Traditional building solutions tend to work well in their respective contexts, as they have withstood hundreds of years of testing and improvements, and use techniques and materials available locally. Although globalization and the democratization of access to technology have brought more comfort and new opportunities to humanity, it has also led to the homogenization of solutions in the construction sector and a dependence on global supply chains for construction materials and components. This has also caused a rupture in how knowledge is passed on to new generations and, eventually, the disappearance of traditions.
In particular, the topic of passive cooling solutions for buildings is currently having a resurgence, with an effort to recover ancient techniques used throughout history in locations that have always had to deal with hot climates. This is even more evident due to the high energy costs imposed by artificial cooling, the global warming scenario, and mainly because, among the projections of population growth, a significant portion of megacities will be located in the predominantly hot climates of Africa and Asia. When we think about the future, is it possible to be inspired by the past and apply ancient cooling techniques to contemporary buildings?
On UNESCO's International Day of Light, celebrated annually on May 16, the Daylight Award announced its 2026 laureates. Established to support research into the scientific understanding of daylight and its significance for health, well-being, ecosystems, and architectural design, the award recognizes achievements in two categories: Daylight in Architecture and Daylight Research. This year, Japanese architects Momoyo Kaijima and Yoshiharu Tsukamoto of Atelier Bow-Wow were honored for demonstrating how daylight can shape shared spaces and everyday life, while marine biologists Brittany N. Zepernick, Steven W. Wilhelm, and R. Michael McKay of the United States and Canada were recognized for their research on aquatic microorganisms and their implications for planetary health and biodiversity.
Loud noises, the continuous hum of equipment, abrupt changes in light, or intense reflections often go unnoticed. For neurodivergent individuals, these stimuli can provoke significant discomfort or even intense physical and cognitive reactions. The term "neurodivergent" refers to people whose neurological functioning differs from what is considered typical, encompassing conditions such as autism, ADHD, and dyslexia, as their brain processes information differently, particularly in relation to sensory input, attention and emotional regulation.
Yet light is not only visual, it is neurological. How it enters a space, moves across surfaces, and changes over time can profoundly affect cognitive comfort. Extreme contrasts, glare, direct beam penetration, and rapid variations in brightness require constant adjustment from the visual systems and, for individuals with greater sensory sensitivity, this effort can translate into fatigue, distraction, or discomfort.
Establishing thermal comfort once demanded a far more deliberate and calibrated architectural intelligence—an interplay of orientation, massing, material behavior, ventilation potential, shading, and the ways daylight and surfaces absorb and release heat. This was not simply a matter of taste, but of necessity. When many of Hong Kong's post-war modernist buildings were constructed in the late 1960s and 1970s, forming a substantial portion of the city's public housing and broader residential stock, air-conditioning was not yet a ubiquitous, default service. Cooling, where present at all, was limited and unevenly distributed; comfort had to be negotiated through passive means, through section, façade depth, operable openings, and climatic detailing. It was only later, particularly through the 1970s and 1980s, as air-conditioning became increasingly standardized across the region, that mechanical cooling began to displace this earlier matrix of architectural decision-making.
Did air conditioning negatively affect architectural space, particularly in Hong Kong and the nearby region? The more precise claim is that widespread reliance on AC has profoundly rearranged the incentive structure of building design.
In South China, there is occasionally an urban myth—especially across Hong Kong, Shenzhen, and Guangzhou—about choosing a home that avoids western light. Over decades, the west-facing sun has proven to be a particularly difficult condition to live with: its low angle in the afternoon, its aggressive heat gain (especially in summer), and the way it penetrates deep into interiors. With global warming and longer, hotter seasons, that much-romanticized "afternoon glow" is increasingly experienced less as romance and more as glare, heat, and fatigue. Although this wisdom circulates as a community-driven rule of thumb, it carries an undeniable architectural clarity about building orientations: avoiding western light is not only about thermal comfort, but also about avoiding the sharpest, most intrusive form of direct illumination—light that strikes at the most unforgiving angle, washing surfaces, flattening depth, and turning rooms into high-contrast fields of discomfort.
From the large industrial roofs and galleries of the 19th century to the contemporary atriums of museums and public buildings, glass has been a recurring material in shaping large and monumental interior spaces. More than a technological or engineering solution, these horizontal glazed planes introduce a distinct luminous quality: light that comes from above. Unlike lateral daylight entering through façades, zenithal light is more evenly distributed, reduces harsh shadows, and lends spaces a sense of continuity and openness that is difficult to achieve otherwise.
Across South America, environmental comfort is understood not as an interior condition, but as one shaped through space. In regions marked by heat, humidity, intense sunlight, and seasonal variation, architecture has long relied on spatial decisions to moderate climate and support daily life. Comfort emerges from how interiors are opened, shaded, ventilated, and inhabited over time.
Rather than isolating interior spaces from their surroundings, many contemporary projects across the region cultivate comfort through depth, porosity, and intermediate zones. Light is filtered rather than maximized, air is guided through aligned openings and voids, and thresholds become active spaces of use rather than residual edges. These strategies do not seek uniform environmental control, but produce interiors that remain temperate, adaptable, and closely attuned to changing climatic conditions. In this context, environmental comfort becomes inseparable from spatial experience.
As the solstice marks the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, it also draws attention to something architecture has long negotiated but often overlooked: time. Beyond form or function, buildings and spaces are continuously shaped by cycles of light and darkness, seasonal shifts, and environmental rhythms that affect how they are inhabited.
In recent years, a growing number of architectural projects have begun to work explicitly with these cycles. Rather than designing spaces to function in a single, fixed way, architects are creating environments that change throughout the day, across seasons, or in response to natural phenomena such as the sun's path, lunar phases, wind patterns, or circadian rhythms. These projects operate in dialogue with time, appearing, transforming, and activating differently depending on environmental conditions.
Scandinavia is shaped by environmental conditions that test both human endurance and architectural ingenuity, with long winters defined by limited daylight, low sun angles, deep snowfall, and cold winds that transform everyday movement, gathering, and habitation into deliberate acts. In this context, architecture is never neutral, and hospitality is never incidental. Buildings that welcome visitors across cities, forests, and coastlines must respond directly to darkness and cold, not by denying them, but by creating interior worlds that offer orientation, warmth, and psychological relief. The act of welcoming in Scandinavia is therefore inseparable from the climate, grounded in the understanding that shelter, light, and human presence are fundamental resources in Arctic environments.
Across Latin America, renovation has become less about preservation alone and more about responding to changing ways of living. Rather than freezing buildings in time, many contemporary projects work with existing structures to adapt them to new domestic routines, social dynamics, and spatial needs. Through strategic changes in materials, composition, color, and light, these interventions reinterpret everyday spaces while maintaining a strong connection to their original context.
In this process, houses and apartments become sites of transformation where flow, continuity, and shared spaces are carefully reconsidered. Renovation operates as a precise architectural tool, one that prioritizes natural light, openness, and flexibility to support daily life as it evolves. Instead of imposing new forms, these projects repurpose what is already there, aligning spatial decisions with the habits and rituals of those who inhabit them.
Earlier this month, news of Frank Gehry's passing prompted an outpouring of tributes to the architect behind flamboyant museums, concert halls, and sinuous residential complexes. Rather than revisit that well-charted terrain, it is worth pausing on a more contemplative work in his oeuvre: Maggie's Cancer Caring Centre in Hong Kong. Quiet, optimistic, and calibrated for everyday resilience, the building reflects multiple registers of Gehry's intent: a commitment to positivity and survival—and, more personally, an architect's own reckoning with loss and end-of-life care.
The remark reframes Maggie's Hong Kong as more than a commission; it suggests a design process shaped by grief and turned toward comfort, dignity, and the possibility of hope—an ethos that aligns closely with the organization's mission.
In Vietnam, the tube house has almost become a vernacular form in densely populated cities like Hanoi and Ho Chi Minh City. This typology originated from ancient façade taxes and as a strategic response to urban land scarcity and optimization of street frontage for commerce. Their traditional structure typically relies on the front façade for daylight and ventilation. People living there often face the challenge of designing in a space defined by the deep plots, limited street frontage, and close neighboring buildings, restricting natural light and airflow. To counter this fundamental lack of perimeter exposure, Vietnamese architects usually employ several strategies oriented towards internal environmental manipulation. This curated collection explores tube houses under 100 m2, where their small size increased the need for absolute spatial economy and the verticalization of function, which directly influenced design decisions across all projects.
It's no exaggeration to say that Renzo Piano is one of the most unanimously respected architects in the world of architecture. With an oeuvre that blends respect for context, lightness and technology to create environmentally conscious and aesthetically pleasing structures, his approach combines advanced materials with traditional techniques. In projects of various scales, the Genoese architect maintains an essential thread: the implementation of passive architectural strategies, highlighting the importance of these methods for sustainability and energy efficiency. This is often made explicit in his sketches, as an initial concern, and clearly comes through in the finished works. Here are some examples of iconic projects developed by his office in recent decades.
Daylight is one of the most effective tools in architecture. It creates atmosphere, improves comfort, and reduces energy demand. However, integrating daylight successfully requires precision at every project stage, from the first sketches to detailed planning. VELUXBIM tools give architects the flexibility and verified data to make that possible.
As climate uncertainty and ecosystem changes reshape design priorities, architecture plays an increasingly active role in these discussions, rather than merely observing. Within this perspective, the idea of making a "re" encourages a conscious step back to rethink, reconnect, and realign the relationship between buildings and their environments. This approach, central to regenerative architecture, extends beyond specific technologies or scales, encompassing everything from master plans that aim to re-naturalize cities to national pavilions that combine art and science.
What is the way forward? On the one hand, many current discussions emphasize technology; on the other, there are approaches that, rather than being in opposition, complement one another and broaden the range of possibilities, drawing on tradition, ancestral knowledge, and a profound understanding of the environment. Among these perspectives, the work of Rudolf Steiner and the anthroposophical movement, developed in the early 20th century, offers a vision and insights that connect architecture with ecological rhythms, materials, and community life.
Les Bains des Docks Aquatic Centre. Image Courtesy of VELUX Commercial
Condensation, maintenance, and humidity are three familiar challenges that continue to test the buildings we design and construct. Whether stemming from climate conditions, limited airflow, or the specifics of construction detailing, these factors affect not only the durability of materials but also the everyday comfort and performance of inhabited spaces. When the setting is an aquatic center or an indoor swimming pool, the demands are even greater. The constant presence of steam, moisture accumulation, and the risk of mold can compromise both energy efficiency and the user experience. In such environments, ventilation and access to daylight, beyond their aesthetic value, become essential tools for maintaining equilibrium, enhancing indoor comfort, and ultimately improving how the space is perceived and utilized.
https://www.archdaily.com/1030573/letting-the-sky-in-4-case-studies-of-daylight-solutions-in-aquatic-architectureEnrique Tovar
An ancestral house in the rural village of Willendorf in der Wachau stands watch over a grove of fruit trees. The trees have stood for generations and, to this day, provide the fruit which is the basis of the family business. Bound on one side by the river Danube and the other by valley's edge, both house and grove have witnessed the passage of countless seasons together. With each progression between darkness and light, from winter to summer, comes the inevitability of change.
Envisioned as a "daylight factory", the Van Nelle complex introduced revolutionary architectural and social concepts for its time. By integrating glass, steel, and concrete into an open, rational layout, it demonstrated how design could transform industrial processes while improving the lives of the people within. It was not merely a space for production but a symbol of optimism, representing the potential of architecture to reshape industries and communities.
