The Edo-Tokyo Museum has reopened to the public following a multi-year renovation, unveiling a series of scenographic interventions and installations designed by OMA under the direction of Shohei Shigematsu. Marking the firm's first public project in Japan, the commission forms part of the broader renewal of the museum's iconic building by Metabolist architectKiyonori Kikutake. Originally opened in 1993 as the first museum dedicated to the history of Tokyo, the institution traces the city's evolution from the Edo period to the present day, and the new interventions aim to strengthen its relationship with contemporary audiences while preserving the identity of Kikutake's architecture.
This week's selection of architecture news and projects invites a rethinking of the social, cultural, and environmental role of design across diverse scales and geographies. From community-led efforts to preserve modern heritage, such as the campaigns surrounding the Îlot 8 housing complex in France and a renewed photographic attention toward Croatia's Split 3 district, to broader reflections on architecture's agency in the face of climate change and social transformation, many of the featured works question how architecture adapts over time and how it engages with collective life. This week's compilation also highlights architects expanding their practice beyond buildings through furniture, lighting, and object design, while three projects explore immersive relationships between landscape, climate, and observation in remote or environmentally sensitive contexts, from Arctic Norway to the oasis environments of the United Arab Emirates and the desert landscapes of Saudi Arabia.
Southeast Asia is often narrated as a kind of architectural playground—an arena where modern and contemporary ideals have been tested at full scale through singular, iconic buildings. One can trace an easy lineage through names that have helped shape the region's skyline imagination: Paul Rudolph's Lippo Centre in Hong Kong and The Concourse in Singapore, I.M. Pei's OCBC Centre and Hong Kong's Bank of China Tower, Norman Foster's Supreme Court of Singapore and the HSBC Main Building in Hong Kong, Ron Phillips' Hong Kong City Hall, Moshe Safdie's Marina Bay Sands. Yet this familiar history—told through objects, colonialism, authorship, and signature forms—risks missing a deeper, more consequential layer of influence: the planning logics and infrastructural frameworks that have quietly structured how these cities expand, densify, and distribute everyday life.
The figure of Tithonus in Greek mythology offers a reflection on the paradox of permanence. In pleading with Zeus for immortality, he forgot to request eternal youth, resulting in a life of endless aging. Over time, his body deteriorates, turning immortality itself into a burden. The narrative suggests a fundamental contradiction: permanence, when detached from the capacity for change, ceases to be a desirable quality. Instead of stability, it produces accumulated decay without adaptation.
Historically, architecture has often fallen into the "Tithonus Trap." Materials are specified to resist time, systems are detailed to prevent change, and buildings are conceived as fixed images. Yet, this pursuit of the static rarely survives the reality of the elements. Between the moment of design—often associated with precise and controlled representations—and the lifespan of a building, surfaces inevitably weather, shift in appearance, and lose their initial finish. Aging is often interpreted as loss rather than as part of the architectural language.
Modernism in architecture was perhaps the first truly global building design philosophy. Established at the beginning of the twentieth century, its early proponents were heavyweights from Europe, such as Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, and Mies van der Rohe. In 1923, Le Corbusier published his seminal written work, usually translated into English as Towards a New Architecture. Newness, and a rejection of history, was one of the central tenets of modernism. This manifested itself in the use of new materials such as steel and concrete, which gave rise to an unprecedented freedom of formal expression.
By the middle of the twentieth century, Modernism was adopted across the world by countries recovering from the Second World War and overcoming the legacy of colonialism. It became the language of reconstruction and of nation-building, reinforced by its rejection of the past. Its emphasis on technology suited this brave new world of industry, large-scale development, and new building types. Fast-forwarding to a century after its birth, Modernism itself has become the legacy. As buildings progressively become obsolete or reach the end of their design lives, there is an appreciation of the heritage value of these structures, both as designed items and as symbols of the spirit of the age in which they were built. Here, we look at five Modernist buildings from five regions going through adaptive reuse proposals. Where form once followed function, here, the function must follow the form.
Located approximately 300 kilometers north of the Arctic Circle, on the island of Andøya in northern Norway, The Whale by Dorte Mandrup is currently under construction along the coastline of Andenes. The small settlement is situated near Bleiksdjupa, a deep-sea canyon that brings marine life close to shore and has contributed to the region's role as a whale-watching destination. Recent construction images show the building emerging from the rocky shoreline, maintaining a low profile that follows the contours of the site. The surrounding context, including the existing lighthouse and residential structures, situates the project within an active coastal environment.
On March 12, the Chilean architect of Croatian descent, Smiljan Radić Clarke, was awarded the 2026 Pritzker Architecture Prize. The jury highlighted his "unorthodox approach to design," which "may initially appear unusual, unexpected, even rebellious; yet, far from producing alienation or estrangement, his anti-canonical stance feels fresh and unprecedented. It conveys the unmistakable sensation of encountering something new." This recognition will be celebrated with the annual Pritzker Architecture Prize Laureate Lecture and Panel Discussion, to be held in Mexico City at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM), at the Faculty of Architecture's Teatro Estefanía Chávez, on May 12, 2026.
Even the most distracted passerby is captured by the monumental presence of this structure in Valencia’s established Benimaclet neighborhood. Before it, any attempt at rational apprehension quickly dissolves. Its constructive logic seems to escape comprehension as the space unfolds through tensions and deviations, where nothing is immediately given. Between masses of concrete and the insurgent force of vegetation, an almost choreographic play of planes, angles, and rotations emerges. In the vertigo of this encounter, one realizes that the building was not made to be understood, but to be experienced.
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.
