Indian modernism is often narrated through a narrow lens: a handful of iconic institutions, master architects, and formally radical experiments that came to symbolize the nation's post-Independence aspirations. Yet this version of history overlooks the far larger body of modernist architecture that quietly shaped everyday life across the country. Beyond celebrated campuses and canonical buildings exists a vast, dispersed landscape of housing blocks, offices, hostels, hospitals, markets, and townships — structures that were designed to function and endure.
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.
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.
Little has been written about the work of Abdelmoneim Mustafa, one of the most respected architects in his homeland of Sudan and a pioneer in his profession in the mid-twentieth century. Esra Akcan, who made extensive research of his work with a team in Sudan during a small window of opportunity between 2019 and 2021, laments this lack of recognition thus, "How could someone as gifted as Moneim Mustafa… designer of some of the most exciting mid-century modernist buildings anywhere, be so neglected, so ignored out of Sudan, that to this day there is no internationally accessible publication in his name." Akcan's writings, coupled with the personal blog of Hashim Khalifa, who trained under Mustafa, shed light on his extensive legacy.
It shouldn't be too surprising that architectural concepts were traveling around the globe long before the online spread of information. While many regions share certain historical events and hence references (such as colonization and the mid-20th-century independence movement/ turn of political systems), others might have simply developed parallel solutions to similar climates and material availability. Additionally, it was only natural that with the dissemination of a more uniform architectural pedagogy acquired while studying abroad, followed by the internet boom, we would find almost twin projects from every corner of the world. While these might look nearly identical from some angles, they might bear different layers and stories. Then again, they might also display the same reasoning and prompts shared by counterparts from across the seas.
When India gained independence in 1947, the nation faced a decision that would determine the course of its architectural future: brick or concrete. A seemingly mundane choice of material was rooted in a deeper philosophical divide between two potential outcomes for post-colonial India's built environment. Pioneering figures in India's struggle for independence held opposing views - Mahatma Gandhi advocated for traditional craftsmanship while Jawaharlal Nehru embraced modernism. The architecture one sees in the subcontinent today is a mosaic of both, begging the question: was modernism in India a foreign imposition or a celebrated import?
A look at most of the cities within Latin America reveals striking commonalities across countries, from Mexico down to Argentina: most cities have a well-defined area known as "El Centro" (The Center), anchored by a main plaza (Plaza Mayor), flanked by a church on one side and key buildings like the city hall on another. This is no coincidence, as it can be traced back to an urban planning system established during the Spanish colonization of the Americas in the 17th and 18th centuries. It gave standardized guidelines for city design across its viceroyalties. Unlike French and English colonies, Spanish settlements adhered to regulations that contributed to the emergence of a shared urban identity, with cities displaying similar spatial logic and architectural cohesion despite differing scales and contexts.
Thousands of years ago, a chain of volcanoes and hills formed a valley that became home to five lakes. According to indigenous mythology, this area served as a key reference point for the founding of the ancient Tenochtitlan, marked by the signal of an eagle perched on a cactus, devouring a snake. At the height of its splendor, the city was organized within an intricate system of causeways, many of which still serve as main thoroughfares, along with canals connecting the five water bodies. Over time, events such as colonization, independence, revolution, and modernization transformed its structure and name, leading to what is known today as Mexico City.
https://www.archdaily.com/1022469/mexico-city-a-bustling-evolving-metropolis-built-above-five-lakesEnrique Tovar
Along India's southwest coast dotted with a mix of colonial architecture and ancient heritage, the city of Kochi stands as a relic of foreign influence. A previously colonized town by the Portuguese, Dutch, and British now breathes new life into its built landscape. Across the world, in the German city of Kassel, the scars of World War II are etched into the environment, deep under its revived cultural soul. Both Kochi and Kassel, though worlds apart in geography and history, shared a commonality: the power of art and festivals to heal. In the aftermath of historical trauma, these cities found renewal in the creative expression of artists from around the globe.
Dakar is a city of constant development. From colonial times, and on, the capital of Senegal has seen a lot of shifts in its societal definition which has, in turn, affected its architectural and urban fabric. Ever since the French mandate which somewhat forced a shift of local living traditions into a more 'European' lifestyle, the wheels of change have been set in motion. Afterward, a notable post-colonial attempt at re-defining Dakar was inevitable. It came about in many ways, still seen today, and it built a city of mixed architectural languages that defies most visitors' expectations.
Though the renowned African mid-century modernism was certainly present in the years after Senegal's independence in 1960, this was mostly due to its popularity with practicing architects in the region, not its relevance for the capital's rebuilding efforts. The modernist approach, which was mainly seen in the public, institutional, and cultural buildings, and which persists today in a more undefined contemporary style, was always aimed at showcasing Dakar to the world. It did not, however, reflect the reality of the city's development nor the way its dwellers live.
In an effort to refocus on Dakar, some of our more recent ArchDaily coverage has highlighted the many development and design efforts that look to provide a better means of living to inhabitants.
The historical journey of construction also tells the story of humanity. The enduring examples from the past reveal insights into their specific contexts, and the remnants that have survived the elements and decay narrate the development of human technology. In the early days of construction, the common (and often the only) practice available to humans was to use locally available raw materials. For many, this meant building with clay.
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Le Masurier (documenté en 1769-1775). Esclaves noirs à la Martinique, 1775. Huile sur toile – 125 x 106 cm. Paris, ministère des Outre-mer / Archives nationales. Image Courtesy of Archives nationales
The institution of slavery shaped landscapes on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. And in turn enslaved and free Africans and their descendants created new landscapes in the United States, the Caribbean, and Sub-Saharan Africa. African people had their own intimate relationships with the land, which enabled them to carve out their own agency and culture.
