Passive Cooling: The Latest Architecture and News

The dogtrot house emerged across the South of the United States during the late nineteenth century as a direct response to humid climates, material availability, and patterns of rural habitation. Found throughout the Appalachian Mountains, coastal Carolinas, and lowlands of Louisiana, the dogtrot house appeared in numerous regional variations, yet its fundamental spatial logic remained remarkably consistent. Two enclosed living masses are separated by an open central passage and unified beneath a continuous roof, creating a dwelling that is simultaneously economical and responsive to long, hot summers. Although architectural historians continue to debate the precise geographic origins of the dogtrot, the typology represents a broader vernacular intelligence that emerged through the convergence of environmental necessity, local construction practices, and rural living.

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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.

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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.

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The courtyard is often remembered as a figure from the past, an inward-looking space of nostalgia, culture, and domestic ritual. But this framing misses its primary role. Before it was symbolic, the courtyard was operational. It organized air, moderated light, and absorbed heat. It did not decorate architecture; it made it habitable. In contemporary housing, these functions are normally delegated to mechanical systems, applied after form is fixed. In courtyard houses, they are resolved spatially, before a wall is even built.

What appears as a recurring typology across regions is, in fact, a set of highly specific responses to climate. The courtyard in Egypt does not behave like the courtyard in Morocco, nor like the courtyard in India. Each is calibrated to a different environmental problem, using the same spatial device. To read them as a single type is to flatten their intelligence. To compare them is to understand how climate can be embedded directly into form.

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If elevated networks reveal a city that increasingly walks above the street, the podium–tower is the typology that often makes that condition feel inevitable. Across Southeast Asia, podium–tower projects have become one of the dominant languages of metropolitan growth: a system that concentrates housing, jobs, retail, and transit connections into highly legible and managed parcels. From an urban planning perspective, the model can be remarkably effective—absorbing congestion, formalizing circulation, and delivering density quickly. Yet as it spreads, the typology also raises a quieter question: what does it optimize for, and what does it erode—especially at the level of the street, where urban life is meant to be negotiated rather than curated?

At its simplest, the podium–tower is a hybrid structure consisting of a high-coverage, low-rise podium supporting one or more slender vertical towers. The podium typically carries the logistical and commercial weight of the development—retail, parking, loading, drop-offs, back-of-house services, and often amenity decks—while the tower stacks private programs above, whether residential, office, hotel, or mixed use. The promise is twofold: maximize urban density while maintaining a "human-scaled" street wall, and separate the messy logistics of city life from the quieter domain of living and work.

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A perforated screen is often treated as an afterthought, something applied to soften light, to decorate a façade, or to add texture where a wall might otherwise feel flat. It is photographed as a surface, drawn as a pattern, and discussed as a craft. But in many buildings across the Indian subcontinent and the Islamic world, the screen was never an addition. It was the wall itself. Remove it, and the building does not simply change in appearance; it loses its ability to regulate heat, move air, and mediate between inside and outside.

This misreading reveals more about contemporary habits than about the screen itself. Architectural thinking has long separated structure from envelope, performance from expression. Within that framework, elements like the jaali or mashrabiya are easy to categorize as ornamental, visually rich but technically secondary. Yet these screens were conceived as integrated systems, where geometry, material, and climate operate together. Their intelligence lies in what they do.

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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.

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On a hot afternoon in May, when the air over western India turns metallic with heat, no one remembers façade composition. They remember where the shade falls. They remember which corridor breathed. They remember the house that was cooler than the street. What stays in memory is comfort beyond the form. Repeated thermal preference stabilizes into spatial configuration, and over time, those configurations become building types.

Heritage is usually catalogued by what can be drawn, not by what changed temperature. In heat, buildings are learned first through skin, only later through sight. Generations learn, through their bodies, what works. Shade reduces glare and radiant heat. Air movement shifts perception by several degrees. Thick walls slow temperature swings. Over time, these experiences accumulate into a spatial preference. What feels right is repeated. What is repeated stabilizes into type.

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On November 21, 2025, the closing day of the 30th edition of the Conference of the Parties (COP) took place, the yearly gathering of United Nations member states to negotiate international climate agreements and assess global progress toward emissions reduction. This year, the event was held in Belém, Brazil, a port city of fewer than 1.5 million people, widely known as a gateway to Brazil's lower Amazon region. First convened in 1992, UN Climate Change Conferences (or COPs) are an international multilateral decision-making forum on climate change involving 198 "Parties" (197 countries, nearly all of them, depending on definitions of country, and the European Union). Their purpose is to assess global efforts toward the central Paris Agreement aim of limiting global warming to as close as possible to 1.5 °C above pre-industrial levels. The event brings together leaders and negotiators from member states, business figures, young people, climate scientists, Indigenous Peoples, and civil society around issues considered essential to that climate goal. This year, COP30 was marked by strong criticism of its ties to the fossil fuel industry, descriptions of agreements as fragile and insubstantial, and the struggle to move climate finance "from pledge to lifeline."

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Architectural landmarks often cluster together. In Tokyo, the iconic Omotesando is a well-known stretch where global "starchitects" built flagship luxury retail spaces in the 2000s. Hong Kong has a lesser-known but equally powerful architectural agglomeration along Queensway—though historically more corporate and less publicly engaging. Beginning in the 1980s, this corridor became home to a series of landmark buildings by some of the world's most prominent architects: Norman Foster's HSBC Headquarters, I.M. Pei's Bank of China Tower, Paul Rudolph's Lippo Centre, and the nearby Murray Building by Ron Phillips—now revitalized as a hotel by Foster + Partners. The area is further enriched later on by Heatherwick Studio's renovation of Pacific Place and Tod Williams Billie Tsien Architects' Asia Society Hong Kong Center.

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The main role of architecture is to create structures that protect us from the environment and create spaces that are safe and comfortable for all types of needs and activities. By providing shelter, architecture also shapes the way people interact with their surroundings. Building technologies of the past rarely managed, however, to create a complete separation between us and the outside world.

While impermeability was a desired outcome, the porous building materials available always allowed some water, wind, or outside particles to leak into the interior spaces. In contrast, modern technologies now allow for almost completely impermeable building envelopes, allowing for complete separation between indoors and outdoors, thus relying on engineered systems to regulate temperature, airflow, or humidity. This article explores the differences between these two contrasting approaches, exploring how building facades are equipped to regulate indoor comfort and its environmental impact.

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Understanding the temperature gradient in a building is essential in cold or temperate climates, where airtight enclosures and continuous insulation are used to prevent heat loss. However, this approach is not suitable for tropical areas like Central America, where the climate is marked by a consistent alternation between wet and dry seasons rather than four distinct ones. Factors such as proximity to the sea, elevation, and local topography influence microclimates across short distances, but high humidity remains a common challenge. Sealed, airtight walls with no ventilation can quickly become breeding grounds for mold, making the thermal strategies of temperate climates problematic. In response, local designers have developed alternative approaches that embrace, rather than resist, the outdoor environment, allowing airflow and evaporation to manage interior comfort.

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The Kingdom of Bahrain's national pavilion at the 19th International Architecture Exhibition of La Biennale di Venezia was awarded this year's Golden Lion for Best National Participation. Titled Heatwave, the exhibition was curated by architect Andrea Faraguna and located in the historic Artiglierie of the Arsenale. Through a site-specific installation, Heatwave reimagines the design of public space by exploring passive cooling strategies rooted in Bahrain's climatic realities and cultural context. The project's aim, to offer a speculative yet grounded architectural response to the environmental urgency shaping urban life today, was recognized by the Biennale's international jury, which praised its "viable proposals for extreme heat conditions."

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Sustainability in architecture is often framed as a universal challenge, leading to standardized solutions that prioritize efficiency over context. However, architecture is inherently tied to its environment — buildings interact with climate, topography, and cultural history in ways that demand specificity. Instead of relying on standardized sustainability checklists, how can architecture embrace site-specific solutions? This conversation is deeply connected to the concept of Genius Loci, or the spirit of a place, introduced by Christian Norberg-Schulz and embraced by architects advocating for designs that resonate with their surroundings. It suggests that architecture should not be imposed upon a site but rather emerge from it, informed by its materials, climate, and cultural significance. This philosophy challenges the widespread application of generic sustainable technologies, instead proposing that sustainability must be inherently tied to the location in which it operates.

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Our contemporary society has been witnessing a surge in skyscraper construction in urban centers worldwide for various reasons—including engineering advancements, increased urban density, space constraints, and, arguably, a competitive drive for building the tallest structures. The allure of all-glass facades and the pursuit of curtain walls with larger panes of continuous glass have often come at the cost of functionality.

In these towers, operable windows are sacrificed for aesthetics and expansive views, with a central core layout that maximizes 360-degree views while creating architectural "solar heat-gain monsters." Without natural or cross ventilation, these glass skyscrapers trap significant heat from solar radiation within habitable spaces, relying almost exclusively on mechanical HVAC systems to cool these spaces. This raises the question: is passive ventilation strategy becoming obsolete in high-rise design, or can operable systems be integrated effectively into our high-tech towers?

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Zaha Hadid Architects (ZHA) has been announced as the architect of the Alisher Navoi International Scientific Research Centre, an expansive cultural and educational facility taking shape in New Tashkent, Uzbekistan. The center is set to incorporate the Navoi State Museum of Literature, along with a 400-seat auditorium and an International Research Center and residential school dedicated to training 200 students in the Uzbek language, literature, and music.

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From subtle light beams to wide openings, skylights transform natural light into a powerful architectural tool, creating a dynamic interplay of light and shadow that adds movement and vitality to buildings. This intricate dance captivates not only with the patterns the light casts on surfaces but also with the practical benefits of overhead lighting, such as improved thermal comfort and enhanced well-being.

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For centuries, arid environments have solved the problem of light, privacy, and heat through a statement architectural feature of Islamic and Arab architecture, the mashrabiya. Crafted from geometric patterns traditionally made from short lengths of turned wood, the mashrabiya features lattice-like patterns that form large areas. Traditionally, it was used to catch wind and offer passive cooling in the dry Middle Eastern desert heat. Frequently used on the side street of a built structure, water jars, and basins were placed inside it to activate evaporative cooling. The cool air from the street would pass through the wooden screen, providing air movement for the occupants.

Similar to the Indian jali, the vernacular language also offers a playful experience with daylight while still maintaining a certain degree of privacy. Traced back to Ottoman origins, the perforated screens protected occupants’ from the sun while simultaneously letting daylight through in calculated doses. Although the mashrabiya was a statement in arab and Islamic architecture languages, it wasn’t until 1987 that the archetypal element began appearing with a revised contemporary application.

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