What matters more: looking to the past or to the future? Recognizing established trajectories or fostering paths still under construction? Perhaps this is not a question with a single answer. Traditionally, architecture awards have operated as devices of consecration, recognizing completed works, established careers, and already tested solutions, most often through a retrospective lens. But what would happen if recognition ceased to be an end in itself and instead began to operate as a catalytic agent, investing less in what has already been done and more in what is still yet to unfold?
When developing an architectural project, there are multiple possible points of departure. Some architects begin with volume, gradually carving form in dialogue with its context. Others start from the longitudinal section, while some organize the project around the functional layout of the plan. There is no right or wrong method, but rather distinct approaches that reflect different ways of thinking about and making architecture. Since the widespread adoption of solar panels and photovoltaic energy, however, a recurring pattern has emerged: these systems are almost always introduced later in the process, framed as technical optimizations or responses to regulatory and energy-efficiency requirements. As a result, they tend to be treated as secondary elements, often relegated to rooftops or less visible areas and detached from the architectural language of the building.
The pursuit of stronger, lighter, and more durable materials has guided architecture long before polymers or carbon fibers existed. One of the earliest large-scale examples of composite materials can be found in the Great Wall of China, where stone, clay bricks, and organic fibers such as reeds and willow branches were blended to create a resilient and lasting structure. These early techniques reveal a timeless intuition: distinct materials, when combined thoughtfully, produce properties unattainable by any single element. As the construction sector faces urgent ecological pressures, this intuition is being revisited through the lens of sustainability, with architects and engineers exploring bio-based, recycled, and hybrid composites designed not only for performance but also for circularity and environmental responsibility.
Amid countless questions, reflections, and debates about rethinking what a hotel can be, current hotel architecture faces growing complexities that span user experience, environmental responsibility, and the relationship with local context. Contemporary hotel design shows a clear—and increasingly prominent—intention to blend seamlessly and harmoniously with its surroundings, building a sense of identity that responds to local cultures, traditions, and character. The interconnection with nature, along with the reinterpretation of hotels as spaces for engaging with their surroundings, creates a direct relationship that expands their boundaries beyond the history and origins of the many practices that have shaped—and continue to define—their local characteristics and philosophy of life.
In a time when many hotels are designed to look like destinations, the real challenge is to design hotels that grow from their destination. But how can large-scale urban projects be integrated into sensitive landscapes without overpowering them? How is it possible to build with density while preserving a sense of intimacy and create identity in places that already carry strong local character?
Bolete Lounge BIO®. Image Courtesy of Andreu World
What is the current global outlook on the recyclability of materials used in architecture? To what extent are contemporary societies truly committed to reducing environmental impact? In the effort to live in balance with nature, replacing fossil fuels with renewable energy sources is one of the key strategies for cutting greenhouse gas emissions and addressing global warming. Looking to nature for inspiration as a way to protect it means creating designs that incorporate sustainability, circularity, and recyclability from the very first sketch. From building systems to surface finishes, the use of biomaterials in architecture reflects a mindset rooted in long-term responsibility for a material's full life cycle.
NPO Aoyama Design Forum (ADF), a non-profit organization, has announced the ADF Design Award 2026, celebrating architecture that does more than please the eye—it aims to make a meaningful impact on society, culture, and the environment. The award aims to recognize outstanding works that challenge existing conventions, demonstrate innovative thinking, and enrich people's lives through visionary, responsible design. Architects and designers around the world are invited to submit their proposals on a unique platform that fosters connections, promotes the exchange of ideas, and encourages meaningful cross-cultural collaboration.
Once confined to the aerospace and automotive industries, composite materials have taken on an increasingly central role in contemporary architecture. By combining two or more components, such as fibers and polymers, they offer lightness and strength, high durability, formal freedom, and enhanced environmental performance. Their incorporation into architectural practice marks a profound transformation in how we design, fabricate, and inhabit space.
How does the construction sector shape the future of cities? What challenges does it face? At the crossroads of demographic, social, energy, and climate pressures, the construction sector is changing fast. Professionals, institutions, and citizens are working together to build environments that improve health and well-being, encourages durable and place-responsive solutions, cut carbon emissions, withstand climate risks, and provide affordable, high-quality housing.
Le Corbusier's Unité d'Habitation imagined a "vertical neighborhood," a building able to integrate housing, commerce, leisure, and collective spaces within a single structural organism. Around the same time, Jane Jacobs argued that diversity of use is what produces safety, identity, and social life at the street level. Later, Rem Koolhaas, in Delirious New York, described the skyscraper as an early experiment in "vertical urbanism," capable of stacking incompatible programs under one roof. In cities like Tokyo and Hong Kong, this ambition matured into complex hybrid buildings where different uses, such as transit hubs, retail, offices, hotels, and housing, coexist and interact continuously.
Finding the right tools to represent a project idea or carry out a construction job remains an ongoing challenge for architecture and design professionals. While software for drafting, 3D modeling, and calculations has increased precision and efficiency, many architects continue using legacy tools learned in academia or practice—tools that feel familiar, but don't necessarily offer the best design experience. From overloaded interfaces and clunky workflows to endless plug-ins and constant back-and-forth between disconnected software, traditional design tools often reveal their complexity and fragmentation.
For a long time, architecture was understood as an essentially individual activity, dependent on the figure of a creative genius and centered on the ability to solve problems through drawing. Over time, this image began to fade. The protagonism once concentrated in a few names reached its peak during the era of the starchitects and gradually became distributed among offices, collectives, and multidisciplinary teams. Today, architects are expanding their boundaries into other fields such as gastronomy, music, design, and the corporate world, applying spatial thinking to address challenges of various kinds. As social, environmental, and political crises deepen, the role of the architect continues to evolve from a solitary author to a mediator, activist, and collective agent of transformation. This shift reflects an ethical awakening and a recognition that design, regulation, and care are inseparable dimensions of contemporary practice.
Meta fitting in Matte Black. Image Courtesy of Dornbracht
Are living spaces getting smaller? As cities densify and the global population continues its steady migration toward urban centers—projected to reach around 70% by 2050—domestic space is becoming increasingly compressed. Rising land prices, high construction costs, and a surge in single-person households push developers toward smaller units and tighter floor plans. At the same time, cultural shifts toward resource efficiency and minimal living support this move. Shrinking living spaces require fewer materials, consume less energy, and encourage people to live closer to their means.
The practice of combining materials to achieve better performance has accompanied humanity since the earliest constructions. One of the first known examples emerged over five thousand years ago, when civilizations in Mesopotamia and Egypt mixed mud and straw to mold sun-dried adobe bricks. Light and fibrous, straw prevented cracking and increased strength, while mud acted as a binder and protection. This simple yet ingenious invention can be considered the first composite in history, illustrating the ancestral intuition that distinct materials, when combined, can become something stronger and better.
Concrete, steel, wood, glass. Every year, millions of tons of construction materials are discarded, piled up in landfills, and silenced beneath the weight of the next building. Entire structures disappear to make way for others, restarting a voracious cycle of resource extraction, material production, and replacement. Along with the debris that accumulates, something deeper is also lost: time, human labor, stories, and the collective memory embedded in matter. At a time when climate goals demand reducing emissions and extending the lifespan of what already exists, demolition is increasingly recognized as a form of urban amnesia, one that erases not only cultural continuity but also the embodied energy of buildings. And even though it is often said that the most sustainable building is the one that already exists, that principle rarely survives when other interests come into play.
Open architectural competitions have long been regarded as gateways for new ideas. They level the playing field by proposing a single call, a clear set of rules, and an evaluation based on the quality of the work, conducted anonymously. For organizers, like cities, institutions, or companies, they represent a way to gather relevant proposals in a transparent public forum, backed by a competent jury. Unsurprisingly, competitions have marked decisive moments in the history of the discipline, such as the Centre Pompidou competition in Paris, which brought Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers to prominence with their "inside-out building," or the one for Brazil's new capital, won by Lúcio Costa with the Pilot Plan that synthesized the city into two intersecting axes, interpreted as either an airplane or a cross.
So, why do competitions still matter in architecture today? Beyond their historic role in shaping iconic projects, they continue to serve as testing grounds for fresh ideas, talent, and innovation. In the following sections, we explore competitions from three angles: the motivations that keep architects returning to them, the reasons organizers continue to launch them, and a practical playbook of strategies to help you approach your next competition with clarity and purpose.
Architecture goes beyond its fundamental function of defining spaces and providing protection; it shapes the user experience, influencing sensations of comfort, spaciousness, and well-being. Among the many elements that make up a building, openings play a crucial role in connecting the interior and exterior, balancing privacy with transparency, and allowing the entry of natural light and ventilation. In particular, natural light transforms environments, defines atmospheres, and enhances architectural details, making spaces more dynamic and inviting.
Materials can carry memory. They do more than finish a space; they can anchor it, shape atmosphere, and connect interiors to broader cultural and material narratives. Some architects and designers explore local techniques, natural resources, and craft traditions to balance cultural preservation with modern functionality, introducing context and depth. This is not necessarily a return to the past, but a reinterpretation of inherited knowledge to create architecture that resonates with contemporary needs.
Jafar Centre at Dubai College. Image Courtesy of Godwin Austen Johnson
Established in the UAE in 1989 by Chairman Brian Johnson and now led by Managing Director Jason Burnside, Godwin Austen Johnson draws on a British design lineage dating back to 1847 and has contributed to the development of the Middle East's built environment for over three decades. Its 110 multinational professionals, based in Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Sharjah, and the United Kingdom, work across disciplines, combining technical rigor, contextual analysis, and digital methodologies within a collaborative design process.
