Symbols of technological development and urban density, tall buildings as we know them today emerged in the late nineteenth century, particularly in the United States, as a response to the rapid expansion of urban commerce and the need to grow cities without occupying additional land. The term skyscraper, for instance, was coined in the 1880s and originally referred to buildings with around 10 to 20 stories—an impressive height for the time.
However, the idea of building vertically is much older than the steel-and-glass skyscrapers of modern cities might suggest. Long before the Industrial Revolution, some societies were already experimenting with forms of vertical urbanization as a response to limited space, territorial defense, or environmental adaptation.
In most cases, the power of decision lies with specialized professionals—historians, museologists, architects, geographers. But on what basis are these decisions made? Can the complexity of history be reduced to a checklist? Or, more fundamentally, which version of history underlies these choices?
A visual hierarchy is therefore established, guiding the eye and determining what should be seen, in what way, and with what emotional intensity, defining how the user interprets the surroundings. In this context, design strategy goes beyond aesthetic choice and begins to operate as a construction of the phenomenological experience of space. By selecting a specific fragment of the horizon through a controlled opening, or by dissolving the limits between inside and outside with large glazed planes, architecture begins to act as a lens. It can emphasize the smallness of the human scale in relation to the vastness of the territory or, conversely, domesticate nature, incorporating it into everyday life.
Can architecture be built from food? Between the fire that warms, the smells that spread, and the bodies that gather around the table, the apparent banality of cooking and eating reveals itself as a choreographed dance of spatial appropriation and belonging. These gestures organize routines, produce bonds, and transform the built environment into lived place. The kitchen—domestic, communal, or urban—thus ceases to be merely a functional space and affirms itself as a territory of encounter.
"Feeling at home" is more than just an expression—it is the sense of warmth and comfort that transforms a space into a true refuge. To achieve this, elements like color, texture, lighting, and materials play a crucial role in shaping an environment that fosters relaxation and well-being. Backed by research in environmental psychology and neuroscience, the connection between physical spaces and human behavior highlights how architecture can directly influence the atmosphere, turning chaos into tranquility.
How the "Espacios de Paz" project is transforming community spaces in Venezuela. Pinto Salinas -- Oficina Lúdica + PKMN. Image Courtesy of PICO Estudio.
In Latin America, encounters do not necessarily arise from grand architectural gestures or monumental urban plans. They emerge from the in-between, from intermediate spaces: the courtyard, the veranda, the sidewalk, the shared corridor. These areas, often considered residual or informal by the traditional architectural discipline, are precisely where everyday life builds bonds.
From this Latin American culture comes a spatial logic in which daily life is organized in a relational and expansive way. Practices such as sitting at the front door, occupying the sidewalk, and playing in the street produce a lived city that extends beyond the formal limits of design.
How did a material conceived for bridges, factories, and large-scale structures make its way to the living room bench, the apartment bookshelf, the café table? For centuries, metal was associated with labor, machinery, and monumentality—from the exposed structures of 19th-century World’s Fairs to the productive logic of modern industry. Its presence in domestic interiors is not self-evident but rather a cultural achievement: the transformation of an industrial material into an element of everyday, intimate use, in close proximity to the body.
Throughout history, fish markets have played a singular role in mediating the relationship between city and sea. From the port agoras of antiquity, through medieval markets established along docks and estuaries, to the large covered structures of the 19th century, these spaces have been instrumental in shaping coastal cities. More than simple infrastructures for food supply, fish markets express cultural practices and modes of occupation rooted in proximity to water, consolidating themselves as intense and highly social public spaces. Within them, architecture, landscape, and social dynamics intertwine directly, revealing how the built environment can translate maritime traditions and reinforce the identity of coastal and port communities.
Every architectural project is the result of deliberate choices. Beyond form and function, buildings embody technical, political, and cultural decisions that shape their relationship with both their surroundings and the people who inhabit them. ArchDaily’s AD Narratives series explores these processes by bringing together accounts that trace projects from initial conception to built realization. In parallel, the AD Classics series turns to works of historical significance, presenting not only the stories behind these buildings but also technical drawings that allow for a deeper, more informed reading of their architecture.
Castles and fortresses often rise from strategic, commanding positions when standing alone or integrated into urban and rural landscapes. From above, they overlook the city, bearing in their imposing structures the weight of history. With their original functions now limited to contemplation, these spaces have been undergoing revaluation and reintegration into everyday urban life. Once symbols of military or political power, they are now taking on new roles through contemporary interventions that engage with their heritage without erasing their past.
In a global landscape marked by accelerated change, 2025 emerged as a decisive year for architecture—not only because of the major events that animated the international circuit, but above all because of the voices that stood out within them. From the Venice Architecture Biennale to Expo Osaka, pavilions and installations from the Global South ceased to function as mere exhibition gestures and instead asserted themselves as territories of memory, resistance, and imagination, articulating narratives that expand the horizons of contemporary architectural debate.
Across these works, tradition and future move side by side: ancestral materials reappear in reimagined forms, historical wounds are given sensitive expression, and social urgency is translated into proposals that challenge established ways of building and inhabiting the world.
It is a vast rural expanse spread across the planet, assuming different expressions depending on context—from Asian rice fields to African agricultural settlements, from small European farms to the large estates and agro-extractive communities of the Americas. Yet, beneath this plurality, is there something that unites them? And, more importantly, how might architecture illuminate this quiet thread?
Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan and one of the oldest cities in Central Asia, has long been shaped by a hybrid culture. Located at a strategic point along the Silk Road, the city developed an architectural tradition defined by inner courtyards, domes, decorative ceramics, and Islamic geometric patterns. The annexation by the Russian Empire in the 19th century introduced administrative buildings, orthogonal squares, and straight avenues, creating a dual urban fabric — between the “old” Eastern city and the “new” European one — in which contrasts and overlaps became the norm.
During the Soviet period, when Tashkent became the capital of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic and received intense migration from across the union, the city was transformed into a modernist showcase. The coexistence between Islamic heritage and the ideology of socialist progress found a new inflection point with the 1966 earthquake, whose destruction triggered a large-scale reconstruction effort involving architects from across the USSR. Massive housing complexes, cultural institutions, and monumental buildings emerged, reinterpreting local motifs through ideological and technological language. It was in this context that the Palace of Peoples’ Friendship took shape.
Every city carries, woven into its fabric, fissures that resist capture: ruins, vacant lots, leftover infrastructures, and gaps that persist at the margins of the official narrative. These are places that slip through the logics of planning, emerging as unexpected counter-scenes within a territory that seeks to present itself as coherent.
In the rush to organize and predict, we rarely pause to notice what emerges from such unforeseen conditions. Yet it is precisely in them that new forms of urban life begin to take shape. Free from pragmatic control or predetermined codes of conduct, these spaces reveal another layer of the city — one that, in its continual state of latency, opens room for new modes of appropriation.
Giardino delle Sculture / Carlo Scarpa. Image by Jean-Pierre Dalbéra [Flickr under license CC BY-NC 2.0]
When we think of Venice, familiar images come to mind: Piazza San Marco, winding canals, and the reflection of Byzantine domes on still waters. Few, however, imagine that among those reflections lies a discreet chapter of Italian modernity — the architecture of Carlo Scarpa.
