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Architects: Coarchitecture, Jacques Plante, in situ atelier d'architecture
- Area: 8500 m²
- Year: 2019


Every twelve years, the banks of the Ganges at Prayagraj become one of the largest cities on Earth — and then disappear. The Maha Kumbh Mela draws over 400 million pilgrims across six weeks, requiring the construction of a full urban infrastructure: pontoon bridges, field hospitals, kilometers of temporary roads, a grid of tent cities visible from space. When the festival ends, it is dismantled entirely. No gathering in human history produces a more complete architecture of movement; built for arrival, engineered for transience, and designed to leave no permanent trace. The Kumbh Mela is exceptional in scale, but not in condition: movement has become a defining spatial problem of the century.
This month, ArchDaily explores Architectures of Movement: Land, Borders, and the Politics of Belonging, a theme that examines how mobility reshapes architecture's relationship to territory, ownership, and identity. The topic does not treat movement as a crisis to be managed, but as a fundamental lens through which to reconsider what buildings, cities, and borders actually do: who they accommodate, who they exclude, and what they make permanent.

A building material rarely begins where architecture encounters it. By the time concrete reaches a construction site, its limestone has already been quarried, processed, and transformed. Timber arrives long after the forest. Glass appears detached from the sand from which it was made. By the time materials enter construction, much of the landscape and industry that produced them has already disappeared from view.
Across India and the SWANA region, another material supply chain is becoming visible. Rice husks, coconut fibres, sugarcane bagasse, and date palm residues, once treated as agricultural leftovers, are increasingly entering architecture as insulation, composite panels, fibreboards, and cement substitutes. Rice mills, coconut plantations, sugar factories, and date farms are increasingly becoming part of the architectural supply chain.


In 1743, a small cabin suspended by ropes was installed in a courtyard of the Palace of Versailles for the private use of King Louis XV. Manually operated by servants hidden from view, the so-called "flying chair" allowed movement between floors without stairs, and unknowingly introduced one of the central questions of modern architecture: how to move people vertically in a way that is efficient, safe, and integrated into the building.
The mechanization of this principle, with the introduction of a safety elevator in the early 1850s, paved the way for an unprecedented urban transformation. Without the elevator, the skyscrapers of Chicago and New York in the 1880s would have been unfeasible not because of structural limitations, but because of access. The elevator made it possible to build higher, and it also defined the logic of how these buildings would operate, where their cores would be placed, how their lobbies would be organized, and who could reach which spaces.

On June 30, 2026, Portuguese architect Eduardo Souto de Moura received the 2026 UIA Gold Medal, the highest distinction awarded by the International Union of Architects, during a ceremony held at the Basílica de la Sagrada Família in Barcelona. Presented as part of the 2026 UIA World Congress of Architects, taking place from June 28 to July 2, the award recognizes Souto de Moura's sustained contribution to architecture through a body of work defined by contextual sensitivity, material precision, and a lasting influence on contemporary architectural culture.


On the occasion of the 250th anniversary of the United States' Declaration of Independence, the World Monuments Fund has announced a new list of ten heritage places representing the country's history. The special initiative, titled "Irreplaceable America," recognizes historic places across the country whose preservation is considered "essential to the richness and complexity of American history," spotlighting urgent preservation needs. From the oldest botanical garden in the country to I.M. Pei's modernist Dallas City Hall, the selected sites bear witness to Indigenous heritage, artistic experimentation, and public health, colonial, and Black history.

While human life depends heavily on plants for the medicines, building materials, and fuel they provide, they also play a vital role in many ecological processes. From climate regulation through carbon dioxide absorption to soil fertility and the purification of air and water, plant diversity offers opportunities to address some of the most pressing challenges of this century, including food security, energy availability, climate change, and habitat degradation. In this context, botanical gardens act as living refuges that foster innovation, adaptation, and human resilience. But what can architectural practice learn from botany and its methods?




For some time now, it has become common for us to ask where what we consume comes from. We check labels, look for local producers, and investigate supply chains in an attempt to understand the impact of our habits—on our own health and on the planet.
In architecture, however, this question still remains relatively marginal. We often know who designed a building, we are familiar with its finishes, the manufacturer of its window frames, the brand of its cladding systems, and even its energy performance—but we almost never ask where the tons of material that made its existence possible came from.