Politics: The Latest Architecture and News

This article is part of our new Opinion section, a format for argument-driven essays on critical questions shaping our field.

Agritourism is commonly understood as a hybrid model, with equal parts of overlap between the agriculture and hospitality industries. Under this framing, agritourism is valued as a variation on an existing theme, a supplementary activity layered onto rural production. This framing no longer holds in the 21st century as the scale and independence of agritourism's growth have transformed it into a distinct economic sector, one with architectural consequences that neither the agriculture nor the hospitality industries are equipped to address in isolation.

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Every building begins somewhere else. The sand in its concrete, the stone on its façade, the lithium that may one day power its systems. It arrives, already stripped from a mountain, a riverbed, or a salt flat thousands of kilometers away, having passed through a chain of trucks, ships, and customs declarations that erase almost everything about where it came from. Architecture tends to treat material as a starting condition, something simply available, but extraction is where construction actually begins.

The global trade in construction sand alone now moves on a scale that rivals the illegal markets in timber, gold, and fish combined, run through networks violent enough to have cost reporters and activists their lives. A single mountain in Tuscany has yielded more marble in the past few decades than in the two thousand years before them, hollowed out by a workforce whose own history of revolt has been almost entirely forgotten. Beneath the salt flats of three South American countries and the copper belt of Central Africa, the minerals that will supposedly power a cleaner future are pulled from ground that Indigenous communities have inhabited for generations and that children, in some cases, mine by hand. Each of these is sold as ordinary commerce; each is also a territorial transaction whose terms were set somewhere far from where the material was taken.

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On July 13, 2026, Tbilisi City Hall issued a permit to dismantle Rike Park's tube-shaped Music Theater & Exhibition Hall. The complex, designed by the Italian firm Studio Fuksas, was never officially opened since its completion in 2012, around the same time as the firm's Tbilisi Public Service Hall. The design has been a source of controversy between authorities and citizens since its commission in 2011, when it was built during the government of the United National Movement (UNM), and was suspended after the change of government in 2012. The two structures, often referred to as the "Rike Tubes," were originally intended to house a music theater and exhibition space but remain to this day without any official use.

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Bamboo is often praised before it is understood. It grows quickly, carries a long history of building cultures, and appears to offer architecture an immediate ecological language. In photographs, it can seem almost self-explanatory: light, natural, renewable, and already aligned with a more sustainable future. Yet this apparent clarity is also what makes bamboo difficult to discuss with precision. Once it becomes a symbol of environmental responsibility, the material itself can disappear behind the image it produces.

This is the risk of bamboo's contemporary revival. It can be imagined too easily as a green substitute for industrial materials, a regional atmosphere, or a softer alternative to the harder languages of steel and concrete. In each case, bamboo is admired before its conditions are understood. The more important question is not whether bamboo is sustainable in a general sense, but what kind of architectural culture it requires: what forms of knowledge, maintenance, regulation, labor, and time are needed for its sustainability to become real.

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Every twelve years, the banks of the Ganges at Prayagraj become one of the largest cities on Earth — and then disappear. The Maha Kumbh Mela draws over 400 million pilgrims across six weeks, requiring the construction of a full urban infrastructure: pontoon bridges, field hospitals, kilometers of temporary roads, a grid of tent cities visible from space. When the festival ends, it is dismantled entirely. No gathering in human history produces a more complete architecture of movement; built for arrival, engineered for transience, and designed to leave no permanent trace. The Kumbh Mela is exceptional in scale, but not in condition: movement has become a defining spatial problem of the century.

This month, ArchDaily explores Architectures of Movement: Land, Borders, and the Politics of Belonging, a theme that examines how mobility reshapes architecture's relationship to territory, ownership, and identity. The topic does not treat movement as a crisis to be managed, but as a fundamental lens through which to reconsider what buildings, cities, and borders actually do: who they accommodate, who they exclude, and what they make permanent.

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What architecture leaves in the ground outlasts what it puts in the air. A demolished building disappears from the skyline in a matter of days, but its foundations remain embedded in the soil for generations. The contamination caused by an industrial complex does not clear when the complex is torn down. The legal boundaries inscribed across colonial territory do not dissolve when the colonial administration ends. The ground holds what architecture quickly forgets.

This is what makes soil so uncomfortable as a subject. The discipline tends to orient itself upward, toward the form, the façade, the spatial experience of inhabitation. The ground is where architecture begins and, in a certain sense, where it ends: the point at which building becomes geology, legal title becomes territorial claim, and construction becomes extraction. Treating soil as a medium rather than a datum means acknowledging that the acts of building carry consequences that run deeper than the visible object above grade.

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Beneath the ground lies a material that has quietly shaped the architecture of the modern world. Petroleum is rarely discussed within architectural discourse, yet the extraction, circulation, and consumption of oil have profoundly reorganized the spatial logic of territories. Pipelines, refineries, drilling platforms, ports, highways, and petrochemical complexes form a vast infrastructural landscape that sustains contemporary life, composing a dispersed architecture of energy.

Throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, oil became the material foundation of industrial society. It fueled transportation, powered factories, and supported the growth of cities whose spatial organisation depended on continuous energy flows. Yet the infrastructures that enable these flows rarely become objects of architectural inquiry. Attention remains largely directed toward form, typology, or urban density, while the material systems that sustain these environments tend to remain displaced within the discipline.

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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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Architects today work across many worlds: from designing furniture, landscapes, and urban blocks to creating film sets, photographs, and videos. They restore and retrofit old buildings rather than build anew, while also writing, researching, and publishing. Some design virtual spaces for video games or speculate on habitats in outer space and underwater. Others engage directly with society through politics, activism, or community projects. Many experiment with biology, test new materials, and step into the role of scientist. Architects are decolonizing old narratives and decarbonizing the construction industry, and by weaving together personal passions with pressing social and environmental challenges, they are pushing the limits of the profession and expanding its scope.

With so many changes in the profession, especially in recent years, one may ask: How is the role of the architect evolving in response to global crises and shifting societal needs? In what ways can interdisciplinarity expand the scope and impact of architectural practice? And what skills beyond traditional design are becoming essential for architects in today's world?

Playgrounds are spatial instruments through which society projects its expectations on childhood, testing the boundaries between control and autonomy, exposure and protection. They regulate how children relate to space, to others, and their bodies — encoding, often invisibly, social norms, fears, and aspirations. In this sense, playgrounds are not peripheral spaces of leisure; they are political constructs shaped by specific ideologies about what childhood is and how it should unfold. Since 1989, the right to play has been formally recognised in the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, affirming that play is a fundamental part of human development. To design a playground is not only to draw lines on a plan or to install equipment in a park; it is to define the conditions under which play is permitted, imagined, or constrained.

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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.

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Over the past year, architecture exhibitions have significantly addressed pressing global issues such as climate change, resource scarcity, and social advocacy. According to the Harvard Graduate School of Design, architecture exhibitions can foster dynamic engagement with contemporary issues, serving as platforms for experimentation and critique. These events, such as the Venice Architecture Biennale, Sharjah Architecture Triennial, Milan Design Week, and Concéntrico, serve as essential platforms for creatives to showcase and explore new ideas. Moreover, they have been instrumental in addressing the urgent challenges posed by the climate crisis by promoting sustainable practices.

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The world has changed, and accepting this fact is no longer a matter of choice but survival. Our rainfall patterns, periods of drought, average temperatures, sea levels—everything is in constant flux. The denialist stance of many countries, including Brazil, has led to catastrophic situations like the one we are facing now.

The floods that devastated the southern region of the country in recent days cannot be considered isolated incidents. Due to global warming, climate events like this will become increasingly frequent. In other words, unfortunately, we cannot prevent them from happening, but we can—and must—make our cities more resilient to these situations.

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Protest has always been a powerful tool for creating change, and public spaces provide a platform for social engagement in societies. As part of the International Day of Democracy, we examine Africa, its series of emerging protests in the past year, and how citizens in various countries question political justice, demand better living standards from their government, and interrogate their nation’s sovereignty. With demonstrations ranging from organized large-scale marches to smaller spontaneous outbursts, residents of these countries have explored public spaces in symbolic and significant ways to amplify their voices. These spaces include public squares with cultural and historical meaning, sites of political buildings, or makeshift protest areas such as roads and open areas. Through this, African cities show how people make these spaces their own and how the power of their conglomeration cannot be ignored in unwrapping the democratic essence of public spaces.

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The buildings and construction sectors are key players in the fight against climate change –Combined, they are responsible for 30% of global final energy consumption and 27% of total energy sector CO2 emissions. Further, energy demand from buildings and construction continues to rise, driven by improved access to energy in developing countries, growing need for air conditioning, greater ownership and use of energy-consuming appliances, and a rapid growth in global floor area. Without targeted policy actions, the energy used in buildings could increase up to around 70% in 2050.

Few places in the world have an overlap of complexities as intense as Brasília. Even so, its architecture symbolizes the Republic and democracy of Brazil, and any act of attack on these symbols carries meanings and consequences for Brazilian memory and cultural heritage. The terrorist acts of January 2023 destroyed part of the heritage and raised questions beyond objects and architecture, touching on education, culture, and national political capital.

In 1969, ‘The Architects' Resistance’, a collective of students from Yale University, Columbia University, and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), published a manifesto titled ‘Architecture: whom does it serve?’

With this manifesto, the group sought to place the practice of architecture in a broader economic, social and environmental context than the one taught in their university lecture rooms. In just two and a half pages, we find a powerful call to reclaim a more social and ecologically conscious architecture. It unambiguously denounces the role architecture played during those years as a practice in service to those in power while adding that “the architect's submission to the system begins with the belief that they possess special skills and knowledge that are inaccessible to the general public.”

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The term ‘Architectural Forensics’ varies in definition. In short, it refers to the investigation of the built environment, whether that be in relation to crime and injustice or an investigative process to discover the root cause of damage and deterioration in buildings. Often forensic architects are invited to identify potential issues and advise in how to avoid them. The role of this architect is to remain unbiased, identify issues within construction, determine potential causes and suggest solutions. They are to uncover factual evidence, which may aid in future construction or provide answers to issues associated with a particular built environment.