Materials & ProductsExclusive Articles, from ArchDaily

Spain combines cultural diversity and a long constructive tradition that is directly reflected in its architecture. The country is home to influential schools, a consistent body of theoretical production, an active generation of architects, and a well-established construction industry with strong capabilities in innovation, standardization, and export. Contemporary Spanish architecture is marked by a plurality of approaches and by the articulation between material tradition, technology, and performance.

Stones hold time. Some are formed by the sudden solidification of magma, like basalt, whose dense structure and dark color result from rapid cooling at the surface. Others, such as granite, are born slowly in deep magmatic chambers, where gradual cooling allows the growth of visible crystals, creating unique patterns and colors. There are also sedimentary rocks, formed by the compaction of mineral and organic debris over millions of years, with tones that reflect their chemical composition and the environment in which they were deposited. Transforming this geological diversity into a single continuous surface, terrazzo is a cementitious or mineral composite in which fragments of marble, granite, quartz, basalt, and other lithologies are embedded in a binding matrix, then polished to reveal the structure and luster of each particle. Unlike a homogeneous surface, terrazzo acts as a mineralogical showcase, where each aggregate retains its identity while contributing to a coherent whole, which can become a floor, wall cladding, or even furnitures.

In Jacques Tati's Mon Oncle (1958), architecture itself becomes a character: sliding doors, an automatic fountain, gates that emit mechanical sounds, devices that both enchant and frustrate the inhabitants. The comedy arises precisely from the fact that these seemingly trivial systems silently shape everyday life. More than six decades later, the observation seems prophetic. In contemporary buildings, countless systems work autonomously and discreetly, going unnoticed when they function well. Among them, automatic doors, traditionally seen as secondary elements, are emerging as part of a new "invisible infrastructure": connected, efficient, and intelligent systems that support comfort, sustainability, and operational resilience.

The capsule wardrobe concept, popularized in the 1970s by Susie Faux, proposes an exercise in synthesis: a compact set of versatile pieces, capable of combining in countless ways to suit different occasions. In visual culture, there are a few metaphors for this: in cartoons like Doug Funnie or Dexter's Laboratory, opening the closet revealed rows of identical clothes, ready to simplify life (and, in the case of animators, the work). In the real world, figures like Steve Jobs turned this logic into a method, adopting a daily uniform to eliminate the small but recurring decision of "what to wear?", freeing up time and energy for more important matters.

Asking questions is the first step toward challenging what we take for granted and opening up new possibilities for planning and building. These questions, valuable in themselves, gain new strength when shared and examined through different perspectives. As they intersect with the experiences of professionals and brands, they weave together viewpoints that enrich the discussion. Design fairs and events around the world have become spaces where these conversations gain momentum, fostering connections and encouraging collaborative dynamics. In this landscape, Colombia has emerged as a hub, serving as a platform that promotes architecture and design across Latin America and the Caribbean while bringing the region's voice to the global stage.

Does architecture alone define how we inhabit a space? It's becoming increasingly clear that it does not. The objects within a space—particularly furniture and other design pieces—not only serve functional purposes but actively shape the spatial and human experience. As schools, homes, and offices evolve to accommodate new ways of working, living, and socializing, furniture accompanies these transitions, prompting conversations that extend beyond functionality and engage the corporeal dimension implied in its use.

Surfing is, without a doubt, one of the most visually striking and fascinating sports. A fluid choreography that combines strength and delicacy, like a dance on the waves, gathers enthusiasts across the world's oceans. Yet, behind this image of freedom and connection with nature, the sport also carries contradictions. It is a symbol of outdoor life and respect for the ocean, but on the other hand, it is marked by territorial disputes over waves and by an environmental footprint that rarely receives the same attention given to its aesthetics. In times of climate crisis, this paradox becomes even more evident. Surfing depends directly on the health of marine ecosystems, the very ones most affected by pollution and global warming. This tension has been pushing a new generation of shapers, architects, and material designers to seek alternatives, from plant-based and recycled foams to the reuse of industrial waste, in order to reconnect the sport with its ecological dimension.

Work and learning environments have undergone profound transformations in recent decades. In offices, cubicles and compartmentalized rooms have given way to open, collaborative layouts. In schools and universities, traditional classrooms with rigid layouts, blackboards, and rows of desks have been replaced by more dynamic, flexible, and interactive spaces. In both contexts, the goal was to encourage integration, creativity, and constant exchange. But this openness has also introduced new challenges: increased distractions, sensory overload, and the difficulty of finding moments of focus or introspection. The more we remove barriers in favor of fluidity and collaboration, the more essential it becomes to provide moments of quiet, intimacy, and sensory balance for those who need to self-regulate. The challenge is both spatial and psychological, raising a fundamental question for architecture: how can we support connection and withdrawal, activity and silence, at the same time?

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.

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.

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.