In Latin America, the ground is rarely just a surface to build on. It can be a river edge, a steep slope, a humid forest floor, a floodable landscape, or a territory under ecological pressure, and in many cases, it carries a history of communities that already knew how to respond to it, building on stilts, on platforms, over water, long before contemporary architecture asked the same questions.
These projects continue that conversation. They engage with conditions that move, absorb, erode, and grow, rather than treating the ground as something to level or control. Elevation allows architecture to adapt without fully taking over: water can pass below, vegetation can remain, and slopes can keep their original condition. In each case, the decision to rise is tied to something specific: water, humidity, topography, vegetation, or ecological recovery, and the knowledge of how to build within it and not against it.
Bolete Lounge BIO® by Andreu World x Patricia Urquiola. Image Courtesy of Andreu World
When walking into a large living space, a hotel lobby, or an open-plan workplace, the first thing that can be noticed is not what divides the space, but what holds it together. There are rarely clear boundaries, no obvious rooms, no strict partitions, yet the space still feels organized. Some areas invite a pause; others dictate movement; others foster community. The transitions are subtle, but legible.
At the same time, these interiors are expected to do more. They must accommodate constant change, withstand intensive use, and respond to environmental pressures by reducing waste, extending lifespans, and avoiding frequent replacement. The question is not only how a space looks, but how it performs over time. What is actually doing the heavy lifting?
At Salone del Mobile 2026, the 64th edition of the fair unfolded at a moment of transition for the global design industry, where questions of production, collaboration, and long-term performance are reshaping established formats. Held at Rho Fiera Milano and extending across the city during Milan Design Week, this year's edition brought together over 1,900 exhibitors while introducing new curatorial and strategic layers. Among the most significant developments was the first public iteration of "Salone Contract," a long-term initiative developed through a master plan by Rem Koolhaas and David Gianotten of OMA. During the event, ArchDaily's Managing Editor Romullo Baratto and Editor-in-Chief Christele Harrouk met with David Gianotten. In the conversation, Gianotten reflected on how the project responds to broader shifts in design practice, moving from object-based production toward integrated systems and collaborative frameworks.
Museum of Furniture Studies project visualizations, 2026. Image Courtesy of COBE
The Museum of Furniture Studies was founded in 2017 in Stockholm, showcasing a collection of more than 1,300 furniture pieces by over 44 international designers. The museum's physical location closed in 2022, maintaining its visibility through its Digital Archive for Design Furniture until it was acquired by IKEA in 2024. This week, Danish architecture studio Cobe announced the transformation of a former IKEA warehouse in Älmhult, Sweden, into a new home for the museum. The project involves converting a closed storage facility into an open and accessible space for design while preserving its industrial structure. The building is scheduled to open in early February 2027.
Some cities grow through continuity, others construct themselves through moments of acceleration. Baku, in Azerbaijan, seems to operate somewhere in between. Its historic core, the Icherisheher, still holds a spatial logic that resists expansion: dense, enclosed, defined by proximity and repetition. But just beyond its walls, the city begins to shift. Scale increases, distances expand, and the relationship between buildings becomes less about continuity and more about visibility.
Over the past two decades, Baku has been the site of a deliberate effort to construct an image of itself. Oil wealth provided the means, but architecture became one of its primary tools. Projects such as the Heydar Aliyev Center by Zaha Hadid Architects or the Flame Towers are symbols of this transformation, their forms designed to circulate as much through media as through the city itself. They are precise, controlled, and highly resolved objects. But they also introduce a different urban logic, one that privileges singularity over continuity and positions architecture as an agent of representation.
What happens when you choose reuse over demolition? In Østbirk, Denmark, a 30-year-old timber warehouse has been transformed into a 14,000-square-meter world-class innovation hub for nearly 500 VELUX employees. This article explores how the LKR Innovation House project challenges conventional building practices, preserves material legacy, and offers practical lessons for architects working with existing structures. A new book documents the process through essays, interviews, and photographs.
"My only concern is that my work must have a positive impact on the communities in which it is embedded," states Francis Kéré in his book Francis Kéré: Building Stories. His own life story, the context in which he was raised, and the experiences he has lived through all shape his approach to architecture. It is a commitment that extends to people and the places they call home—one that values materiality, collective learning, and the exchange of knowledge. Discovering the stories behind projects such as Primary School in Gando and Naaba Belem Goumma Secondary School inspires reflection on how to design spaces that truly serve humanity.
Francis Kéré's story begins in a village in sub-Saharan Africa and extends across many places. Gando was the setting of his first education, where he absorbed the essence and principles that later shaped the core values of his career alongside influences from other cultures. The structure of Gando is formed by different families who organize themselves, according to established customs, within courtyards scattered across the savanna. Growing up in this remote village in the Burkina Faso savanna fosters a strong sense of community, made tangible by the understanding that each resident of every courtyard is part of the life of the whole.
Architectural drawings operate through abstraction. Plans, sections, and elevations condense spatial, constructive, and dimensional information into a set of codes that make sense within the discipline, but are not always immediately legible to those unfamiliar with this language. In some projects, this condition can create a recurring tension between what is designed and what can be understood. This intensifies when the tools used do not correspond to the scale and complexity of the design. In contexts such as single-family homes, renovations, or additions, overly complex software can introduce noise, delays, and unnecessary dependencies, making proposals harder to develop and convey.
Each spring, Milan Design Week 2026 transforms the city into a distributed platform for design culture, where prototypes, product launches, and research-driven explorations coexist across multiple scales, including a growing presence of architect-designed objects. Held from April 20 to 26, the 2026 edition once again centered around the 64th Salone del Mobile.Milano at Fiera Milano, complemented by a network of independent venues and exhibitions throughout the city, an expanded landscape that is further reflected in ArchDaily's accompanying selection of installations and exhibitions from this year's program.
Netherlands-based, nature-inspired architecture practice ORGA has completed the design of a carbon-negative neighborhood in Marknesse, a village in the Dutch province of Flevoland. The project comprises 12 affordable rental homes built with a high percentage of biobased materials. Its main objective is to develop scalable housing solutions that minimize CO₂ emissions and reduce reliance on fossil resources. The design reinterprets the traditional Dutch brick house, known as the "Delft Red" typology, characterized by red brick facades and orange-red roof tiles, while introducing wooden chimneys that double as habitats for bats. Commissioned by housing association Mercatus, the prototype was built in the first half of 2025 and is intended for first-time buyers and low-income households.
The image is familiar, a façade layered with brise-soleil, light softened into a patterned shadow, interiors kept cool without machines. It appears as intelligence made visible, architecture that understands the sun. This image is rarely examined closely. The same devices that temper heat also organize access, distribute comfort, and depend on particular forms of labor. What looks like a climatic response is also a decision about who gets relief from heat, and how. Tropical modernism, often reduced to a visual language of shade and porosity, emerges instead as a set of situated practices where climate, labor, and power are negotiated differently across contexts.
At the scale of the element, tropical modernism begins as a technical problem. In hot climates, solar radiation is not incidental but constant, requiring buildings to mediate light, heat, and air before they reach the interior. Architects like Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew approached this with a level of precision that resists any reading of these elements as decorative. Shading devices are calibrated according to solar angles, orientation, and seasonal variation. Brise-soleil are dimensioned to block high-angle sun while admitting diffuse light; overhangs extend just enough to prevent direct gain at peak hours; openings are aligned to encourage cross-ventilation. Mid-century research further tested these strategies, measuring temperature reductions and airflow improvements. In this sense, the language of tropical modernism is not symbolic. It is performative: each projection, void, and screen is part of an environmental system.
Architecture is often understood as a matter of enclosure. Walls define space, separating interior from exterior and establishing clear limits. Yet across many projects in Latin America, this distinction becomes less precise. Rather than operating as closed objects, buildings often remain open, allowing air, light, and movement to pass through them.
This condition is tied to more than form. Across the region, architecture has long responded to climates marked by heat, humidity, strong solar exposure, and seasonal rainfall, as well as to building cultures shaped by adaptation, collective labor, and direct engagement with the environment. In these contexts, fully sealed interiors are not always the most effective response. Space is often organized through shade, ventilation, and intermediate zones that regulate rather than isolate.
Blur Building, Lake Neuchatel, Yverdon-les-Bains, Switzerland, 2002. Image Courtesy of Diller Scofidio + Renfro
Architecture is traditionally chronicled through the persistence of the solid. We define the discipline by the weight of the lintel, the mass of the pier, and the resistance of the wall. Even when lightness is invoked, it is usually understood as a subtractive act, the thinning of a section or the precarious reduction of a load. Yet there is a parallel history, less visible and harder to isolate, in which the primary material of construction is not what occupies space, but what moves through it.
To treat air as a medium is to move past the binary of the envelope. The boundary between the interior and the world ceases to be a line of absolute separation and becomes, instead, a site of filtration and pressure. We begin to see the building as a thermal valve, a series of gradients where moisture, velocity, and heat are not merely background "conditions" to be mitigated by mechanical systems, but are the very substances being shaped.
"The story of architecture is not wrong," argued Lesley Lokko in her introduction to the Venice Architecture Biennale 2023, "but it is incomplete." For most of the 20th century, architectural history spoke in one tongue: a singular, dominant narrative centered on a handful of movements, names, and cities, whose reach and influence appeared universal precisely because alternative voices were rendered inaudible. Design movements, however, rarely traveled intact across borders. They were frequently absorbed, resisted, reinterpreted, and transformed depending on geography, politics, economy, climate, and available materials. What arrived in one place as doctrine became, somewhere else, something entirely different.
This month, ArchDaily explores 20th Century Design in Flux: A Global Reinterpretation of Architectural History, a topic that traces the century's design languages not as a single canon but as a constellation of evolving, intersecting, and continually reinvented trajectories. The theme challenges the assumption that regional and non-Western architectures were merely derivative — positioning them instead as sites of active reinterpretation, where global ideas were filtered through local materials, climates, labor, and cultural practices to produce something entirely distinct.
Each year, the ArchDaily Next Practices Awards highlights emerging studios that are expanding the scope of architecture through new methods, materials, and ways of working. Selected from a global pool, these practices reflect a shift away from singular definitions of the discipline, engaging instead with broader questions of construction, environment, and social impact. Rather than operating within fixed categories, many of these studios position themselves across fields, combining design, research, and production to respond to contemporary conditions.
Named one of the winners of the 2025 edition, Hand Over is a Cairo-based practice operating across design, construction, and research. Founded by Radwa Rostom, a civil engineer with over fifteen years of experience in development and sustainability, the studio works through an integrated design-build model, engaging with earth construction, local materials, and community-based processes.
Henning Larsen, in collaboration with KHL Architects & Planners, Arup, and Flaviano Capriotti Architetti, has proposed the design for a 14-story residential building in Taipei for Continental Development Corporation. The project, titled Northern Lights, has a gross floor area of 3,464 square meters and is scheduled for completion in 2029. Situated adjacent to Daan Park, the development includes 46 residences and is positioned within a dense urban environment while maintaining proximity to one of the city's primary green spaces, which is described as a key contextual reference in the design.
Xu Tiantian is the founding principal of DnA_Design and Architecture, an interdisciplinary practice that addresses both the physical and social dimensions of the contemporary living environment, across scales. Born in 1975 in Fujian, China, she received a Master of Architecture in Urban Design from the Harvard Graduate School of Design and a bachelor's degree in architecture from Tsinghua University in Beijing. Her recent work focuses on rural revitalization through a strategy she describes as "architectural acupuncture," understood as small-scale, site-specific interventions designed to activate local culture, agriculture, and tourism. These interventions, primarily concentrated in China's rural regions, have been recognized by UN-Habitat as a global model for urban–rural integration. In this interview with Louisiana Channel, she reflects on the role of the architect, questions architecture itself and the concept of beauty, explains her working methodology, and emphasizes the spatial dimension of nature.
At the turn of the 20th century, parallel, yet connected movements around the world ushered in a new style and architectural era. From the Arts and Crafts in England, Art Nouveau, then Art Deco in France, or the Jugendstil in Germany/Austria, these design and artistic developments spread around the world and took on different forms depending on their context. The basis remained similar, though, with a focus on artisanal value and craftsmanship; the use of wood, glass, and various metals; the integration of organic forms into the exterior facade and interior structure; and the refined incorporation of ornamentation as an architectural element, often as vegetation or geometric patterns.
Sylphy by Boss Design x Okamura. Image Courtesy of Boss Design
For all the spatial experimentation of the contemporary workplace, one condition has remained largely unchanged: people are still sitting. Studies suggest that office workers spend up to 89% of their working day seated—close to 36 hours a week—despite decades of ergonomic awareness. As workplaces become more flexible, social, and design-led, this contradiction becomes harder to ignore.
The office is no longer organized around a single mode of operation, nor by a fixed spatial logic. Work has become multifunctional, shifting between collaboration and concentration, collective exchange and individual focus. In response, architecture and interior design are moving away from uniform, repetitive layouts towards environments that reflect the variability of human behavior.
Renaissance of the Real by Annabelle Schneider and Snøhetta, Milan Design Week 2026. Image Courtesy of USM
Across cultural platforms, heritage sites, and institutional developments, this week's news reflects how the built environment is reshaped through processes of transformation, reinterpretation, and public engagement. From archaeological reactivations and adaptive reuse strategies to museum expansions and large-scale international gatherings, architecture operates across multiple temporalities, balancing preservation with contemporary use and spatial continuity with evolving cultural programs. Within this context, ArchDaily's selection of installations and exhibitions from Milan Design Week 2026 highlights how design weeks increasingly function as curatorial frameworks for experimentation, while global events and institutional projects continue to expand the formats through which architecture is produced, shared, and debated.
Saint-Denis is a commune in the northern suburbs of Paris, France, known for the Gothic Basilica of Saint-Denis and the Stade de France. At one corner of Place Jean-Jaurès in its historic center, adjacent to the Basilica, stands the Îlot 8 housing complex, a Brutalist landmark designed by architect Renée Gailhoustet. Built between 1975 and 1986 to provide workers' housing in the city center, countering the trend of relegating social housing to peripheral areas, the project is now at the center of a controversial redevelopment plan. Often referred to as "residentialization" and restructuring, the proposal involves the demolition of significant parts of its original design. This reconversion is part of the French Nouveau Programme National de Renouvellement Urbain (NPNRU) and is justified by concerns over structural deficiencies, safety, and maintenance.
Daryan Knoblauch's work sits at the intersection of architecture and live cultural production, with a focus on how space is made legible through tension and atmosphere. Rather than treating temporary work as a lesser category of architecture, Knoblauch approaches installations, stages, and event architectures as full disciplinary problems—where enclosure, stability, light, and movement must be resolved with the same seriousness as any building, often under tighter constraints and faster timelines.
Across projects, a consistent thread is the productive tension between high-modern precision and an intentionally raw clarity of assembly. Membranes and lightweight systems are not deployed as surface effects, but as structural and spatial instruments—tuned to wind, load, and occupation, and calibrated to produce a sublimity that is felt as much as it is seen. Here, ephemerality is not simply a duration, but a design condition: temporality makes forces—weather, wear, performance—more visible, and demands an ethic of making that is both exacting and adaptable.
Scientifically, glass is defined as an amorphous solid, meaning its atoms are not arranged in a regular crystalline structure. This is why the material is often described as a "liquid frozen in time." This structural configuration explains one of its most distinctive qualities: transparency. Without a crystalline lattice capable of scattering light, radiation passes through the material with relatively little interference. Although it often appears delicate, this same structure also allows glass to achieve significant mechanical performance. With industrial processes such as tempering, lamination, and specialized coatings, the material can reach high levels of strength, safety, and environmental performance.
