Architecture is often presented as the visible expression of its time, its desires, its faith in progress, its idea of order. Yet this reading tends to flatten the conditions under which buildings are produced. It suggests that architecture follows history when, in many cases, it actively participates in it. Few periods make this more evident than the twentieth century, when architecture became deeply entangled with political programs, economic systems, and competing visions of how collective life should be organized.
What is commonly grouped under the label of Modernism is often described as a coherent project, defined by formal clarity, technological optimism, and a break with historical styles. But this apparent coherence dissolves when we look beyond its canonical centres. The same spatial principles (standardization, functional zoning, industrial production) were adopted in political and economic contexts that differed significantly in their structures and objectives. A static movement unfolded as a flexible system continuously reoriented according to the priorities of each regime. What appeared as a shared language was, in practice, a set of tools applied to distinct agendas.
San Diego, California. Photo by Samuel Ramos on Unsplash
Very close to the Mexican border, in the southwest corner of the United States, lies the city of San Diego. Its urban history began in 1769 with the arrival of a Spanish military expedition commanded by Gaspar de Portola, which marked the first permanent settlement in the territory that was known as Alta California. However, unlike the more formally urbanized administrative capitals and towns of Mexico and Central America, San Diego was conceived as a frontier outpost. Today, it has become the second-largest city in California, just after Los Angeles, and its urban grid tells a story about the Hispanic heritage that is intertwined with the contemporary cultural environment of the United States.
In late 2024, an event was held in the grounds of the recently refurbished colonial-era Palais de Lomé in the capital of Togo. Students from the architecture university of Lomé were attending the first Lomé Architecture Encounters (RAL #1), curated by the transdisciplinary Studio NEiDA, and which involved lectures, film screenings, workshops, and building visits. A parallel exhibition displayed the country's most significant architecture through history. The purpose of the event was to explore the architectural heritage of Togo, and it would be the start of a journey that crosses borders, asking questions about the conservation of modern heritage. Unlike colonial buildings like the Palais de Lomé itself, which are more appreciated and readily restored, neglected modern buildings like the Hôtel de la Paix require creative, bottom-up approaches to return them to their former vitality.
Pico House, part of Los Angeles Plaza Historic District. Image by Daniel L. Lu - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0
Today, the urban form of Los Angeles is characterized by 20th-century sprawl and extensive automotive infrastructure. However, the physical reality of the city's original core reveals a more complex history that is deeply rooted in Hispanic heritage. In fact, Los Angeles did not originate from the standardized American land system that defines most of the United States' territory. Instead, it is a product of the Spanish urban tradition in the Americas, which followed a structure repeated across major cities on the continent. The intersection of these systems created a layered urban geometry and history that remains visible in the city's contemporary street patterns.
When Los Angeleswas founded in 1781 as a pueblo by Felipe de Neve, it was an outpost of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Viceroyalties were political divisions of the Spanish territories in America, and by the late 18th century, New Spain was vast. It stretched from southern Costa Rica, all the way north to Alta California, bordering the east at the Mississippi River and the newly independent United States of America. At this time, Mexico City functioned as the primary administrative and economic hub, leaving frontier regions like Alta California to rely on a specific triad of settlements: missions (religious), presidios (military), and pueblos (civilian).
In the architectural history of the Mexican territory, the built environment has functioned not merely as a human stage, but as a biological infrastructure designed to organize proximity between species. The resulting spatial logic is not a solo performance, but a negotiated coexistence between human and animal bodies. To examine this heritage today is to shift the analytical focus away from stylistic authorship and toward a more fundamental phenomenon: the persistence of spatial practices that emerged to sustain shared forms of life.
Many of the architectural features now interpreted as cultural or aesthetic markers — oversized thresholds, expansive patios, and durable surfaces — can be understood instead as material traces of an interspecies contract. For centuries, horses, mules, and livestock were not external to architecture but essential inhabitants whose physical presence shaped scale, circulation, and material choices. Their bodies left measurable imprints in space, from the height of entrances that accommodated mounted riders to paving systems designed to withstand hooves, friction, and biological wear. Nowhere was this contract more visible than at the ground level of the colonial house.
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.
