Architecture 101: The Essentials

In 1972, Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown, and Steven Izenour published Learning from Las Vegas, challenging architects to reconsider the underappreciated, largely dismissed commercial landscape in the United States. Their storied distinction between the "duck," a building whose form communicates its meaning, and the "decorated shed," an ordinary structure whose identity is conveyed through signs and symbols, questioned a widely accepted modernist assumption that architectural expression should emerge from form and function. By examining billboards, neon lights, casinos, and the commercial strips of Las Vegas, the authors argued that architecture should study the visual languages of American consumer culture.

"Antarctica is known through narratives," states Victoria Nuviala Antelo during the lecture on Inhabiting the Extreme: An Architectural Biography of Antarctica, presented at the Buenos Aires International Architecture Biennial. Indeed, throughout architectural history, numerous stories, experiences, ways of inhabiting, and building practices have often been excluded from official narratives. Buried beneath thick layers of ice, the history of Antarctic architecture tells a story of impermanence. The ice surrounding the continent expands and contracts each year, doubling its surface area, while the species that inhabit it migrate and return according to their life cycles. Ice covers structures as katabatic winds erase the traces of more than 200 years of human presence. Explorations, settlements, architectural interventions, and ways of inhabiting remain concealed within one of the most extreme landscapes on the planet.

A different social order is easier to imagine when it sits far from the one that already exists. In Latin America, that distance has often been territorial. Parts of the region have repeatedly been treated as places where another world could begin. These places were never empty.

Every evening when we get home, without ceremony, we perform a small rite. We arrive at a door, we open it, and we step through into a space that belongs to us in a way no other space does. It is such a mundane act that we rarely notice it has a structure at all, and yet philosophers and anthropologists have written entire books describing these psychological structures. Interestingly, visual works such as the animated worlds of Studio Ghibli seem to reflect this dynamic to create worlds which contain architecture and layouts that provide a path to escape by tapping into our memories in a legible yet enchanted form.

A cave in Maharashtra can now be entered without travelling to it. Through a virtual reality experience developed around Ajanta, visitors can move through a digitally reconstructed version of the caves from somewhere else entirely. The project raises an architectural question: if architecture is experienced through movement, scale, sequence and perception, what happens when those experiences can be recreated outside the physical site? IITM Pravartak's Digital Ajanta project uses 3D scanning, filming, modelling and virtual reality to document the caves and translate that record into an immersive experience.

Historically, the way we design has been closely linked to the way we build. Architecture moved through physical testing, trial and error, projection drawings, mock-ups, and physical models: each introducing a new layer of abstraction, but still remaining tied to material, scale, and construction. The introduction of CAD significantly changed this dynamic. At first, it was largely understood as the computerization of precise geometry for construction. Over time, however, digital tools moved earlier into the design process, replacing sketching, physical trial and error, model-making, and other forms of thinking that had once kept scale and material close at hand.

Throughout the history of architecture, the circle has been associated with multiple meanings—from the cosmic geometry of ancient temples and the oculus of classical buildings to the rose windows of Gothic cathedrals and the portholes of ships. However, in the 20th century, the circle acquired a new cultural meaning. As aviation, space exploration, and technological innovation transformed the way society imagined the future, circular forms began to evoke machines, spacecraft, capsules, and even new forms of habitation.

Since the 2008 crash, a scatter of small practices (none more than fifteen years old and none large enough to need a manifesto in the traditional sense) have arrived, independently of one another, at some version of the same refusal: to sound too certain, too soon, in a discipline that had spent the previous decade selling confidence as a finish. They would probably resist being filed under one heading, but the coincidence itself is that something about practising architecture after 2008 made innocence look like the only posture worth trying.

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.

The Pyramid of Tirana opened as a museum to Enver Hoxha in October 1988, three years after his death and three years before the regime collapsed. In the decades that followed, it served as a radio station, a conference venue, a nightclub, and a base for NATO during the Kosovo war. In 2023, MVRDV reopened it as a park and technology school, adding steps to the façades so that the building could be walked over. The inauguration was timed to the Western Balkans Summit on 16 October, a date that some critics pointed out was Hoxha's birthday. Two projects of national self-definition, thirty-five years apart and built on opposite political premises, have used the same structure.

In the heart of Ahmedabad's Navrangpura district in India sits the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium. More than just a cricket ground, the stadium stands as one of India's earliest experiments in modernist public architecture. Built in the decades following the country's independence, the structure has not only become an engineering landmark, but also a major public space within Ahmedabad's urban fabric. Despite the building's architectural and historical significance, as well as its deep involvement in daily community life, it has suffered significant physical degradation as a result of decades of poor maintenance and lack of funding. That fragility is precisely why it has drawn international attention. In 2020, the World Monuments Fund (WMF) placed the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel Stadium on its World Monuments Watch, a global list highlighting cultural heritage sites facing urgent preservation challenges. 

The Arts and Crafts movement is often remembered as an architectural style defined by handcrafted details, an intimate scale, natural materials, and a rejection of excess and industry. Its influence is frequently traced through visual characteristics that continue to appear in contemporary architecture and interiors, from exposed timber and crafted joinery to an emphasis on texture and permanence, yet reducing the movement to an aesthetic vocabulary overlooks its far more significant contribution. For William Morris, Philip Webb, John Ruskin, and their contemporaries, architecture was a question of how things were made, who made them, and whether the process of making could cultivate dignity, meaning, culture, and beauty.

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.

In a slim volume with a yellow-edged cover, recently published by the Porto-based imprint Circo de Ideias, the architect Paulo Martins Barata (a founding partner of Promontório) makes a deceptively bold claim that the architecture produced in Europe since the Great Recession belongs to neither of the two camps that structured the twentieth century's fiercest disciplinary debate.

When we think of façades, we rarely think of them as habitats. We see them as the elements that separate interior from exterior, regulate temperature, reduce noise, and protect buildings from external conditions. They give architecture its visual language, but they are also expected to keep the outside world at a distance. In doing so, façades have often been understood as barriers: surfaces that define where human comfort begins and where the environment is meant to remain outside.

For much of the twentieth century, architectural culture was shaped by the pursuit of lightness. Steel structures and curtain walls reduced the building envelope to a thin layer separating interior from exterior, while façades became smooth, continuous surfaces where windows were cut as precise openings within an abstract plane. But for centuries, buildings were conceived as bodies of mass; walls possessed depth, windows were recessed within thick masonry, and space was often experienced as something carved from the solidity of construction. In recent years, several contemporary projects appear to revisit this older spatial logic, reintroducing thickness as an architectural condition through deep openings, monolithic volumes, and heavy envelopes.

Modern cities are running on performance indicators. They move millions of people each day, concentrate capital, separate land uses, and sustain complex systems of logistics and consumption. In that sense, the city functions as a system to be continually adjusted and optimized. 

Deep in western Honduras, within a valley near the Guatemalan border, lies the ancient Maya city of Copán. Flourishing during the Classic period between the fifth and ninth centuries CE, the city developed as a regional epicenter through trade networks, dynastic politics, and monumental architecture. Today, the site is designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its extensive architectural remains, including stepped pyramids, sculpted stelae, and ceremonial core. Over a century of systematic archaeological research has documented its urban morphology, revealing distinct residential districts, civic spaces, and systems of movement and visibility.