Office in Sanno / Studio Velocity. Image Courtesy of Studio Velocity
Historically, architecture and the built environment have insisted on creating flat, hard surfaces. In earlier eras, walking without paved ground meant mud-caked shoes, uneven footing, tripping hazards, standing water after rain, and high maintenance. Hence, as we shaped cities, we prioritized a smooth, continuous, solid horizontal datum. The benefits are real: easier walking, simpler cleaning, and straightforward programming—furniture, equipment, and partitions all prefer a level base. This universal preference for building on flat ground remains the norm and, for many practical reasons, will likely continue to be.
What's less recognized is that making a truly flat surface is surprisingly difficult—and many well-executed "flat" floors aren't perfectly flat at all. They are often gently sloped, calibrated to precise gradients for drainage. While interior spaces do not always require this, many ground floors and wet areas do incorporate subtle inclines as a safeguard—whether for minor flooding or to manage water that overflows from the street or plumbing when one of the discharge systems is malfunctioning.
In the Dutch city of Hilversum, a municipal building completed in 1931 redefined the very idea of what a town hall could be. More than a house for local administration, the Hilversum Town Hall became the architectural expression of a community in transformation. With its tower rising above reflective ponds, its brick masses composed around courtyards, and its carefully detailed interiors, the building asserted that civic architecture could unite function with symbolism, efficiency with ceremony.
The architect behind this vision, Willem Marinus Dudok, was not only responsible for individual buildings but for the broader shaping of Hilversum itself. As a city architect and planner, he designed schools, housing districts, and parks, developing a language that fused Dutch craftsmanship with Modernist clarity. The town hall represented the culmination of this trajectory: a civic centerpiece where urban ambition, material refinement, and human scale converged in a single, coherent form.
For centuries, architecture has been shaped by the aspiration to create a smooth transition between the indoors and the outdoors. Today, technologically sophisticated window and facade systems allow architects to design open, light-flooded room concepts without losing heat. The Solarlux cero maximum sliding window can eliminate the boundaries between spaces, demonstrated most impressively when large-format elements replace building corners. This is a technical achievement accomplished entirely without supports that disrupt the view. cero creates a direct, immediate connection to nature that goes far beyond what standard solutions can offer.
Series 8670 Casement Window. Image Courtesy of Western Window Systems
Windows have long held an ambivalent role in architecture, as they both define and enclose interiors while simultaneously creating a link to the outdoors. This dual function goes beyond simply meeting construction needs or providing daylight, directly influencing how occupants experience and engage with the views. The 20th century saw the introduction of materials such as steel, aluminum, and glass, which enabled different types of windows with thinner frames and expansive panes, enhancing transparency and reinforcing the visual connection with the surrounding setting.
American architects such as Frank Lloyd Wright and Philip Johnson explored these possibilities to harmonize architecture with landscape. In Fallingwater House, windows and terraces seamlessly connect the house to the waterfall and surrounding forest, whereas the Glass House's minimal framing nearly dissolves the boundary between interior and exterior, bringing the natural environment to life inside the house. Through its evolution, windows have become an element that unites space, materials, and perception, opening new pathways for exploring the relationship between architecture and its environment.
https://www.archdaily.com/1034016/framing-interiors-and-landscapes-in-aluminum-and-glass-to-master-the-viewEnrique Tovar
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.
The Mid-Century Modernist movement was more than an aesthetic or material shift in the United States, as it was a response to a rapidly changing world. Emerging after World War II, this architectural revolution rejected ornate, traditional styles of the past in favor of clean lines, functional design, and incorporation of flashy materials like steel, glass, and concrete. Modernism was a break from tradition, focusing instead on simplicity, efficiency, and a vision for the future. It reflected the optimism of a nation rebuilding itself, where technology and innovation shaped everything from cityscapes to suburban homes.
The gas station is an architectural typology that has undergone significant transformations since its inception. Initially, these structures were simple roadside refueling points designed for functionality rather than aesthetics. As automobile culture expanded, gas stations evolved to accommodate new technologies, shifting urban landscapes and changing consumer behaviors. Over time, they became more than just utilitarian stops — they developed into service hubs, integrating restaurants, motels, and leisure spaces, responding to contemporary transportation increasing demands.
By the late 20th century, however, the widespread standardization of gas stations led them to be perceived as "non-places", a concept defined by anthropologist Marc Augé to describe transient spaces that lack social or cultural significance. With uniform designs and a focus on efficiency, gas stations became interchangeable, reinforcing their role as purely functional infrastructure rather than meaningful architectural interventions. This standardization also departed from the era when fuel stations served as recognizable landmarks, contributing to a homogenized landscape devoid of local identity.
For centuries, models have been central to architectural design, providing architects with a tangible way to explore ideas, test concepts, and communicate their vision. From the Renaissance to Modernism, models have been instrumental in the construction and reflection processes, offering insights into form, proportion, and spatial relationships. However, in today's digital age, where 3D modelsand Virtual Reality(VR) have become powerful and efficient tools, the question arises: Are physical models still relevant in contemporary architecture?
What makes something sacred? When does a building mean more to us than nearly all other places, spaces, objects, or activities in our lives? Architects strive to achieve the sacred in buildings, but it’s the rest of us who either sense it or not, whatever the aesthetics may be. I think the meaning of what is sacred to us can be most profoundly seen and felt when things change.
The Wayfarers Chapel, known locally as "The Glass Church," was designed by Lloyd Wright, the eldest son of architect Frank Lloyd Wright, and completed in 1951. Located in the Palos Verdes peninsula in Los Angeles, its design aimed to blend the lines between architecture and nature, with large-span glass panels opening up to space toward the redwood canopies. Last year, the structure was designated a national historic landmark. Now, due to “accelerated land movement” in the area, the structure, which has been closed off to the public since February, was announced to be disassembled to protect it from further damage.
Imagine a world thousands of years into the future, one where humanity has conquered planets from galaxies away, only to default to a neofeudalistic social order in a constant power struggle, all built upon an intricate tapestry of cultures and religions and set in a harsh yet vivid landscape that becomes a character in and of itself. This was the challenge faced by director Denis Villeneuve and production designer Patrice Vermette in creating the cinematic adaptation of Frank Herbert's 1965 novel. The two Dune movies, released in 2021 and 2024, were conceived as a whole and therefore share a coherent style and cinematic expression. Beyond aesthetics, the environment and architecture of Dune present a lived-in, believable world, one that anchors the action and characters, silently offering invaluable insights into the values and mythology of each civilization.
The Second Studio (formerly The Midnight Charette) is an explicit podcast about design, architecture, and the everyday. Hosted by Architects David Lee and Marina Bourderonnet, it features different creative professionals in unscripted conversations that allow for thoughtful takes and personal discussions.
A variety of subjects are covered with honesty and humor: some episodes are interviews, while others are tips for fellow designers, reviews of buildings and other projects, or casual explorations of everyday life and design. The Second Studio is also available on iTunes, Spotify, and YouTube.
This week David and Marina of FAME Architecture & Design discuss the local architecture, adobe buildings, and natural landscapes of the southwest region of the United States. The two cover the role nature has in cities, designing experiences, how architecture can co-exist with the natural landscape, craftsmanship, and more. Destinations included the Taos Pueblo in New Mexico, Monument Valley, Antelope Canyon, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West, and Paolo Soleri’s Arcosanti.
Kimbell Art Museum / Louis Kahn. Image Courtesy of Xavier de Jauréguiberry
AD Classics presents you with some of the greatest buildings of the past that have influenced and shaped architecture today. Throughout ArchDaily's 13 years, more than 200 classics were published, and for this edition, we have rounded up the top 20 most visited Architecture Classics to date.
Don Davis (American, born 1952). Stanford torus interior view. 1975. Acrylic on board, 17 × 22″ (43.1 × 55.9 cm). Commissioned by NASA for Richard D. Johnson and Charles Holbrow, eds., Space Settlements: A Design Study (Washington, DC: NASA Scientific and Technical Information Office, 1977). Illustration never used. Collection Don Davis. Image Courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art
The Museum of Modern Art New York has announced the opening of an exhibition focused on the first realized and unrealized projects that address ecological and environmental concerns. Featuring works by architects who practiced mainly in the United States from the 1930s through the 1990s, the exhibition titled “Emerging Ecologies: Architecture and the Rise of Environmentalism” is on view from September 17, 2023, through January 20, 2024. The over 150 works showcased reveal the rise of the environmental movement through the lens of architectural practice and thought.
If you’ve been in the profession of architecture long enough, you come to know a certain rarified subset of fellow professionals: Those who call themselves “architects,” who have a degree, and who may even be licensed and members of the AIA, but who do not practice architecture. They simply like being an “architect.”
Courtesy of Raymond Neutra and the Neutra Institute, Photo by Julius Shulman | VDL Research House
It was, of course, Frank Lloyd Wright who set up the ground for modern architecture to happen in Los Angeles. Then came the Viennese, Rudolph Schindler in 1920 and Richard Neutra in 1925 at the invitation of Schindler. Both worked for Wright choosing to learn from him what they saw as essential—by focusing on spatial and formal clarity, transformability, restrained materiality, and the living environment to achieve a desirable quality of life within. Neutra and Schindler collaborated at first, and then each built a rich portfolio, mainly comprising houses and apartment blocks. Universal in principle, these abstract robust structures defined and led the development of a local building vernacular. These buildings, of which there are several hundred, are now strongly associated with the two architects’ adopted city.
.jpg?1570002957 "La Muralla Roja / Ricardo Bofill. Image Courtesy of Ricardo Bofill")
