Le Corbusier: The Latest Architecture and News

Between the 1950s and 1960s, two cities were built that would leave a lasting mark on the history of architecture and urbanism. Born from a shared vision yet separated by more than 14,000 kilometers, Brasília in Brazil and Chandigarh in India were both planned and constructed from scratch, deeply shaped by modernist principles.

Emerging during a period of profound political and social transformation, when many nations sought to redefine their capitals as symbols of progress, both cities assumed a strategic role. Through their architectural language, they reinforced ideological and national narratives closely tied to state power.

These were cities conceived in the abstract, guided by a utopian vision. They were intended to be avant-garde urban centers, free from the deficiencies that plagued mid-twentieth-century cities, embodying aesthetic principles aligned with progressive political ideals and embracing new technologies—most notably the automobile.

Yet this promise of the future also generated significant challenges. While these difficulties undoubtedly reflect the social and economic realities of their respective countries, they were also shaped by a modernist vision that is increasingly being reassessed today.

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Southeast Asia is often narrated as a kind of architectural playground—an arena where modern and contemporary ideals have been tested at full scale through singular, iconic buildings. One can trace an easy lineage through names that have helped shape the region's skyline imagination: Paul Rudolph's Lippo Centre in Hong Kong and The Concourse in Singapore, I.M. Pei's OCBC Centre and Hong Kong's Bank of China Tower, Norman Foster's Supreme Court of Singapore and the HSBC Main Building in Hong Kong, Ron Phillips' Hong Kong City Hall, Moshe Safdie's Marina Bay Sands. Yet this familiar history—told through objects, colonialism, authorship, and signature forms—risks missing a deeper, more consequential layer of influence: the planning logics and infrastructural frameworks that have quietly structured how these cities expand, densify, and distribute everyday life.

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Architecture has never been confined to the act of building. It constantly negotiates between material practice and intellectual reflection, yet throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, many architects felt that the built project alone was insufficient to address the full range of questions facing the discipline. Economic pressures, political contexts, and programmatic demands often narrowed the scope of practice.

Exhibitions and curatorial platforms, by contrast, created spaces of experimentation and critique, opening arenas where architecture could interrogate itself, where its past could be reinterpreted, its present challenged, and its future projected. In this tension, the figure of the architect-curator emerged, treating curating itself as a form of design — not of walls or facades, but of discourse, narratives, and frameworks of meaning.

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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.

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Monasticism emerged from a deep impulse to withdraw—a radical pursuit of spirituality and transcendence. The word itself comes from the Greek μόνος (mónos), meaning “alone,” reflecting the ideal of the holy hermit who retreats from the world to dedicate life entirely to the divine. By the late 3rd century, in Egypt and Palestine, the first Christian monks began to follow this path, creating ways of life that would later give rise to a distinct architecture centered on seclusion.

Centuries later, however, this legacy faces an uncertain fate. With the decline of religious vocations from the 1960s onward, countless convents and monasteries were sold, destroyed, or repurposed as hotels, cultural centers, or residences. Even the few that maintain their original function often lack structural updates to meet contemporary needs. In this context, architecture assumes a crucial role: how can these spaces be renovated and reused without becoming mere sets, stripped of the spirituality and memory that once defined them?

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Architecture has always been more than bricks and mortar. It is equally constructed through words, ideas, and narratives. From ancient treatises to radical manifestos, from technical manuals to poetic essays, the written word has served as a spatial, pedagogical, and political tool within the field. Writing shapes how architecture is conceptualized, communicated, and critiqued — often long before, or even in the absence of, physical construction.

Historically, figures such as Vitruvius, Alberti, and Palladio employed writing to codify principles, project ideals, and legitimize architecture as a discipline. In the modern era, Le Corbusier, Adolf Loos, and Lina Bo Bardi wrote prolifically to expand the scope of architecture beyond form and function, often using publications as tools for persuasion and experimentation. The postwar period gave rise to new editorial strategies, as evident in the manifestos of Archizoom and Superstudio, and the polemical publications of Delirious New York and Oppositions, where writing served as both critique and project.

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Videos

A project can be drawn in broad strokes, but it's built in details. Simple as it may seem, a staircase involves a significant degree of engineering. Some are noticeably more tiring, or more difficult to climb and descend. To address this, in the 17th century, architect François Blondel proposed a formula to ensure the ideal proportion between riser and tread, an equation that, when respected, offers a comfortable path. But there's another equally decisive factor: all steps must be identical. This may sound trivial and logical, yet executing anything with precision is always a construction challenge. Our bodies quickly adapt to the dimensions of the steps, and any variation (even minimal) can lead to repeated stumbles or missteps. A seemingly insignificant detail, when poorly resolved, can compromise the well-being and safety of an entire building.

Destinations like ecological reserves, national parks, and historic sites rank among the most visited places worldwide. Motivated by different desires — from aesthetic appreciation to a longing for connection with nature — visitors are drawn to locations marked by historical importance, scenic beauty, or architectural significance. In this context, it becomes essential for the institutions responsible for preserving and managing these sites to adopt thoughtful mediation strategies — both in terms of communication and spatial design. One such strategy is the creation of visitor centers: architectural structures that not only receive guests but also educate and guide them. These buildings act as interfaces between the site and its audience, translating the ecological, historical, and cultural values of the place into architectural form.

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