Domestic workers in Hong Kong and Singapore are the city's quiet infrastructure. In Hong Kong alone, there are a total of roughly 300,000 domestic workers, serving a portion of the approximate 2.7 million households. Their care labor sustains dual-income family routines: childcare, eldercare, cooking, cleaning, and the everyday logistics that make professional life possible. Yet the people who hold this balance together remain largely invisible in policy—and, crucially, in space.

On Sundays in Hong Kong's financial district, that invisibility becomes visible. Elevated walkways and podium forecourts—underused on weekends—turn into ad-hoc commons. With cardboard mats, small tents, towels, food and water, and a music speaker or two, domestic workers assemble places to sit, rest, and socialize. These improvised rooms in the city are often their only chance to exercise spatial agency—something they rarely have in the homes they maintain or in formal public infrastructure. In the absence of sanctioned, serviced places for rest, quieter bridges and passages become practical stand-ins.

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Historically—like other cultural forms—architecture has been documented, shared, and promoted primarily through print. Books, journals, and magazines carried the discipline's arguments and images, and because architectural practice relies so heavily on visual communication, printed journals created a bridge between academic publications and commercial magazines. Through the postwar decades, beautifully produced volumes curated a collective point of view, signaling what the field broadly considered discussion-worthy or exemplary.

Across major cultural centers, a handful of publications shaped this discourse: Their perspectives were typically sophisticated, professional, and carefully edited—distilling an unruly global output into a small constellation of remarkable projects. The system arguably privileged certain practices and geographies, but it also amplified architecture for wider audiences. Buildings began to lodge in public imagination; cultural travel—journeys taken expressly to experience architecture—moved from rarity toward ritual.

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Architecture's design process has always been shaped by the tools at hand. We once drew with pen and ink on fragile sheets, copied by blueprint and guarded against smudges and tears; then Mylar arrived, making revisions and preservation easier and nudging drawings toward a leaner, more deliberate economy of lines. Computer-aided drafting followed, speeding coordination and changing how we think about scale and precision. Today, AI adds another layer—gathering information in seconds and spinning images on command—promising new efficiencies while raising fresh questions about authorship and craft. What we make, and how we make it, has evolved with each tool; the history of our methods is the history of our ideas.

Beginning in the post-war era, Mylar (developed in the 1950s) eased drawing reproduction and hastened the shift from blueprint to whiteprint processes. Before Mylar, simply preserving drawings—keeping an idea intact, legible, and undamaged—was a significant task. Post-war design priorities often leaned toward efficiency, simplicity, and an industrial minimalism aligned with reconstruction needs. The tools reinforced this: architectural work remained predominantly hand-drawn, where every line took time to lay down and even more time to erase. That labour sharpened the economy of drawing; each stroke had to earn its place.

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In preserving architecture, there are many possible approaches—ranging from treating a building as a static monument, meticulously restoring it in situ to the point of limiting public access, to more adaptive strategies that reprogram and modify interior spaces while retaining key architectural elements such as materiality and structural form. Yet one method stands apart, both in ambition and in controversy: to deliberately dismantle a building—brick by brick—meticulously label and document each part, and store it until a new site, purpose, or narrative emerges. Then, to reassemble it anew, possibly for an entirely different use. Though the original context is lost, this strategy aims to preserve cultural significance through transformation rather than stasis. This is the story of Murray House in Stanley, Hong Kong.

Originally constructed in 1846 as officers' quarters for the British military in Central, Murray House was one of the earliest examples of neoclassical architecture in Hong Kong—a unique and enduring trace of the city's colonial past. Its robust granite colonnades and symmetrical façade stood as a symbol of classical permanence. During the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong in 1941, the building's function was repurposed as the command center for the Japanese military police. It survived the war and continued to house various government departments throughout the postwar decades.

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Architecture has historically produced many iconic buildings shaped by singular visions—often designed unilaterally for users, communities, and cities. While this top-down approach has enabled strong formal coherence and conceptual clarity, it has also prioritized authorship over engagement. The result: projects that may be celebrated as visionary, yet often feel disconnected from the everyday realities of those who inhabit them.

Designing for others is inherently complex. As architects, we are frequently tasked with creating environments for communities with whom we may have no personal or cultural familiarity. This distance, however, can offer valuable objectivity. It allows us to engage diverse perspectives with fresh eyes, critically analyzing the needs and constraints of multiple stakeholders. Through this process, the discipline of architecture has advanced—pushing boundaries in spatial thinking, material innovation, and structural experimentation.

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In contemporary interior architecture, service provisions—mechanical, electrical, HVAC, plumbing—are almost always treated as elements to be concealed. Thickened wall cavities, extensive dropped ceilings, and, in regions where solid construction such as brick or concrete prevails, furred-out walls are routinely employed to hide these systems. This approach has become so normalized that it often forms the starting assumption for spatial planning, inherently constraining imagination and reducing the range of spatial possibilities. The priority shifts towards covering-up, rather than exploring how these systems might coexist visibly within a design language.

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While Hong Kong is widely celebrated for its iconic harbor view, glittering skyline, and fast-paced urban lifestyle, its origins tell a different story—one deeply rooted in its relationship with water. Before transforming into a dense, vertical metropolis, Hong Kong's architectural identity was closely tied to its maritime context. Today, the city is often associated with slender, glass-clad towers that symbolize modernity. While visually striking in their pursuit of height and form, many of these buildings appear disconnected from their immediate environment, often overlooking natural site conditions, ecological responsiveness, and contextual sensitivity.

Historically, however, this was not the case. Hong Kong's earliest built environments—rural fishing villages in areas like Tai O, Aberdeen, and Shau Kei Wan—emerged through organic, community-driven spatial practices that engaged closely with their surroundings. These coastal and riverside settlements developed architectural systems tailored to the marine environment and to the rhythms of fishing life. Villages were sited around water, and construction strategies were adapted to fluctuating tides, terrain, and social use.

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