In many high-density cities across Asia, the staircase is often treated as a necessary evil. Whether in apartment buildings, private homes, or retail interiors, it is frequently hidden, tucked away, or pushed to the margins—an element to be minimized so more area can be given to "usable" space. Yet as density intensifies and square footage becomes increasingly scarce, architects and designers are forced to rethink this vertical puzzle.
The question shifts from how to conceal the staircase to how to make it work harder: can it become a productive addition to the interior—an architectural device that does more than connect levels, performing dual (or multiple) duties rather than simply consuming floor area?
Can architecture be built from food? Between the fire that warms, the smells that spread, and the bodies that gather around the table, the apparent banality of cooking and eating reveals itself as a choreographed dance of spatial appropriation and belonging. These gestures organize routines, produce bonds, and transform the built environment into lived place. The kitchen—domestic, communal, or urban—thus ceases to be merely a functional space and affirms itself as a territory of encounter.
For decades, heritage has been easiest to recognize from the street. We protect facades, skylines, and monuments because they are visible, stable, and legible as cultural assets. Yet most of what we remember about living is how we eat together, withdraw, argue, care, and rest, which happen far from view. It happens inside rooms. As open plans quietly give way to thresholds, corridors, and enclosures, a deeper question emerges: what if cultural memory survives not in what architecture shows, but in how it is lived?
Breakfast nooks emerged in the early twentieth century in response to increasing domestic density and shifting ideas about everyday life. Rooted in the American Arts and Crafts movement and popularized through bungalow housing of the 1910s and 1920s, they evolved from the more formal Victorian breakfast room into compact, built-in spaces embedded within the kitchen. As houses grew smaller and more economical, architects and millwork companies used fixed benches and tables to occupy corners, alcoves, and bay windows that might otherwise be inefficient. These light-filled enclosures provided an affordable means of concentrating daily activities while preserving comfort and spatial clarity.
Courtesy of [applied] Foreign Affairs, Institute of Architecture, University of Applied Arts Vienna
Long before architecture took the form of walls, roofs, or cities, it gathered people around fire. The simple fire pit was one of humanity's earliest spatial devices: a place for warmth, food, storytelling, and ritual. Around it, space took shape through proximity rather than enclosure, through shared presence rather than prescribed use. The fire organized bodies in a circle, fostered alliances, and turned survival into collective life. Today, this ancestral logic persists: architecture has the potential of bringing people together not by commanding how they gather, but by creating the conditions that make togetherness possible.
This month, ArchDaily explores Coming Together and the Making of Place, a topic that examines architecture as a framework for inclusion, care, and belonging. The theme aligns with the first edition of the ArchDaily Student Project Awards, which approach care from a collective perspective by focusing on spaces that nurture better ways of living together. Looking beyond iconic gathering spaces, the coverage considers everyday environments, from food markets, communal tables, and neighborhood plazas to third spaces, domestic settings, and digital or hybrid environments of remote togetherness. Rather than treating togetherness as a fixed program, it asks how spatial design can support openness, diversity, and collective life without enforcing uniform ways of gathering.
Across Latin America, renovation has become less about preservation alone and more about responding to changing ways of living. Rather than freezing buildings in time, many contemporary projects work with existing structures to adapt them to new domestic routines, social dynamics, and spatial needs. Through strategic changes in materials, composition, color, and light, these interventions reinterpret everyday spaces while maintaining a strong connection to their original context.
In this process, houses and apartments become sites of transformation where flow, continuity, and shared spaces are carefully reconsidered. Renovation operates as a precise architectural tool, one that prioritizes natural light, openness, and flexibility to support daily life as it evolves. Instead of imposing new forms, these projects repurpose what is already there, aligning spatial decisions with the habits and rituals of those who inhabit them.
This past year marked a period of introspection for architecture. As 2025 unfolded, the discipline, confronted with evolving environmental and social realities, entered a broader turning point in how it understands its role and how users engage with it. Throughout the year, exhibitions shifted focus away from buildings as isolated objects toward a broader understanding of relationships between ecology, equity, everyday life, and collective imaginaries. Across institutions and cities, they operated less as showcases and more as discursive platforms: places where architecture was not only presented, but also imagined, questioned, and collectively redefined.
While exhibitions have long functioned as sites of discourse, politics, and community, this role became more explicit in 2025. As Carlo Ratti noted in an ArchDaily interview during the pre-opening of the Venice Architecture Biennale 2025, exhibitions today can "hybridize the way that people come together," an ambition that echoed across cities and institutions as exhibitions evolved into spaces for debate, experimentation, and collective reflection. Exhibitions are places where architects and designers meet, where conversations unfold openly with the public, and where ideas emerge through spontaneous exchanges among passersby. Exhibitions became spaces where architectural discourse extended beyond professional circles, opening conversations to broader publics through everyday encounters, shared experiences, and informal exchanges.
Domestic workers in Hong Kong and Singapore are the city's quiet infrastructure. In Hong Kong alone, there are a total of roughly 300,000 domestic workers, serving a portion of the approximate 2.7 million households. Their care labor sustains dual-income family routines: childcare, eldercare, cooking, cleaning, and the everyday logistics that make professional life possible. Yet the people who hold this balance together remain largely invisible in policy—and, crucially, in space.
On Sundays in Hong Kong's financial district, that invisibility becomes visible. Elevated walkways and podium forecourts—underused on weekends—turn into ad-hoc commons. With cardboard mats, small tents, towels, food and water, and a music speaker or two, domestic workers assemble places to sit, rest, and socialize. These improvised rooms in the city are often their only chance to exercise spatial agency—something they rarely have in the homes they maintain or in formal public infrastructure. In the absence of sanctioned, serviced places for rest, quieter bridges and passages become practical stand-ins.
Fireplaces have profoundly shaped architectural design, influencing how spaces are organized, experienced, and perceived. More than merely functional elements, they represent symbols of power, community, comfort, and culture, tracing humanity's evolving relationship with the built environment. From the primitive hearths that characterized early human settlements to the sophisticated ecological designs of contemporary architecture, fireplaces have reflected broader cultural, social, and technological changes, serving as enduring focal points in the spatial narrative of architecture. Scholars have frequently explored the intimate relationship between architecture and fire. Luis Fernández-Galiano, in his seminal work "Fire and Memory: On Architecture and Energy" argues that architecture fundamentally mediates the relationship between humanity and energy. By understanding how these structures have shaped spaces, symbolized cultural values, and driven technological innovation, we gain deeper insight into architecture's complex interplay between form, function, and meaning.
Space has become a luxury in many of the world's most densely populated cities—a growing reality that's hard to ignore. Megacities like Tokyo, Shanghai, Mumbai, Mexico City, and São Paulo already have populations exceeding 20 million, while other urban centers across Asia and Africa continue to expand rapidly. Among these, Delhi stands out: if current trends continue, it is projected to become the most populous city by 2028. As these cities expand, housing—especially new developments—follows a new logic: as square meters shrink, furniture adapts, and daily life learns to fit and thrive in high-density environments. This change isn't just about size; it reflects a new way of living. Where spaciousness once dominated, density now rules. Every corner gains spatial and commercial value, with the kitchen emerging as one of the biggest challenges in housing design today.
In today’s dense, vertical cities, terraces—often overlooked as mere technical rooftops—are emerging as key spaces for reconnecting with nature, expanding residential functions, and offering moments of collective relief. Particularly in single-family homes located in compact urban areas, these elevated surfaces represent valuable opportunities to increase usable living space without occupying more land. By lifting daily life above street level, terraces open new ways of inhabiting the city, enabling a range of uses from leisure and contemplation to food production and social gathering. In contexts marked by limited green space and strained infrastructure, they hold the potential to generate what landscape architect Catherine Mosbach calls "additional layers of urbanity." Whether imagined as hanging gardens, gathering spots, edible landscapes, or wellness zones, terraces challenge the idea that the city ends at the top floor—inviting us to see the roof as a new kind of ground.
The spaces where artists create their work reveal a great deal about their creative journey—their techniques, themes, and inspirations. These places hold memories, intimacy, and emotional connections. For some artists, the studio is a secluded space, free from distractions. For others, it is a place for openness and freedom. Often, the studio becomes the home—or the home becomes the studio—blending function, desire, and necessity. Positioned at the crossroads of living and creating, leisure and work, these spaces fascinate art lovers. Many are later recreated in galleries or transformed into museums. Regardless of the artist’s fame, these spaces offer a unique look into the creative process, the artwork, and the artist's identity.
SO-IL (Solid Objectives – Idenburg Liu) is an architectural design firm based in Brooklyn, New York, founded in 2008 by Florian Idenburg and Jing Liu. Known for an architecture deeply engaged with social, cultural, and environmental contexts, the studio focuses on exploring innovative materials, creating fluid spatial experiences, and prioritizing ecological sustainability. SO-IL's work spans various scales and program types, reflecting their versatile approach to design. In 2024, their housing project 450 Warren in Brooklyn was selected as ArchDaily's Building of the Year by the audience in the housing category.
In their latest book, In Depth: Urban Domesticities Today, SO-IL explores the evolving concept of home in contemporary urban contexts, transforming it "from a source of vulnerability into a tool for empowerment." The book redefines domesticity as an active and shared experience and examines how architects can address pressing urban challenges such as affordability, density, and sustainability. SO-IL's work advocates for flexible, resilient housing that fosters community while integrating ecological and social dimensions. ArchDaily spoke with the architects about the innovative solutions and ideas presented in the book, delving into how their projects challenge conventional systems and envision a future where architecture is a tool for empowerment.
The domestic space reflects individuals' activities, behaviors, and actions, where various dynamics and processes coexist as part of daily life. Although each home has its distribution logic according to the time of its design, the needs of its inhabitants, the technologies of the era, and other factors, residential interior renovations often express an interest in recovering old structures and façades, recycling unused furniture, restoring high-quality elements present in coverings and flooring, or directly integrating new features to achieve greater spatial fluidity, lighting, and optimization of surfaces.
Porches in New Orleans. Image via William A. Morgan / Shutterstock
Positioned between the streetscape of a neighborhood and the privacy of the interior of a house lies the porch. Taking on the role of an entrance, a window to ponder out of, a gathering spot, and a stage, the porch has come to represent community and identity for many neighborhoods in the United States. Made of various stylistic elements of different sizes and shapes, these tie together neighborhoods by creating an interstitial space between the home and the street, weaving together the family life inside the house and the public life outside it, and creating a space between the private and public for both serendipitous encounters and for pausing. The porch has often been displayed in film and literature as the stage of profound and life-changing conversations, representing a comfortable threshold between the domestic and public realm in which to linger.
Spring Rain, portico, wall and staircase for the Qianhai Harbour School, Shenzhen, 2022. In collaboration with Tu'an Architecture Design Company (Guangzhou). Image Courtesy of studio ACF
IKEA’s research and design lab SPACE10 has published The Healthy Home report, the second release in its Future Home report series. The report explores three main themes concerning domestic environments: how our homes protect us from harm, restore our bodies and minds, and enable us to grow through life’s stages. The research aims to evaluate the ways in which homes can positively contribute to and support the rhythms and flows of life. It was developed in collaboration with Morph to develop the visuals supporting the findings.
