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.
The trajectory of glass in architecture reflects the technological evolution of humankind. For centuries, it was a fragile, opaque material, restricted to small openings in churches or aristocratic residences, limited in size, with uneven transparency and a largely secondary role. With the Industrial Revolution and advances in manufacturing processes, this condition changed dramatically. From artisanal and imperfect stained glass, we now have a wide range of architectural applications, from fully glazed skyscraper facades to translucent pedestrian bridges, lightweight roofs, smart partitions, and movable elements. One of the most surprising uses, once thought to be impractical, is the direct interaction of glass with large volumes of water. Today, we see pools with transparent walls or floors that project out from buildings, float above streets, or visually merge with their surroundings, creating striking sensory experiences. A remarkable feat, especially considering that for a long time, glass was considered too fragile for submerged environments.
Buildings are physical, static, and permanent. To imagine them otherwise often requires some creative thinking. The industry has operated with this strong association between structures and permanence, unknowingly constraining perspectives on building life cycles. Innovations in building materials have opened up avenues for cirular design that challenge the long-held notion that buildings must endure indefinitely. Emerging approaches promote architecture that ebbs and flows with nature.
At the Steirereck am Pogusch restaurant, architecture and gastronomy seem to speak the same language: that of the sensitive transformation of raw materials. Local ingredients, like leaves, roots, and flowers, are turned into surprising dishes, where simplicity is elevated to the extraordinary. Likewise, the building, far from being a static structure, offers a unique tactile and visual experience. One of the most intriguing elements is the use of stabilized foamed aluminum panels that, rather than evoking the coldness and rigidity often associated with metal, have been manipulated to transcend their conventional characteristics. They seem to breathe, with their porous, textured surfaces absorbing and reflecting light, creating a play of shadow and brightness that evokes the lightness and organic quality of natural materials.
The history of household appliances closely mirrors the transformation of the modern home and domestic life throughout the 20th century. Rooted in the technical advances of the Industrial Revolution and driven by urban electrification, these devices were created to mechanize everyday tasks such as cooking, cleaning, and food preservation. A major milestone in this evolution was the Frankfurt Kitchen, designed in 1926 by Austrian architect Margarete Schütte-Lihotzky. Considered the precursor of the modern kitchen, it incorporated efficiency principles inspired by the scientific organization of labor, with optimized spaces and integrated equipment to streamline domestic chores. Developed for social housing in Frankfurt, this kitchen embodies the functionalist spirit of the Bauhaus and establishes a direct connection with German design innovations, a context in which Gaggenau would also solidify its identity, combining technical precision and aesthetic sophistication.
What if we imagined buildings as living systems, designed for assembly and disassembly with minimal impact? A form of open, modular, and adaptable architecture designed to evolve with its surroundings, responding to seasonal changes and on-demand needs instead of remaining static. At first glance, the idea seems paradoxical, as many buildings were constructed to last, designed to endure, resist the effects of time, and avoid demolition. Because of this, reversing or undoing could be seen as a setback. But what if that way of thinking no longer fits every scenario?
Mathematics shows us how, from just a few elements, we can generate nearly infinite combinations and how each new arrangement can completely transform the original set. Theories like chaos and complexity point in the same direction: small initial variations, such as a choice, a deviation, or a new element, can trigger profound and unexpected changes. In architecture, this manifests concretely in the daily work of a designer. The choice of materials and how they are combined may seem like a merely aesthetic or functional decision, but it holds the power to redefine a building's language, the path a project will follow, and its relationship with the surroundings and its inhabitants.
It is commonly accepted that the appearance of moss or vegetation on the surface of a building is a sign of neglect, deterioration, or poor maintenance. And this assumption is not entirely unfounded: small cracks in traditional materials can lead to water infiltration, thermal bridging, or even structural pathologies. But what if this organic presence were not a flaw, but the result of coevolution between architecture and the environment? This reversal of perspective was masterfully anticipated by Lina Bo Bardi in the Casa Cirell, in São Paulo, where mosses, orchids, and spontaneous vegetation were part of the architectural intent from the initial sketches. The use of raw stone cladding and exposed surfaces allowed the house to blend into the terrain. More recent projects have further deepened this relationship between built matter and plant life, such as Patrick Blanc's vertical gardens and Stefano Boeri's Bosco Verticale, which transform façades into vertical ecosystems, redefining the architectural envelope as a living infrastructure capable of filtering pollutants, absorbing heat, and fostering biodiversity.
The future of the architecture industry holds countless possibilities, as research in the domain progresses. One innovation is the ability for structures to be rendered acoustically invisible, absorb earthquake energy, or harvest electricity from the sounds around them. Qualities of this nature can help redefine the functionality and sustainability of buildings. Architects and scientists are at the forefront of this creation. What makes this possible are metamaterials that could offer alternative methods of designing good buildings.
Think of a chair designed for a meeting room. Its height, upright posture, and material language are deliberate choices—they signal presence, focus, and a degree of formality in a space where important decisions are made. Replace that chair with a low, plush sofa and the entire spatial dynamic shifts: focus softens, posture relaxes, and hierarchies dissolve. Every chair, stool, or sofa is more than just a way to fill space. It is a device designed for a specific type of interaction, a defined posture, a particular rhythm of use. When these purposes are ignored, even the most carefully curated interiors can feel fragmented or incoherent. Furniture plays an invisible yet fundamental role in shaping how people behave, how they feel, and what kind of work happens.