The Design-Build model is an increasingly attractive project delivery method, offering benefits such as enhanced control, reduced risks, cost efficiencies, and quicker completion times. Central to this approach is teamwork and collaboration, contrasting sharply with the traditional method of separate design and fixed-price bidding by contractors. Design-Build naturally motivates all participants to seek ways to boost productivity and quality, ensuring fairness and transparency in costs.
All materials come from somewhere, embedded in a chain of extraction, supply, production, and disposal that, depending on its scale, leaves more or less significant marks on the environment. In architecture, we usually approach this trajectory through the lens of materials' circularity, considering how they can re-enter production cycles rather than become waste. Yet, broadening our view to unexpected places reveals parallel systems where by-products from one industry become resources for another. This approach has found fertile ground in organic waste transformed into biomaterials, with one of the most recent examples being the work of Fahrenheit 180º. Through their installation, "From the Tagus to the Tile", they repurpose oyster shells initially discarded by food systems to create a reinterpretation of Lisbon's iconic tiles.
Concrete is anything but a consensus. Some love it, others hate it. It can feel as tough as granite or soft as velvet — all depending on whose hands are doing the shaping. Treated with engineering precision or a touch of artistic flair, concrete stops being just a material and starts acting alive. It plays with light, surprises with texture, and somehow gives form to silence. Although dense and structural, concrete can take on an almost immaterial presence: light, ethereal, and contemplative. In certain spaces, it seems to disappear, dissolving into the shadows or vibrating with the surrounding light. More than just a construction element, it becomes a language, capable of evoking emotion, spirituality, and time.
In contemporary architecture, façades have evolved beyond their traditional role as protective exteriors—they now serve as powerful expressions of identity, creativity, and sustainability. As the visual gateway to a building, façades play a dual role: safeguarding structures from environmental stressors while enhancing their aesthetic appeal and architectural character.
In recent decades, a quiet revolution has reshaped how we interact with the objects and systems in our daily lives. What once required cranks or rotary mechanisms, and later the press of a button, is now giving way to experiences that are increasingly fluid, intuitive, and touchless. This shift is evident in public restrooms, where minimizing physical contact promotes better hygiene and reduces the spread of pathogens. It also reflects a broader change in paradigms of comfort, accessibility, and efficiency. Touchless devices, once restricted to isolated applications in hospitals, airports, or corporate buildings, have become standard in projects that prioritize user experience and sustainability.
Historically, the concept of childhood as we know it today simply didn't exist and, until the Middle Ages, children were viewed as miniature adults. According to historian Philippe Ariès, it was only from the 17th century onward that childhood began to be understood as a distinct stage of development, requiring specific care, education, and protection. However, this evolving recognition has not been consistently reflected in the design and organization of urban space.
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.
In a time when much global architecture can feel disconnected from local identity, the work of Rafayel Israelyan stands out for being rooted in place, culture, and memory. Working in mid-20th-century Armenia, Israelyan created architecture that is more than functional or monumental; it is culturally resilient. His use of traditional Armenian motifs, materials, and symbolic forms gave his designs a second life after the fall of the Soviet Union, when many buildings across post-Soviet states were abandoned or demolished. Armenia, by contrast, preserved many of his works, likely because their design approach not only served a specific moment in time, but also told a larger story. Long before concepts like sustainability or critical regionalism became popular, Israelyan understood that buildings gain meaning and endurance when they reflect the specific identity and characteristics of their place.
What does it mean to build with care, using what others leave behind? This question shapes the work of the Matter Matters Lab, an initiative founded by architect and researcher Catherine Söderberg Esper during the isolation of the pandemic. Drawing from experiences across cultures and motivated by a personal transformation during motherhood, Catherine began to investigate everyday waste as raw material for regenerative construction systems. Her first experiment involved gluing her own cut hair using white glue, initiating a radically intimate and handmade approach. Since then, the lab has focused on transforming organic waste into low-impact architectural materials, inspired by Indigenous knowledge systems and aiming to break from extractive models in construction. Projects like the Avocado Bricks, made from discarded avocado seeds, exemplify this approach of local, circular, and rooted in the idea of reciprocity between matter, place, and care, offering a new way of building with waste.
Humanity rarely embraces major transformations right away, often held back by fear, skepticism, or attachment to what already works. Gutenberg's press raised fears of misinformation; urban electrification drew warnings from doctors; and office computerization sparked concerns over the devaluation of human experience. Such ruptures often provoke resistance, but they tend to open space for critical reflection and innovation.
The new Arden Station in Melbourne goes beyond its functional role as a transportation hub. Opened as a key component of the Metro Tunnel project, the station expands the city's rail infrastructure by relieving pressure on other lines and improving service frequency and, at the same time, establishes itself as a defining element in the urban transformation of Melbourne's northern precincts. Located on a former industrial site undergoing revitalization, it anchors the future development of a new district projected to accommodate up to 34,000 residents and 15,000 jobs in the coming decades.
As climate uncertainty and ecosystem changes reshape design priorities, architecture plays an increasingly active role in these discussions, rather than merely observing. Within this perspective, the idea of making a "re" encourages a conscious step back to rethink, reconnect, and realign the relationship between buildings and their environments. This approach, central to regenerative architecture, extends beyond specific technologies or scales, encompassing everything from master plans that aim to re-naturalize cities to national pavilions that combine art and science.
The theorist André Corboz, known for his contributions to the critical reading of territory, proposes that the cities should be understood as a palimpsest. That is, a surface continuously rewritten, where traces of previous layers remain visible even after successive interventions. For him, the city is not a static entity, but an organism in constant transformation, where historical, functional, and symbolic layers overlap. This is why working on restoration or rehabilitation projects for historical buildings is particularly complex, requiring careful thought about the approach to be taken: should extensions and renovations seek complete coherence with the original language, or assert themselves as architectural expressions of their own time?
Andanzas y visiones españolas is the book in which Miguel de Unamuno collects his experiences during excursions through Spain's cities and countryside, accompanied by friends and colleagues. More than a precise geographical description, the text consists of narratives in which each region and every feature of the territory leaves a deep imprint on his thought. The literary discourse actively weaves the diversity of setting, climate, and contextualism as foundational threads, presenting the territory not only as a physical place but also as a space for reflection and contemplation. This attentive engagement with the landscape—so diverse within Spanish architecture—also resonates in the built environment, fostering in contemporary practice a sensitive adaptation to the country's varied climatic conditions, both through design strategies and material choices.
The Japan Art Association has named Portuguese architect Eduardo Souto de Moura as the 2025 Praemium Imperiale Laureate for Architecture. Now in its 36th edition, the award honors artists for their lifetime achievements in the fields of Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, Music, and Theater/Film. The Praemium Imperiale was established in 1988 to recognize individuals whose work has contributed significantly to the enrichment of the global cultural landscape. Souto de Moura was recognized for producing architecture that thoughtfully engages with the present moment while maintaining a timeless quality.
At the Bruder Klaus Field Chapel, designed by Peter Zumthor, the construction process involved the direct participation of residents from the small Swiss village of Mechernich. Using an internal formwork made of vertically placed wooden logs, concrete was prepared in small batches and poured manually, day after day, forming layers marked by subtle variations in the mix and application. At the end of the process, the wooden structure was reduced to ashes, leaving the chapel's interior impregnated with traces of fire and revealing a dark, tactile surface. The result was a quiet and deeply meaningful space, where collective action, time, and material transformation became part of the architecture. Centered on locally available resources and manual techniques, this construction method highlights how the choice of materials and building system can shape the experience of a space, reveal the time invested, and embed the culture of a place into the very matter of architecture. In doing so, it offers an example of how construction itself can become a regenerative act, restoring meaning, connecting communities, and honoring material cycles.
In 1982, at a conference on earth building in Tucson, Arizona, an unusual presentation challenged everything architects thought they knew about rural resources. Instead of focusing on construction techniques, the presenter, architect Pliny Fisk III, spread out a series of hand-drawn maps that revealed something extraordinary - rural Texas wasn't resource-poor, as conventional wisdom suggested, but material-rich beyond imagination. The maps showed volcanic ash perfect for lightweight concrete, caliche deposits stretching across vast territories, and mesquite forests that could supply both hardwood flooring and insulation. The revelation redefined prevailing notions of value in architecture.
Neither a passing trend nor a permanent threat: the initial alarm is fading. Artificial intelligence is increasingly being adopted as a strategic tool which, when integrated responsibly, can be highly valuable—especially in participatory urban design processes focused on children and youth.