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.
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.
"Dance, dance… otherwise we are lost." This oft-cited phrase by Pina Bausch encapsulates not only the urgency of movement, but its capacity to reveal space itself. In her choreographies, space is never a neutral backdrop, it becomes a partner, an obstacle, a memory. Floors tilt, chairs accumulate, walls oppress or liberate. These are architectural conditions, staged and contested through the body. What Bausch exposes — and what architecture often forgets — is that space is not simply built, it is performed. Her work invites architects to think not only in terms of materials and forms, but of gestures, relations, and rhythms. It suggests that architecture, like dance, is ultimately about how we inhabit, structure, and emotionally charge the spaces we move through.
Historically, architecture and dance have operated in parallel, shaping human experience through the body's orientation in space and time. From the choreographed rituals of classical temples to the axial logics of Baroque palaces, built space has always implied movement. The Bauhaus took this further, as Oskar Schlemmer's Triadic Ballet visualized space as a geometric extension of the body. This was not scenery, but spatial thinking made kinetic. In the 20th century, choreographers like William Forsythe and Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker integrated architectural constraints into their scores, while architects such as Steven Holl, Diller Scofidio + Renfro, and Toyo Ito designed buildings that unfold as spatial sequences, inviting movement, drift, and delay.
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.
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.
In architecture, the effect of color is rarely neutral. It has the power to calm or energize, to expand or compress space, to unify or divide. Far from solely being a decorative layer, color is a tool that architects, interior designers, and designers use to structure atmosphere and perception. Alongside light, material, and proportion, it is one of the most precise instruments available for guiding spatial experience. When treated deliberately, it becomes a system — one that allows designers to articulate relationships between spaces, establish moods, and create continuity across various scales.
Color is not limited to paint. Surfaces, materials, finishes, and technical elements all carry chromatic weight. Yet in practice, color often remains uneven across the finest details — switches, sockets, intercoms — frequently appearing as neutral interruptions. This gap highlights a broader question: if color is to be considered a true architectural tool, should it not extend to every detail, no matter how small? Addressing this, German manufacturer JUNG has extended Le Corbusier's Polychromie Architecturale to electrical installations, allowing essential building components to speak the same language as the surrounding architecture.
Overprovision can be seen as an architecture strategy through the lens of resilience—making spaces adaptable to changes, reinterpretations, and future needs. However, could overprovision also offer a productive lens for rethinking spatial design? Are there parallels in architectural theory or practice that align with this concept, as explored by notable figures in the discourse on space?
This question becomes particularly relevant in residential design, especially in regions like Hong Kong or Tokyo, where the demand to maximize space is a cultural and practical norm. Designers are frequently tasked with "making use of every inch" for storage or function, reflecting a tendency among residents to accumulate belongings disproportionate to their living spaces.
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.
Founded in 2022 by art advisor Filipe Assis, ABERTO is an exhibition platform celebrating the convergence of art, design, and architecture in Brazil and beyond. Staging exhibitions in private and public modernist spaces, its past editions have highlighted the global connections forged by Brazilians from the 20th century onwards. Following three exhibitions in São Paulo, "ABERTO 4 – Brazil After Le Corbusier" marks its first international edition, taking place at Le Corbusier's Maison La Roche in Paris, from 14 May to 8 June 2025. The exhibition presents around 35 design and art pieces by Brazilian artists, spotlighting Le Corbusier's seminal connection to Brazilian modernist architecture and exploring his influence on contemporary Brazilian creatives. Previous editions of ABERTO have featured over 100 artists from Brazil and abroad in houses designed by Oscar Niemeyer (2022), Vilanova Artigas (2023), and Ruy Ohtake and Chu Ming Silveira (2024).
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.
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.
Amidst the traditional streets of Antwerp, where centuries-old townhouses stand as remnants of a historic European city, a stark white volume quietly asserts its presence. Maison Guiette, designed by Le Corbusier in 1926, is an anomaly in its surroundings — a bold statement of modernity in a context that had not yet embraced it.
While today it is overshadowed by the architect's more famous works, this house holds a unique place in history: it was Le Corbusier's first built project outside France, a precursor to his later architectural experiments, and a manifestation of his emerging Modernist principles. Despite its modest scale, it was a manifesto in built form — a house that encapsulated the essence of an architectural revolution.
Through the post-war 20th century, the Global South saw much influence from foreign architects, often invited by local governments to bring their expertise and visionary thinking. Sought as a symbol of modernity, buildings designed by "starchitects" elevated the image of nations. Decades later, as local industries advance in capabilities, the desire for foreign talent continues to exist. Is this a natural result of globalization or is the continued presence of international architects in the Global South a persistent dependency?
Architecture and its atmospheric qualities have long been a subject of discussion, yet reaching a consensus on the matter remains elusive. This is largely because spatial experience is deeply personal—rooted in emotions, sensory perceptions, and individual preferences that are difficult to articulate in words alone. The way one perceives, feels, and interacts with a space adds another layer of complexity, making it challenging to define and agree upon its atmospheric impact. Nevertheless, architects and designers continuously strive to shape environments that are not only functional and comfortable but also capable of evoking emotions and leaving a lasting impression on their occupants.
Modernism played an undeniable role in the renewal of architectural ideals, contributing a new attitude toward understanding new ways of living, construction techniques, and aesthetics, marking profound changes in the general perception of the world. In Argentina, while it is complex to define modern architectural production periodically, it is possible to mention some architects who began, starting in the 1920s, to engage with these ideas. The intellectual contributions and architectural creations of Alejandro Virasoro, Alberto Prebisch, Ernesto Vautier, Fermín Beretervide, Wladimiro Acosta, Alejo Martinez, Antonio and Carlos Vilar, Juan Kurchan, Jorge Ferrari Hardoy, Antonio Bonet, Abel López Chas, Eduardo Catalano, Eduardo Sacriste, and Amancio Williams, among others, often included original approaches associated with new modes of thought, manifesting an architecture resulting from the analysis of the local and regional conditions of their cities.
Modernism, a movement that sought to break away from traditional forms and embrace the future, laid the groundwork for many technological and digital advancements in contemporary architecture. As the Industrial Revolution brought about mass production, new materials, and technological innovation, architects like Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, and Mies van der Rohe championed the ethos of "form follows function" and a rational approach to design. Their principles resonate in the digital age, where computational design and high-tech materials redefine form and construction.
The 20th century's modernist ideals — efficiency, simplicity, and functionality — created a foundation for architects to experiment with structural clarity and material honesty. High-tech architecture, which emerged in the late 20th century, evolved from these principles, merging modernism's clean lines with advanced engineering and technology. This paved the way for parametricism and algorithm-driven design processes, revolutionizing architecture and enabling complex forms previously thought impossible.
Wars, decolonization, economic crises, civil movements, and industrial-technological revolutions: the 20th century was a period of radical and far-reaching transformations. These upheavals reshaped societies and redefined how people expressed their evolving aspirations, with architecture leading the way. Machines and industrialization promised technological progress and modernization, advocating for a clean break from the ornamented, historically rooted styles of the past while embracing a vision focused on functionality, efficiency, and innovation. This shift, embodied by modernism, introduced new concepts, methods, and material uses—all shaped through experimentation.
https://www.archdaily.com/1026242/formal-and-material-experimentation-key-lessons-from-modernist-architecture-pioneersEnrique Tovar
