Neither a passing trend nor a permanent threat: the initial alarm is fading. Artificial intelligence is increasingly being adopted as a strategic tool which, when integrated responsibly, can be highly valuable—especially in participatory urban design processes focused on children and youth.
The trajectory of glass in architecture reflects the technological evolution of humankind. For centuries, it was a fragile, opaque material, restricted to small openings in churches or aristocratic residences, limited in size, with uneven transparency and a largely secondary role. With the Industrial Revolution and advances in manufacturing processes, this condition changed dramatically. From artisanal and imperfect stained glass, we now have a wide range of architectural applications, from fully glazed skyscraper facades to translucent pedestrian bridges, lightweight roofs, smart partitions, and movable elements. One of the most surprising uses, once thought to be impractical, is the direct interaction of glass with large volumes of water. Today, we see pools with transparent walls or floors that project out from buildings, float above streets, or visually merge with their surroundings, creating striking sensory experiences. A remarkable feat, especially considering that for a long time, glass was considered too fragile for submerged environments.
Buildings are physical, static, and permanent. To imagine them otherwise often requires some creative thinking. The industry has operated with this strong association between structures and permanence, unknowingly constraining perspectives on building life cycles. Innovations in building materials have opened up avenues for cirular design that challenge the long-held notion that buildings must endure indefinitely. Emerging approaches promote architecture that ebbs and flows with nature.
At the Steirereck am Pogusch restaurant, architecture and gastronomy seem to speak the same language: that of the sensitive transformation of raw materials. Local ingredients, like leaves, roots, and flowers, are turned into surprising dishes, where simplicity is elevated to the extraordinary. Likewise, the building, far from being a static structure, offers a unique tactile and visual experience. One of the most intriguing elements is the use of stabilized foamed aluminum panels that, rather than evoking the coldness and rigidity often associated with metal, have been manipulated to transcend their conventional characteristics. They seem to breathe, with their porous, textured surfaces absorbing and reflecting light, creating a play of shadow and brightness that evokes the lightness and organic quality of natural materials.
The history of household appliances closely mirrors the transformation of the modern home and domestic life throughout the 20th century. Rooted in the technical advances of the Industrial Revolution and driven by urban electrification, these devices were created to mechanize everyday tasks such as cooking, cleaning, and food preservation. A major milestone in this evolution was the Frankfurt Kitchen, designed in 1926 by Austrian architect Margarete Schütte-Lihotzky. Considered the precursor of the modern kitchen, it incorporated efficiency principles inspired by the scientific organization of labor, with optimized spaces and integrated equipment to streamline domestic chores. Developed for social housing in Frankfurt, this kitchen embodies the functionalist spirit of the Bauhaus and establishes a direct connection with German design innovations, a context in which Gaggenau would also solidify its identity, combining technical precision and aesthetic sophistication.
What if we imagined buildings as living systems, designed for assembly and disassembly with minimal impact? A form of open, modular, and adaptable architecture designed to evolve with its surroundings, responding to seasonal changes and on-demand needs instead of remaining static. At first glance, the idea seems paradoxical, as many buildings were constructed to last, designed to endure, resist the effects of time, and avoid demolition. Because of this, reversing or undoing could be seen as a setback. But what if that way of thinking no longer fits every scenario?
Mathematics shows us how, from just a few elements, we can generate nearly infinite combinations and how each new arrangement can completely transform the original set. Theories like chaos and complexity point in the same direction: small initial variations, such as a choice, a deviation, or a new element, can trigger profound and unexpected changes. In architecture, this manifests concretely in the daily work of a designer. The choice of materials and how they are combined may seem like a merely aesthetic or functional decision, but it holds the power to redefine a building's language, the path a project will follow, and its relationship with the surroundings and its inhabitants.
It is commonly accepted that the appearance of moss or vegetation on the surface of a building is a sign of neglect, deterioration, or poor maintenance. And this assumption is not entirely unfounded: small cracks in traditional materials can lead to water infiltration, thermal bridging, or even structural pathologies. But what if this organic presence were not a flaw, but the result of coevolution between architecture and the environment? This reversal of perspective was masterfully anticipated by Lina Bo Bardi in the Casa Cirell, in São Paulo, where mosses, orchids, and spontaneous vegetation were part of the architectural intent from the initial sketches. The use of raw stone cladding and exposed surfaces allowed the house to blend into the terrain. More recent projects have further deepened this relationship between built matter and plant life, such as Patrick Blanc's vertical gardens and Stefano Boeri's Bosco Verticale, which transform façades into vertical ecosystems, redefining the architectural envelope as a living infrastructure capable of filtering pollutants, absorbing heat, and fostering biodiversity.
The future of the architecture industry holds countless possibilities, as research in the domain progresses. One innovation is the ability for structures to be rendered acoustically invisible, absorb earthquake energy, or harvest electricity from the sounds around them. Qualities of this nature can help redefine the functionality and sustainability of buildings. Architects and scientists are at the forefront of this creation. What makes this possible are metamaterials that could offer alternative methods of designing good buildings.
Think of a chair designed for a meeting room. Its height, upright posture, and material language are deliberate choices—they signal presence, focus, and a degree of formality in a space where important decisions are made. Replace that chair with a low, plush sofa and the entire spatial dynamic shifts: focus softens, posture relaxes, and hierarchies dissolve. Every chair, stool, or sofa is more than just a way to fill space. It is a device designed for a specific type of interaction, a defined posture, a particular rhythm of use. When these purposes are ignored, even the most carefully curated interiors can feel fragmented or incoherent. Furniture plays an invisible yet fundamental role in shaping how people behave, how they feel, and what kind of work happens.
The future of architecture isn't just being drawn—it's being coded. Since mathematician John W. Tukey coined the term "software" in 1958 in The American Mathematical Monthly, its influence has steadily expanded, from revolutionizing science and engineering to quietly transforming architecture. What was first embraced as an innovation for structural calculations and drafting has since revealed a much broader potential, becoming a creative driver in architectural narrative and practice.
Concrete is anything but a consensus. Some love it, others hate it. It can feel as tough as granite or soft as velvet — all depending on whose hands are doing the shaping. Treated with engineering precision or a touch of artistic flair, concrete stops being just a material and starts acting alive. It plays with light, surprises with texture, and somehow gives form to silence. Although dense and structural, concrete can take on an almost immaterial presence: light, ethereal, and contemplative. In certain spaces, it seems to disappear, dissolving into the shadows or vibrating with the surrounding light. More than just a construction element, it becomes a language, capable of evoking emotion, spirituality, and time.
At the heart of design lies the intersection of technique and creativity—a space where ideas take shape and environments are reimagined. In a world prevalent with mass-produced objects, the focus is shifting toward something more deliberate, where every decision opens up new possibilities and allows design to break free from the conventional. Think of the LC1 armchair by Le Corbusier or Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona chair—not simply furniture, but outcomes that illustrate a studio-driven freedom where ideas, materials, and finishes are allowed to converse, not conform. These pieces don't just fill a room; they reimagine it. This spirit of innovation now extends to every detail, from kitchen to bathroom fittings, where the range of choices—materials, form, and function—becomes an opportunity to craft something truly unique.
As urban neighborhoods continue to evolve, design plays a key role in shaping how buildings respond to urbanization, functional demands, and the character of their surroundings. Intertwined, these elements guide the transformation of urban life and influence how new developments engage with their context—a dynamic clearly visible in Seattle's Central District. Long considered a historic hub for the city's African American community, the Africatown Plaza project proposes a comprehensive approach that integrates architectural performance with community resonance, using the building envelope as a primary medium.
In recent years, architecture has increasingly embraced adaptability, flexibility, and responsiveness as core design principles. This evolution reflects a shift from traditional notions of static, permanent structures to dynamic environments that can adjust to changing needs and conditions. Central to this transformation is the concept of "soft architecture", which leverages pliable materials and innovative systems to create spaces that are functional, sustainable, and user-centric. Soft architecture takes shape through membranes that breathe, façades that move, structures that inflate or fold, and surfaces that bend rather than break. It involves designing for transformation — not only in how a building performs environmentally, but also in how it can accommodate shifting functions, user interactions, or temporary occupations. This approach to building challenges traditional notions of durability and control, proposing instead a more responsive and open-ended architecture. It reflects a growing awareness that buildings, like the societies they serve, must be able to evolve.
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.
"The times they are a-changin'," sang a young Bob Dylan in 1964, capturing a nation at a crossroads, gripped by the civil rights movement and overshadowed by Cold War tensions. Nearly a decade later, David Bowie turned that gaze inward with "Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes," a fragmented meditation on identity, reinvention, and personal transformation, echoing the collapse of countercultural ideals and the acceleration of globalization. By the 1990s, Tupac Shakur brought the focus back to the streets and urban centers. In "Changes," he laid bare the raw realities of racial injustice and systemic violence, offering not resignation but a forceful indictment: "That's just the way it is."
Founded in 1870, The Metropolitan Museum of Art — affectionately known as The Met — is one of the world's most important and visited museums, housing over two million works that span five millennia of human history. Located in the heart of New York City, alongside Central Park, the museum is celebrated for its vast and diverse collections, ranging from ancient Egyptian art to European masters and contemporary works. Paintings, sculptures, documents, historical artifacts, and multimedia pieces make up an ensemble that demands meticulously planned exhibition solutions to ensure both preservation and the effective communication of their historical and artistic value.