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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
Private residence in Varese / Franzetti Primi Architetti Associati
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.
The schematic diagram to develop a wall section based on eco-resilient tectonics.
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.
Located in the south of the "Land Down Under", Melbourne is a city that resists simplistic definitions. While refined Victorian façades confront graffiti-covered laneways, meticulously maintained public gardens coexist with former industrial warehouses transformed into cafés, studios, and cultural spaces. It is precisely in this contrast between deliberate planning and spontaneous appropriation that the architectural essence of the metropolis resides.
Its history begins with the Aboriginal Kulin people, who for millennia inhabited the banks of the Yarra River, developing complex systems of land management, spirituality, and social organization. With the arrival of British colonizers in 1835, the chapter of the modern city began, a process marked not only by urban growth and development but also by violence, forced displacement, and cultural erasure. The effects of this legacy are still felt today, even in the face of contemporary efforts toward recognition and reconciliation.
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.
Desi Training Center / Studio Anna Heringer. Image Courtesy of Studio Anna Heringer
"The times they are a-changin'," sang a young Bob Dylan in 1964, capturing a nation at a crossroads, gripped by the civil rights movement and overshadowed by Cold War tensions. Nearly a decade later, David Bowie turned that gaze inward with "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes," a fragmented meditation on identity, reinvention, and personal transformation, echoing the collapse of countercultural ideals and the acceleration of globalization. By the 1990s, Tupac Shakur brought the focus back to the streets and urban centers. In "Changes," he laid bare the raw realities of racial injustice and systemic violence, offering not resignation but a forceful indictment: "That's just the way it is."
Three voices, three decades, three ways of confronting change. If art (here, through music) has historically served as both mirror and outcry in times of upheaval, then it is fair to ask: how has the construction industry responded to a world in constant flux, a world urgently demanding transformation? In a world shaped by powerful economic forces, architecture is increasingly challenged to reconcile social responsibility with market realities. Today, we face a convergence of planetary crisis and social fragmentation: the planet is warming, inequalities persist and deepen, data multiplies, and identities fracture. In this context, architecture can no longer afford to limit itself to formal experimentation or market-driven imperatives. It is called to rethink with clarity, responsibility, and imagination what we build, with what we build, how we build, and above all, for whom.
Founded in 1870, The Metropolitan Museum of Art — affectionately known as The Met — is one of the world's most important and visited museums, housing over two million works that span five millennia of human history. Located in the heart of New York City, alongside Central Park, the museum is celebrated for its vast and diverse collections, ranging from ancient Egyptian art to European masters and contemporary works. Paintings, sculptures, documents, historical artifacts, and multimedia pieces make up an ensemble that demands meticulously planned exhibition solutions to ensure both preservation and the effective communication of their historical and artistic value.
In 2021, The Met launched one of its most ambitious projects: the renovation of The Michael C. Rockefeller Wing, dedicated to the Arts of Africa, the Ancient Americas, and Oceania. With a $70 million investment, the initiative encompasses curatorial reorganization, oriented by a more regional and historical approach, as well as architectural interventions. The modernization of the galleries includes enhancements to natural lighting, accessibility improvements, and the incorporation of contemporary museographic systems, designed to optimize conservation and the interpretive experience for visitors.
Building a monumental dome without the use of external iron chains or traditional centering was the enormous challenge faced by Filippo Brunelleschi at the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. To demonstrate the feasibility of his proposal and to guide the construction, he relied on a large-scale wooden model that played a fundamental role in studying proportions, the interlocking of ribs, and the innovative arrangement of bricks using the "a spina pesce" (herringbone) system. As an essential technical tool, this model — which is still on display at the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo in Florence — guided the master builders throughout the construction, establishing itself as a seminal example of the value of models in architectural planning, constructive communication, and experimentation.
Haut Pays Bigouden / Pierre Brulé. Image Courtesy of Cupa Pizarras
Inspired by experimental solar houses developed after the 1970s oil crisis, the Passive House certification emerged in the late 1980s as a response to growing concerns about energy efficiency and the environmental impact of the construction industry. Its goal is both simple and radical: to reduce heating and cooling demands to an absolute minimum through passive strategies, controlled mechanical ventilation, and an extremely efficient building envelope — eliminating the need for complex or expensive systems.
The choice of exterior cladding materials plays a strategic role in achieving this performance. Poorly designed surfaces, thermal bridges, or sealing failures can undermine the building's entire thermal logic, especially in demanding climates. This is where rainscreen systems stand out: by creating a ventilated air gap between the cladding and the structural wall, they promote continuous airflow, manage moisture, and enhance thermal stability. Materials that combine performance, durability, and visual appeal are rare — and natural slate from Spain's Cupa Pizarras is a standout solution.
A pavilion in a Biennale serves as a platform for cultural expression, allowing a nation to articulate its architectural identity while responding to global challenges. These national exhibitions reflect how each country interprets the event's central theme through the lens of its own landscapes, histories, and future aspirations, reinforcing architecture's ability to act not only as a built discipline, but also as a catalyst for reflection, transformation, and dialogue. In this context, Montenegro's contribution resonates with particular force. Titled Terram Intelligere: INTERSTITIUM, the pavilion draws on the concept of a newly understood anatomical system of fluid-filled spaces running throughout the human body, facilitating connection and exchange. Once considered dense and inert, the interstitium is now revealed to be a network of dynamic interrelation — a metaphor that the curators use to reframe architecture as an active, living inquiry into natural, artificial, and collective intelligence, in tune with this edition's theme: Natural. Artificial. Collective.
In The Poetics of Space, French philosopher Gaston Bachelard proposes reading architecture as a lived experience, in which each environment carries emotional and symbolic meaning. Reflecting on the house, he places particular importance on thresholds (windows, doors, stairs, attics, basements) as zones of transition and rupture between the intimate and the open, the known and the unknown. For him, the window is not merely a functional opening, but a point of dreaming and contemplation: it is through the window that the inhabitant projects themselves into the world. This perspective inspires a sensitive approach to architectural work, in which boundaries are not limited to separation, but articulate imagination, memory, and desire.
With each of the more than 23,000 breaths we take per day, air travels through the respiratory system into the lungs, where vital gas exchange occurs: oxygen is absorbed, and carbon dioxide is expelled. This involuntary and essential act also triggers another, less visible but deeply impactful process—our perception of smell. As air passes through the nasal cavity, odor molecules come into contact with olfactory receptors located in the olfactory epithelium. These receptors send signals directly to the olfactory bulb, which is part of the limbic system—the area of the brain linked to memory and emotion. Far from being a secondary sense, smell acts as a direct bridge between the environment and our deepest emotional responses. Scents carry a unique power to evoke vivid memories, elicit comfort or immediate aversion, and influence our emotional state almost instantaneously.
Paradoxically, the bathroom is usually both the most compact room in a house and the one with the greatest technical complexity: it's where electricity, cold and hot water networks, sewage, ventilation, and often gas converge. As such, its design must be optimized to accommodate pipes, valves, drains, and connections without compromising aesthetics or functionality. The strategic placement of plumbing points, accessories, cabinets, and lighting should aim to make the space efficient and functional, ideally transforming these typically compact areas into comfortable and visually appealing sanctuaries. Every decision matters — from product selection to the installation height of a shower tray.
