San Diego, California. Photo by Samuel Ramos on Unsplash
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.
Modernism is often encountered through built form, photographed facades, canonical plans, concrete manifestos. For most people, its first encounter was far more immediate. It was a chair in an office, a shelf in a living room, a compact unit that reorganized how one sat, stored, or slept. Long before modern architecture could be widely commissioned, it was furniture that entered everyday space, carrying with it a new logic of living. Modernism's promise of transforming life was often delivered through these smaller, repeatable objects.
To understand this shift, furniture has to be read as a condensed form of architecture rather than decoration. Early twentieth-century designers treated it precisely this way. Le Corbusier described furniture as équipement de l'habitation (equipment of living), placing it within the operational system of the building rather than outside it. Similarly, the Bauhaus approached chairs and tables as industrial prototypes, embedding principles of standardization, efficiency, and mass production into their design. As architectural historian Beatriz Colomina has argued, modern architecture did not circulate only through buildings, but through media and objects that translated its ideas into everyday life. Furniture became architecture in miniature: portable, reproducible, and capable of reorganizing space without reconstructing it.
Pico House, part of Los Angeles Plaza Historic District. Image by Daniel L. Lu - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0
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 Angeleswas 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).
Image credit: Architecture of Coal in Modern Europe project, University College Dublin
We are excited to invite submissions for DARK MATTER: Revisiting the Architecture of Coal in Post-War Europe, an in-person conference hosted by the ACME (Architecture of Coal in Modern Europe) project (ERC Advanced Grant, 2024–2030), taking place at the Irish Architectural Archive, Dublin on 5+6 November 2026.
"We know we are not born to die," often said Brazilian architect Paulo Mendes da Rocha. "We are born to continue." In architecture, this idea of continuity lies at the heart of heritage, not as a static inheritance, but as something that endures, transforms, and is constantly reinterpreted. Yet what continues, and what is allowed to disappear, is never neutral. Decisions about preservation are shaped by power, memory, and value, raising a fundamental question for contemporary practice: who defines what is worth carrying forward, and for whom?
The Canadian Centre for Architecture (CCA) recently launched a new research project and institutional collaboration with M+ in Hong Kong titled How Modern: Biographies of Architecture in China 1949–1979. The project unfolds through an exhibition presented in the CCA's Main Galleries from 20 November 2025 to 5 April 2026, a series of commissioned films and oral history videos by artist Wang Tuo, online editorial content, public programming, and a companion book co-published by the CCA and M BOOKS. This collection of content seeks to reframe architectural histories of modernism in the first three decades of the People's Republic of China, revealing how design operated under shifting ideologies and socioeconomic pressures through the perspectives and experiences of architects, institutions, and residents. The project aligns with the CCA's ongoing interest in producing new readings of modern architecture across different sociopolitical contexts and geographical frameworks, including Architecture in Uniform: Designing and Building for the Second World War (2011) and Building a new New World: Amerikanizm in Russian Architecture (2020).
Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur, Rajasthan India. Photo by Sanhitasinha. License Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International
India's palaces and former colonial warehouses are witnessing a new kind of restoration, one that happens beneath the surface. From discreet steel supports tucked behind centuries-old masonry to digital sensors embedded in frescoed ceilings, technology is quietly reshaping how heritage buildings are protected for the future. These upgrades are more about subtle precision and less about spectacle; invisible engineering wonders.
As the world moves towards adaptive reuse, architects and engineers are confronted with an evolving challenge to make historic structures safe for public access while maintaining the authenticity of the architecture. Whether it's upgrading palaces to cool efficiently or seismic reinforcement of Victorian godowns, the goal is beyond preservation. It's about the intelligent coexistence of the old and the new.
Thirty trillion tons. This is the estimated mass of all human-made matter on Earth, and the starting point for the 7th edition of the Lisbon Architecture Triennale. Curated by Ann-Sofi Rönnskog and John Palmesino, founders of Territorial Agency, the event asks a deceptively simple question: How heavy is a city? To answer it requires more than data. It demands a shift in perception: from the scale of the city to the planetary technosphere.
The technosphere, a term borrowed from Earth sciences, defines the vast system of infrastructures, technologies, and materials that sustain human life while reshaping the planet. Cities, in this view, are not only territories but dense nodes within this planetary metabolism. From October to December 2025, Lisbon becomes a lens to examine that magnitude, hosting three main exhibitions (Fluxes, Spectres, Lighter), a book of essays, a talks program, and more than twenty independent projects across the city.
Curated by Anneke Abhelakh, the Albania Pavilion at the 2025 Venice Architecture Biennale, titled "Building Architecture Culture", explores how the country's architecture embodies its political, cultural, and social transformations. Albania's built environment reflects a layered history, from Ottoman and Italian rule to communist isolation and post-socialist transformation, each leaving visible marks on its cities and public spaces. The pavilion examines how architecture both responds to and shapes collective memory, public space, and civic engagement, framing these questions through past, present, and future perspectives.
The Sardarapat Memorial and the architect's original sketch. Image via risraelyan.com/en/, courtesy of Aram Ghanalanyan
In a time when much global architecture can feel disconnected from local identity, the work of Rafayel Israelyan stands out for being rooted in place, culture, and memory. Working in mid-20th-century Armenia, Israelyan created architecture that is more than functional or monumental; it is culturally resilient. His use of traditional Armenian motifs, materials, and symbolic forms gave his designs a second life after the fall of the Soviet Union, when many buildings across post-Soviet states were abandoned or demolished. Armenia, by contrast, preserved many of his works, likely because their design approach not only served a specific moment in time, but also told a larger story. Long before concepts like sustainability or critical regionalism became popular, Israelyan understood that buildings gain meaning and endurance when they reflect the specific identity and characteristics of their place.
Fireplaces have profoundly shaped architectural design, influencing how spaces are organized, experienced, and perceived. More than merely functional elements, they represent symbols of power, community, comfort, and culture, tracing humanity's evolving relationship with the built environment. From the primitive hearths that characterized early human settlements to the sophisticated ecological designs of contemporary architecture, fireplaces have reflected broader cultural, social, and technological changes, serving as enduring focal points in the spatial narrative of architecture. Scholars have frequently explored the intimate relationship between architecture and fire. Luis Fernández-Galiano, in his seminal work "Fire and Memory: On Architecture and Energy" argues that architecture fundamentally mediates the relationship between humanity and energy. By understanding how these structures have shaped spaces, symbolized cultural values, and driven technological innovation, we gain deeper insight into architecture's complex interplay between form, function, and meaning.
Architectural competitions have long offered a space for experimentation: platforms where ideas can be tested, typologies reimagined, and critical questions addressed through design. Freed from some of the constraints of commercial commissions, competition entries often reflect ambitious visions for how architecture can respond to environmental, cultural, and social challenges. Whether focused on future habitats, public institutions, or small-scale community infrastructure, these proposals give shape to the values and priorities driving architectural thinking today.
This month's Unbuilt selection brings together eight competition-winning projects submitted by the ArchDaily community. Each received first, second, or third place in recent local and international competitions. The featured proposals span a wide range of programs and geographies: a sustainable library in Lima, a Martian habitat exploring closed-loop systems, an adult orphanage designed for empowerment in India, a new French school in Athens, and a placemaking initiative in Singapore rooted in local folklore. While varied in scale and scope, they all highlight architecture's capacity to engage context, foster inclusion, and propose new ways of inhabiting space.
A place of rebirth, the city of Muharraq in Bahrain has undergone a visionary cultural and urban transformation, emerging as a pioneering model for culturally-led regeneration in the Arab world, particularly in the Gulf region. Once the capital of the country's pearling industry, Muharraq has preserved, reinterpreted, and reintegrated its historical legacy into its evolving urban fabric.
Faced with the challenge of redefining its future—marked by an intact urban layout but deteriorating architectural structures—Muharraq envisioned a linear urban narrative, weaving together the memory of the industry through a sequence of key buildings. The city set out to connect the individual properties tied to its pearling past, such as homes of divers, boat captains, and pearl merchants.
Throughout their relatively recent history, museums have evolved to condense particular aspects of a culture and present them in a coherent and unified manner. This makes the connection between the architecture and the exhibit a crucial matter, as the architect is tasked with designing not only the framework and background of the exhibited arts or artifacts but also taking charge of the journey undertaken by the visitor, harmonizing the cultural gain with the lived spatial experience of walking the exhibition halls. However, not all museums have been purposely built for this task.
Across Europe, museums are being organized within or expanding upon historical monuments and buildings that have lost their original purpose. Then in a state of decay, this decision to reorganize them as cultural venues stops the decay and preserves the historical material, adding a new layer of complexity to the intended exhibits. The architect's role becomes that of introducing order and a system that can balance the heritage of the place with the needs of modern functionality, ensuring that the essence of the original structure is preserved while meeting the needs of contemporary exhibitions and public engagement.
"Divers" by David Martin at the Yerevan Cascade Complex. Image by Besides the Obvious via Shutterstock.
Tucked away between the majestic peaks of the Caucasus and the enchanting landscapes of the Near East, Armenia is a small yet fiercely proud nation, shaped by rugged mountains and ancient volcanoes. One of the world's oldest countries, its roots stretch back to the 6th century BCE, standing at the crossroads of empires—Persian, Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman. Yet, through centuries of upheaval, Armenia has held onto its distinctive identity, carved into its language, architecture, and rich cultural traditions—earning it the evocative title, "the land of stones."
It has been nearly three weeks since one of California's most devastating wildfires began, triggering an immense effort to combat the blaze and mitigate further damage. As firefighters work to contain the remaining flames, the city braces for its first significant winter rainfall, raising concerns about flooding and landslides that may exacerbate the already extensive destruction.
Amid these challenges, the wildfire has spurred widespread reflection at local and global levels. Discussions have emerged on topics such as the insurance system, firefighting infrastructure, water resources, global warming's role in high-wind fire conditions, and the impact of landscape design, particularly the use of non-native vegetation.
Museums and cultural centers hold a unique position in society as spaces for learning, community, and connection. They serve as platforms for preserving history and engaging the public with new ideas and perspectives. Architecture plays a key role in shaping these experiences, providing the physical and emotional framework that enhances how people interact with art, culture, and each other. From monumental structures to more intimate designs, these cultural buildings have the potential to reflect local identities, champion sustainability, and inspire visitors while creating lasting cultural landmarks.
From Los Angeles to Turku and Vinh Long, this collection of conceptual museum and cultural center designs submitted by the ArchDaily community highlights the diversity and creativity of unbuilt projects. Each month, ArchDaily's editors select a collection of conceptual projects centered around a specific theme or program, submitted by architects from across the globe. In this collection, proposals range from a children's museum expansion in the United States to a sustainable agricultural museum in Vietnam, all showcasing how architecture can respond to distinct local contexts while fostering universal themes of education, play, and discovery. Whether celebrating archaeological heritage in Cyprus or reimagining public spaces in Finland, these projects explore how museums can serve as cultural hubs that engage and uplift their communities.
Opened in October 2024, the Järva Cemetery offers everyone, regardless of faith or beliefs, a space for remembrance, continuing Stockholm's long tradition of funeral history. After overcoming significant planning obstacles, the site, designed by Kristine Jensen Tegnestue and Poul Ingemann, was created to accommodate burials and funeral ceremonies, with options for coffins, urns, ash groves, and a commemorative forest. During the last edition of Open House Stockholm, visitors could explore its surrounding natural landscapes and connect with the space.
