susceptible to corrosion, radiation, and more. In this article, we will explore the difficulties, the main solutions and the materials used in these contexts.