AD Narrative: The Latest Architecture and News

The courtyard at Rozzol Melara measures two hundred meters on each side, which makes it larger than any square in Trieste. Two L-shaped blocks of exposed concrete enclose it, one of them twice the height of the other, climbing from seven to fifteen stories as the ridge falls away toward the gulf four kilometers below. Concrete pylons spaced every fifteen meters carry the blocks down to a slope they never quite touch, opening porticoes deep enough to walk through, and above them the facades resolve into loggias at the scale of a single room. Seen from the coastal road, none of that is legible; one can only see a gray line drawn across the hills.

Inside the enclosure, the Istituto Autonomo Case Popolari of Trieste built the rest of a city. The 648 apartments account for less of the plan than the schools, the post office, the health center, the parish hall, the twenty-odd shops and the two-level garage, all reached through covered streets that run the length of the blocks and cross the court in a raised walkway, so that the route from a front door to a grocery or a classroom passes through collective space without ever going outdoors. Twenty-nine architects worked on it under the coordination of Carlo Celli, drawing on sociological studies commissioned before the project.

What sustains the purpose of architecture that has never been occupied? For decades, this was the question surrounding the Namibe Cinema-Studio, built on the coast of Angola in 1973. Conceived as a film screening venue, the building remained closed and abandoned, never fulfilling the role for which it was created. Yet it withstood the passage of time, becoming an icon of the Angolan landscape and architecture, until finally screening its first film nearly fifty years later.

But what kept this building alive in the collective imagination for so long? Was it precisely its bold, singular architecture that was able to give meaning to a project that never had a use?

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When African countries gained independence from European colonial rule during the mid-twentieth century, nation-building involved more than establishing new governments and political institutions. Newly sovereign states also needed to establish a built identity that could distinguish them from their colonial past, and architecture became an important tool in this process. Across the continent, monumental civic buildings, universities, conference centers, and cultural institutions were commissioned to embody progress and national unity. Yet this created a fundamental contradiction: many of these buildings adopted modernist and Brutalist architectural languages that had originated in Europe, while some were even designed by architects from former colonial powers. The Maison du Peuple in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, provides a particularly revealing example of how an architectural language associated with Europe could be appropriated and transformed into an expression of postcolonial independence.

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As pillars of our cultural landscape, many masterpieces of the Modern Movement are often demolished, abandoned, or altered regardless of the context in which they are located. Preserving this architectural legacy highlights the role of architecture and design professionals in shaping built environments where continuity between the past and the present reinforces communities' sense of place. On Long Island, a coalition of advocates came together to save the A. Conger Goodyear House, which dates to 1938 and was designed by Edward Durell Stone. Considered one of the notable examples of the International Style in the United States, the house attracted significant attention throughout the 1940s, appearing in specialized journals, books, and popular publications.

What role do transportation infrastructures play in shaping the culture and economy of societies? How do they bridge cultural, ideological, and geographic divides while transforming the lives of the communities they serve? One of the most remarkable iron structures of the European Industrial Revolution stands west of Bilbao, spanning the Nervión River at the mouth of the Ibaizabal Estuary. It is the Bizkaia Bridge, which combines nineteenth-century ironworking traditions with the innovative use of lightweight alternating-twist steel cables. Recognized as the world's first transporter bridge, it became a model for similar structures built throughout Europe, Africa, and the Americas.

Constructed to connect the opposite banks of the Nervión estuary, it was the first bridge in the world to allow ships, passengers, and vehicles to cross simultaneously by means of a suspended gondola. This innovative system improved communication between two small seaside resort towns while allowing uninterrupted navigation through one of Europe's busiest inland ports.

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Very close to the Mexican border, in the southwest corner of the United States, lies the city of San Diego. Its urban history began in 1769 with the arrival of a Spanish military expedition commanded by Gaspar de Portola, which marked the first permanent settlement in the territory that was known as Alta California. However, unlike the more formally urbanized administrative capitals and towns of Mexico and Central America, San Diego was conceived as a frontier outpost. Today, it has become the second-largest city in California, just after Los Angeles, and its urban grid tells a story about the Hispanic heritage that is intertwined with the contemporary cultural environment of the United States.

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Even the most distracted passerby is captured by the monumental presence of this structure located in the established Valencian neighborhood of Benimaclet. Before it, any attempt at rational comprehension dissolves. The constructive logic seems to slip away as space unfolds in tensions and detours where nothing is immediately revealed. Between masses of concrete and the insurgency 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 designed to be understood, but to be experienced.

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Architectural history often advances through iconic gestures or technological breakthroughs, yet some works remain influential precisely because they resist spectacle. Built between 1972 and 1974 in Sint-Martens-Latem, Belgium, the Van Wassenhove Residence stands as one of those quiet but decisive projects. Conceived as a single, continuous concrete volume set within a wooded landscape, the house challenges conventional ideas of domestic comfort, privacy, and spatial hierarchy. Its presence is direct and uncompromising, yet it avoids monumentality, positioning itself instead as a lived structure shaped by everyday rituals and long-term inhabitation.

The house was designed by Juliaan Lampens, a figure who operated largely outside the dominant architectural narratives of his time. Working mostly in Flanders and often on private commissions, Lampens developed a body of work centered on radical spatial reduction, material honesty, and an almost ethical approach to construction. The Van Wassenhove Residence is frequently described as his most complete work, not because it introduces new ideas, but because it consolidates many of the principles that run consistently through his career.

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Today, the urban form of Los Angeles is characterized by 20th-century sprawl and extensive automotive infrastructure. However, the physical reality of the city's original core reveals a more complex history that is deeply rooted in Hispanic heritage. In fact, Los Angeles did not originate from the standardized American land system that defines most of the United States' territory. Instead, it is a product of the Spanish urban tradition in the Americas, which followed a structure repeated across major cities on the continent. The intersection of these systems created a layered urban geometry and history that remains visible in the city's contemporary street patterns.

When Los Angeles was founded in 1781 as a pueblo by Felipe de Neve, it was an outpost of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Viceroyalties were political divisions of the Spanish territories in America, and by the late 18th century, New Spain was vast. It stretched from southern Costa Rica, all the way north to Alta California, bordering the east at the Mississippi River and the newly independent United States of America. At this time, Mexico City functioned as the primary administrative and economic hub, leaving frontier regions like Alta California to rely on a specific triad of settlements: missions (religious), presidios (military), and pueblos (civilian).

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Set within the mountainous landscape of Zabbougha, Lebanon, Capsule Retreat by EAST Architecture Studio is shaped through the process of its making. The project unfolds through material decisions, on-site adjustments, and evolving conditions, allowing construction itself to guide its spatial logic.

The construction process played a central role in defining the project. Built during a period marked by economic collapse, material shortages, and ongoing disruption in Lebanon, the house developed through continuous adaptation. With no general contractor, the architects took on an expanded role, coordinating craftsmen, testing ideas directly on site, and responding to changing constraints. In this context, sociopolitical conditions became not only a challenge but a catalyst for rethinking design. "We were constantly testing ideas on site", say the architects and founders of EAST Architecture Studio, Charles Kettaneh and Nicolas Fayad, "tailoring these decisions economically while exploring what local craft could offer."

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In Iran's capital, Tehran, movement defines the city. Each day, millions navigate a landscape shaped by highways, traffic corridors, and dense urban blocks. Over decades of rapid expansion, infrastructure has become the dominant language of development. Streets prioritize vehicles, sidewalks function as narrow conduits, and many public spaces operate primarily as passages rather than places of gathering. Across parts of West Asia, ongoing conflict has also reshaped the region's urban landscapes, where significant architectural environments have been damaged or transformed. Within this broader context, the preservation and creation of everyday civic space becomes increasingly meaningful. Recognized with the Aga Khan Award for Architecture, the Jahad Metro Plaza project, designed by KA Architecture Studio, demonstrates how modest infrastructural interventions can reshape the civic life of a city.

The metro network plays a central role in Tehran's daily life. It connects distant districts and sustains the rhythms of the metropolis. Yet the places where the underground city meets the surface are rarely conceived as civic environments. Metro entrances typically appear as fragments of infrastructure: stairs descending below ground, surrounded by railings, kiosks, and improvised circulation paths. They function efficiently as thresholds, but seldom as places to remain.

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Symbols of technological development and urban density, tall buildings as we know them today emerged in the late 19th century, primarily in the United States, in response to rapid growth in urban commerce and the need to expand cities without consuming more land. The term skyscraper, for instance, was coined in the 1880s and originally referred to buildings of about 10 to 20 stories—an impressive height at the time.

However, the idea of building vertically is far older than steel-and-glass skyscrapers suggest. Long before the Industrial Revolution, several societies were already experimenting with vertical urbanization as a solution to spatial constraints, territorial defense, or environmental adaptation.

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Founded in 2015 in Ahmedabad by Anand Sonecha, SEAlab is a practice shaped by a slow, contemplative engagement with place, proportion, and participation. Recognized as one of the winners of the ArchDaily 2025 Next Practices Awards, the studio builds with simple materials and local techniques, pursuing environments that are experienced as much as they are seen. This ethos became particularly tangible in Gandhinagar, where the School for Blind and Visually Impaired Children did not begin as a purpose-built institution. The school had been operating from an existing primary school building, with classrooms stacked above dormitories and twelve children sharing a single room. Space was limited, and so were growth opportunities. The new academic building was required to expand capacity, improve living conditions, and support greater student independence.

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Perched above the cliffs of Crimea, the Druzhba Thermal Sanatorium appears less as a building than as a landed spacecraft. Its circular forms, suspended decks, and spiraling ramps evoke a scene from Andrei Tarkovsky's Solaris (1972), where architecture and psychology merge into a single landscape. Built between 1978 and 1985 by Igor Vasilevsky, the complex was conceived as a thermal resort for workers of the oil industry, part of the Soviet Union's extensive network of sanatoria dedicated to health and recreation.

Beyond its function as a place of recovery, Druzhba, meaning "friendship", embodied a broader political and aesthetic ambition. It sought to merge technological prowess with the restorative ideals of socialist modernity, translating collective well-being into concrete form. Rising from a steep coastal slope overlooking the Black Sea, its massive structure defies gravity, supported by a central concrete core from which radial wings extend like the blades of an enormous gear. Seen from a distance, it feels simultaneously mechanical and organic, a hybrid of infrastructure and landscape.

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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.

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On the southern edge of Vienna, a cluster of monumental terraces rises above the cityscape, their stepped balconies cascading with greenery and their rooftops crowned with swimming pools. This is the Wohnpark Alterlaa, one of the most ambitious social housing projects in postwar Europe. Designed by Austrian architect Harry Glück and built between 1973 and 1985, the complex was founded on a provocative principle: municipal housing should not only provide affordable shelter but also offer the pleasures and amenities usually reserved for the wealthy.

With more than 3,000 apartments housing nearly 9,000 residents, Alterlaa was conceived as a city within the city. Alongside its residential towers, it incorporates shops, schools, medical services, and cultural facilities, ensuring that daily life can unfold entirely within its boundaries. The project reflects a moment of optimism in Vienna's urban policy, when housing was understood as infrastructure for collective well-being rather than as a commodity.

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As Syria is emerging from over a decade of conflict at the time of writing, it is an opportunity to rediscover its architectural gems. Just to the north of the country's principal port city of Latakia is a Modernist creation that is the Center for Marine Research. Its pyramidal structure is situated on a prominent headland surrounded by sea on three sides. To the east is a bay with hotels and beaches while to the north and west is the open Mediterranean Sea reaching Turkey and Cyprus beyond. Despite its importance both as a research institution and as a piece of architecture, it lies abandoned and isolated today.

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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.

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