An open international competition is being held to transform the central market area of Pazardzhik, Bulgaria (Deadline: 1 September) The ‘Pazardzhik Central Market Area’ competition – organised by OPTIMISTAS on behalf of the Municipality of Pazardzhik – seeks innovative urban and architectural solutions to revitalise the historic market zone which serves as a key commercial and social hub for the wider city centre. The competition invites participants to propose a new vision for one of the city’s most significant public spaces located a short distance from Mineral Baths Park, Saedinenie Square and a shopping centre. The project aims to deliver a contemporary, multifunctional public space that strengthens the identity and vibrancy of Pazardzhik. Competition site: Pazardzhik market, Bulgaria According to the brief: ‘This is a unique opportunity for creators from all over the world to contribute to the development of Pazardzhik’s central area with ideas that preserve cultural heritage and inspire future generations. ‘A chance is emerging for bold architectural and urban inspiration that will confidently combine history with modernity, creating a new recognisable face for the city. ‘The Municipality of Pazardzhik believes that responsibility towards the urban environment is a duty to both past and future generations. ‘The launch of this competition demonstrates our choice to plan thoughtfully, create carefully, and attract ideas with an open heart. The responsibility to preserve and develop the spirit of the city market is our mission and commitment to the city and its residents.’ Located 112km southeast of Sofia, Pazardzhik – named after the Turkish word for market – is a historic city on the banks of the Maritsa River with around 50,000 inhabitants. The latest contest comes less than a year after an international contest was held to upgrade the historic market square of Stara Zagora in Bulgaria. The latest competition calls for a new vision for Pazardzhik’s main market – reorganising trading spaces, improving pedestrian and cycling access, integrating greenery and relaxation zones, resolving vehicle and parking issues and ensuring accessibility. The contest site, located in the heart of Pazardzhik, is characterised by its historic market function, proximity to key civic and cultural institutions, and its potential to serve as a catalyst for broader urban regeneration. Designs will be expected to include covered and open market areas, modern amenities and multifunctional, year-round public space. The competition is open to all Bulgarian and international architects. The competition language is Bulgarian and submissions will be assessed anonymously by a yet-to-be-announced jury featuring seven international members. Submissions will be evaluated 25 per cent on urban concept, 25 per cent on functional solution, 20 per cent on innovation, 20 per cent on design and 10 per cent on project value. The overall winner – due to be announced on 17 September – will receive a €7,500 prize while a second prize of €5,000 and third prize of €2,500 will also be awarded. The winning team will also be invited to negotiate for an estimated €75,000 contract for further design development and the implementation of their proposal. How to apply Deadline: 1 September Competition funding source: Municipality of Pazardzhik Project funding source: Municipality of Pazardzhik Owner of site(s): Municipality of Pazardzhik Contact: pazardzhikmarket@competition.bgVisit the competition website for more information

Barricades, as we know them today, are thought to date back to the European wars of religion. According to most historians, the first barricade went up in Paris in 1588; the word derives from the French barriques, or barrels, spontaneously put together. They have been assembled from the most diverse materials, from cobblestones, tyres, newspapers, dead horses and bags of ice (during Kyiv’s Euromaidan in 2013–14), to omnibuses and e‑scooters. Their tactical logic is close to that of guerrilla warfare: the authorities have to take the barricades in order to claim victory; all that those manning them have to do to prevail is to hold them.  The 19th century was the golden age for blocking narrow, labyrinthine streets. Paris had seen barricades go up nine times in the period before the Second Empire; during the July 1830 Revolution alone, 4,000 barricades had been erected (roughly one for every 200 Parisians). These barricades would not only stop, but also trap troops; people would then throw stones from windows or pour boiling water onto the streets. Georges‑Eugène Haussmann, Napoleon III’s prefect of Paris, famously created wide boulevards to make blocking by barricade more difficult and moving the military easier, and replaced cobblestones with macadam – a surface of crushed stone. As Flaubert observed in his Dictionary of Accepted Ideas: ‘Macadam: has cancelled revolutions. No more means to make barricades. Nevertheless rather inconvenient.’   Lead image: Barricades, as we know them today, are thought to have originated in early modern France. A colour engraving attributed to Achille‑Louis Martinet depicts the defence of a barricade during the 1830 July Revolution. Credit: Paris Musées / Musée Carnavalet – Histoire de Paris. Above: the socialist political thinker and activist Louis Auguste Blanqui – who was imprisoned by every regime that ruled France between 1815 and 1880 – drew instructions for how to build an effective barricade Under Napoleon III, Baron Haussmann widened Paris’s streets in his 1853–70 renovation of the city, making barricading more difficult Credit: Old Books Images / Alamy ‘On one hand, [the authorities] wanted to favour the circulation of ideas,’ reactionary intellectual Louis Veuillot observed apropos the ambiguous liberalism of the latter period of Napoleon III’s Second Empire. ‘On the other, to ensure the circulation of regiments.’ But ‘anti‑insurgency hardware’, as Justinien Tribillon has called it, also served to chase the working class out of the city centre: Haussmann’s projects amounted to a gigantic form of real-estate speculation, and the 1871 Paris Commune that followed constituted not just a short‑lived anarchist experiment featuring enormous barricades; it also signalled the return of the workers to the centre and, arguably, revenge for their dispossession.    By the mid‑19th century, observers questioned whether barricades still had practical meaning. Gottfried Semper’s barricade, constructed for the 1849 Dresden uprising, had proved unconquerable, but Friedrich Engels, one‑time ‘inspector of barricades’ in the Elberfeld insurrection of the same year, already suggested that the barricades’ primary meaning was now moral rather than military – a point to be echoed by Leon Trotsky in the subsequent century. Barricades symbolised bravery and the will to hold out among insurrectionists, and, not least, determination rather to destroy one’s possessions – and one’s neighbourhood – than put up with further oppression.   Not only self‑declared revolutionaries viewed things this way: the reformist Social Democrat leader Eduard Bernstein observed that ‘the barricade fight as a political weapon of the people has been completely eliminated due to changes in weapon technology and cities’ structures’. Bernstein was also picking up on the fact that, in the era of industrialisation, contention happened at least as much on the factory floor as on the streets. The strike, not the food riot or the defence of workers’ quartiers, became the paradigmatic form of conflict. Joshua Clover has pointed out in his 2016 book Riot. Strike. Riot: The New Era of Uprisings, that the price of labour, rather than the price of goods, caused people to confront the powerful. Blocking production grew more important than blocking the street. ‘The only weapons we have are our bodies, and we need to tuck them in places so wheels don’t turn’ Today, it is again blocking – not just people streaming along the streets in large marches – that is prominently associated with protests. Disrupting circulation is not only an important gesture in the face of climate emergency; blocking transport is a powerful form of protest in an economic system focused on logistics and just‑in‑time distribution. Members of Insulate Britain and Germany’s Last Generation super‑glue themselves to streets to stop car traffic to draw attention to the climate emergency; they have also attached themselves to airport runways. They form a human barricade of sorts, immobilising traffic by making themselves immovable.   Today’s protesters have made themselves consciously vulnerable. They in fact follow the advice of US civil rights’ Bayard Rustin who explained: ‘The only weapons we have are our bodies, and we need to tuck them in places so wheels don’t turn.’ Making oneself vulnerable might increase the chances of a majority of citizens seeing the importance of the cause which those engaged in civil disobedience are pursuing. Demonstrations – even large, unpredictable ones – are no longer sufficient. They draw too little attention and do not compel a reaction. Naomi Klein proposed the term ‘blockadia’ as ‘a roving transnational conflict zone’ in which people block extraction – be it open‑pit mines, fracking sites or tar sands pipelines – with their bodies. More often than not, these blockades are organised by local people opposing the fossil fuel industry, not environmental activists per se. Blockadia came to denote resistance to the Keystone XL pipeline as well as Canada’s First Nations‑led movement Idle No More. In cities, blocking can be accomplished with highly mobile structures. Like the barricade of the 19th century, they can be quickly assembled, yet are difficult to move; unlike old‑style barricades, they can also be quickly disassembled, removed and hidden (by those who have the engineering and architectural know‑how). Think of super tripods, intricate ‘protest beacons’ based on tensegrity principles, as well as inflatable cobblestones, pioneered by the artist‑activists of Tools for Action (and as analysed in Nick Newman’s recent volume Protest Architecture).   As recently as 1991, newly independent Latvia defended itself against Soviet tanks with the popular construction of barricades, in a series of confrontations that became known as the Barikādes Credit: Associated Press / Alamy Inversely, roadblocks can be used by police authorities to stop demonstrations and gatherings from taking place – protesters are seen removing such infrastructure in Dhaka during a general strike in 1999 Credit: REUTERS / Rafiqur Rahman / Bridgeman These inflatable objects are highly flexible, but can also be protective against police batons. They pose an awkward challenge to the authorities, who often end up looking ridiculous when dealing with them, and, as one of the inventors pointed out, they are guaranteed to create a media spectacle. This was also true of the 19th‑century barricade: people posed for pictures in front of them. As Wolfgang Scheppe, a curator of Architecture of the Barricade (currently on display at the Arsenale Institute for Politics of Representation in Venice), explains, these images helped the police to find Communards and mete out punishments after the end of the anarchist experiment. Much simpler structures can also be highly effective. In 2019, protesters in Hong Kong filled streets with little archways made from just three ordinary bricks: two standing upright, one resting on top. When touched, the falling top one would buttress the other two, and effectively block traffic. In line with their imperative of ‘be water’, protesters would retreat when the police appeared, but the ‘mini‑Stonehenges’ would remain and slow down the authorities. Today, elaborate architectures of protest, such as Extinction Rebellion’s ‘tensegrity towers’, are used to blockade roads and distribution networks – in this instance, Rupert Murdoch’s News UK printworks in Broxbourne, for the media group’s failure to report the climate emergency accurately Credit: Extinction Rebellion In June 2025, protests erupted in Los Angeles against the Trump administration’s deportation policies. Demonstrators barricaded downtown streets using various objects, including the pink public furniture designed by design firm Rios for Gloria Molina Grand Park. LAPD are seen advancing through tear gas Credit: Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times via Getty Images Roads which radicals might want to target are not just ones in major metropoles and fancy post‑industrial downtowns. Rather, they might block the arteries leading to ‘fulfilment centres’ and harbours with container shipping. The model is not only Occupy Wall Street, which had initially called for the erection of ‘peaceful barricades’, but also the Occupy that led to the Oakland port shutdown in 2011. In short, such roadblocks disrupt what Phil Neel has called a ‘hinterland’ that is often invisible, yet crucial for contemporary capitalism. More recently, Extinction Rebellion targeted Amazon distribution centres in three European countries in November 2021; in the UK, they aimed to disrupt half of all deliveries on a Black Friday.   Will such blockades just anger consumers who, after all, are not present but are impatiently waiting for packages at home? One of the hopes associated with the traditional barricade was always that they might create spaces where protesters, police and previously indifferent citizens get talking; French theorists even expected them to become ‘a machine to produce the people’. That could be why military technology has evolved so that the authorities do not have to get close to the barricade: tear gas was first deployed against those on barricades before it was used in the First World War; so‑called riot control vehicles can ever more easily crush barricades. The challenge, then, for anyone who wishes to block is also how to get in other people’s faces – in order to have a chance to convince them of their cause.        2025-06-11 Kristina Rapacki Share

In 2024, Egypt completed its 1,155km stretch of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway, a 10,228km‑long road connecting 10 African countries – Egypt, Sudan, South Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africa.   The imaginary of ‘Cape to Cairo’ is not new. In 1874, editor of the Daily Telegraph Edwin Arnold proposed a plan to connect the African continent by rail, a project that came to be known as the Cape to Cairo Railway project. Cecil Rhodes expressed his support for the project, seeing it as a means to connect the various ‘possessions’ of the British Empire across Africa, facilitating the movement of troops and natural resources. This railway project was never completed, and in 1970 was overlaid by a very different attempt at connecting the Cape to Cairo, as part of the Trans‑African Highway network. This 56,683km‑long system of highways – some dating from the colonial era, some built as part of the 1970s project, and some only recently built – aimed to create lines of connection across the African continent, from north to south as well as east to west.  Here, postcolonial state power invested in ‘moving the continent’s people and economies from past to future’, as architectural historians Kenny Cupers and Prita Meier write in their 2020 essay ‘Infrastructure between Statehood and Selfhood: The Trans‑African Highway’. The highways were to be built with the support of Kenya’s president Jomo Kenyatta, Ghana’s president Kwame Nkrumah and Ghana’s director of social welfare Robert Gardiner, as well as the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa (UNECA). This project was part of a particular historical moment during which anticolonial ideas animated most of the African continent; alongside trade, this iteration of Cape to Cairo centred social and cultural connection between African peoples. But though largely socialist in ambition, the project nevertheless engaged modernist developmentalist logics that cemented capitalism.  Lead image: Over a century in the making, the final stretches of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway are being finished. Egypt completed the section within its borders last year and a section over the dry Merille River in Kenya was constructed in 2019. Credit: Allan Muturi / SOPA / ZUMA / Alamy. Above: The route from Cairo to Cape Town, outlined in red, belongs to the Trans‑African Highway network, which comprises nine routes, here in black The project failed to fully materialise at the time, but efforts to complete the Trans‑African Highway network have been revived in the last 20 years; large parts are now complete though some links remain unbuilt and many roads are unpaved or hazardous. The most recent attempts to realise this project coincide with a new continental free trade agreement, the agreement on African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA), established in 2019, to increase trade within the continent. The contemporary manifestation of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway – also known as Trans‑African Highway (TAH) 4 – is marked by deepening neoliberal politics. Represented as an opportunity to boost trade and exports, connecting Egypt to African markets that the Egyptian government view as ‘untapped’, the project invokes notions of trade steeped in extraction, reflecting the neoliberal logic underpinning contemporary Egyptian governance; today, the country’s political project, led by Abdel Fattah El Sisi, is oriented towards Egyptian dominance and extraction in relation to the rest of the continent.  Through an allusion to markets ripe for extraction, this language brings to the fore historical forms of domination that have shaped the connections between Egypt and the rest of the continent; previous iterations of connection across the continent often reproduced forms of domination stretching from the north of the African continent to the south, including the Trans‑Saharan slave trade routes across Africa that ended in various North African and Middle Eastern territories. These networks, beginning in the 8th century and lasting until the 20th, produced racialised hierarchies across the continent, shaping North Africa into a comparably privileged space proximate to ‘Arabness’. This was a racialised division based on a civilisational narrative that saw Arabs as superior, but more importantly a political economic division resulting from the slave trade routes that produced huge profits for North Africa and the Middle East. In the contemporary moment, these racialised hierarchies are bound up in political economic dependency on the Arab Gulf states, who are themselves dependent on resource extraction, land grabbing and privatisation across the entire African continent.  ‘The Cairo–Cape Town Highway connects Egypt to African markets viewed as “untapped”, invoking notions steeped in extraction’ However, this imaginary conjured by the Cairo–Cape Town Highway is countered by a network of streets scattered across Africa that traces the web of Egyptian Pan‑African solidarity across the continent. In Lusaka in Zambia, you might find yourself on Nasser Road, as you might in Mwanza in Tanzania or Luanda in Angola. In Mombasa in Kenya, you might be driving down Abdel Nasser Road; in Kampala in Uganda, you might find yourself at Nasser Road University; and in Tunis in Tunisia, you might end up on Gamal Abdel Nasser Street. These street names are a reference to Gamal Abdel Nasser, Egypt’s first postcolonial leader and president between 1956 and 1970.  Read against the contemporary Cairo–Cape Town Highway, these place names signal a different form of connection that brings to life Egyptian Pan‑Africanism, when solidarity was the hegemonic force connecting the continent, coming up against the notion of a natural or timeless ‘great divide’ within Africa. From the memoirs of Egyptian officials who were posted around Africa as conduits of solidarity, to the broadcasts of Radio Cairo that were heard across the continent, to the various conferences attended by anticolonial movements and postcolonial states, Egypt’s orientation towards Pan‑Africanism, beginning in the early 20th century and lasting until the 1970s, was both material and ideological. Figures and movements forged webs of solidarity with their African comrades, imagining an Africa that was united through shared commitments to ending colonialism and capitalist extraction.  The route between Cape Town in South Africa and Cairo in Egypt has long occupied the colonial imaginary. In 1930, Margaret Belcher and Ellen Budgell made the journey, sponsored by car brand Morris and oil company Shell Credit: Fox Photos / Getty The pair made use of the road built by British colonisers in the 19th century, and which forms the basis for the current Cairo–Cape Town Highway. The road was preceded by the 1874 Cape to Cairo Railway project, which connected the colonies of the British Empire Credit: Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division This network of eponymous streets represents attempts to inscribe anticolonial power into the materiality of the city. Street‑naming practices are one way in which the past comes into the present, ‘weaving history into the geographic fabric of everyday life’, as geographer Derek Alderman wrote in his 2002 essay ‘Street Names as Memorial Arenas’. In this vein, the renaming of streets during decolonisation marked a practice of contesting the production of colonial space. In the newly postcolonial city, renaming was a way of ‘claiming the city back’, Alderman continues. While these changes may appear discursive, it is their embedding in material spaces, through signs and maps, that make the names come to life; place names become a part of the everyday through sharing addresses or giving directions. This quality makes them powerful; consciously or unconsciously, they form part of how the spaces of the city are navigated.  These are traces that were once part of a dominant historical narrative; yet when they are encountered in the present, during a different historical moment, they no longer act as expressions of power but instead conjure up a moment that has long passed. A street in Lusaka named after an Egyptian general made more sense 60 years ago than it does today, yet contextualising it recovers a marginalised history of Egyptian Pan‑Africanism.  Markers such as street names or monuments are simultaneously markers of anticolonial struggle as well as expressions of state power – part of an attempt, by political projects such as Nasser’s, to exert their own dominance over cities, towns and villages. That such traces are expressions of both anticolonial hopes and postcolonial state power produces a sense of tension within them. For instance, Nasser’s postcolonial project in Egypt was a contradictory one; it gave life to anticolonial hopes – for instance by breaking away from European capitalism and embracing anticolonial geopolitics – while crushing many parts of the left through repression, censorship and imprisonment. Traces of Nasser found today inscribe both anticolonial promises – those that came to life and those that did not – while reproducing postcolonial power that in most instances ended in dictatorship.  Recent efforts to complete the route build on those of the post‑independence era – work on a section north of Nairobi started in 1968 Credit: Associated Press / Alamy The Trans‑African Highway network was conceived in 1970 in the spirit of Pan‑Africanism At that time, the routes did not extend into South Africa, which was in the grip of apartheid. The Trans‑African Highway initiative was motivated by a desire to improve trade and centre cultural links across the continent – an ambition that was even celebrated on postage stamps There have been long‑standing debates about the erasure of the radical anticolonial spirit from the more conservative postcolonial states that emerged; the promises and hopes of anticolonialism, not least among them socialism and a world free of white supremacy, remain largely unrealised. Instead, by the 1970s neoliberalism emerged as a new hegemonic project. The contemporary instantiation of Cape to Cairo highlights just how pervasive neoliberal logics continue to be, despite multiple global financial crises and the 2011 Egyptian revolution demanding ‘bread, freedom, social justice’.  But the network of streets named after anticolonial figures and events across the world is testament to the immense power and promise of anticolonial revolution. Most of the 20th century was characterised by anticolonial struggle, decolonisation and postcolonial nation‑building, as nations across the global south gained independence from European empire and founded their own political projects. Anticolonial traces, present in street and place names, point to the possibility of solidarity as a means of reorienting colonial geographies. They are a reminder that there have been other imaginings of Cape to Cairo, and that things can be – and have been – otherwise. 2025-06-13 Kristina Rapacki Share

With reclaimed land previously allocated to cars, the Grijalva River boardwalk offers generous public spaces and reconnects the Mexican city of Villahermosa to its river In Villahermosa, nature reigns supreme. Surrounded by rivers, lagoons, wild vegetation and the scorching heat of a humid tropical climate, the city’s identity is shaped by intense and unpredictable natural forces. The capital of the Mexican state of Tabasco was founded in 1564 on the banks of the Grijalva River, a vital trade route that has significantly shaped the city’s development. For locals, the river has long been both blessing and threat; major floods have been recorded since the 17th century. A devastating flood in 2007 submerged what officials estimated to be 80 per cent of the city, damaging or destroying more than 120,000 homes. In the aftermath of the inundation, high concrete retaining walls were built along both banks of the Grijalva River to prevent further flooding. While this was an understandable measure at first glance, it consequently caused residents to lose both their visual and physical connection with the river. As a result, people moved, particularly from the western bank where the historical centre is located, to new areas further away from the Grijalva River. The riverfront was left to deteriorate into a troubled zone. On the eastern bank, the neighbourhood of Gaviotas was already considered unsafe before the flood, yet it maintained more of its residential character. In 2022, 15 years after the dramatic flood, then‑president Andrés Manuel López Obrador, more commonly known as AMLO, announced the construction of a new 6km‑long riverfront promenade in Villahermosa, the capital of his home state. The idea was to enable the population to once again take pride in and live with their river, looking to Paris and Rome as examples. The monumental task, with its large urban scale and the population’s psychological trauma, was entrusted to the Ministry of Agricultural, Territorial and Urban Development (SEDATU) as part of their Programa de Mejoramiento Urbano (Urban Improvement Programme, or PMU). This programme aimed to use architecture as an ‘instrument of social transformation’. High expectations were placed on these projects; architects were asked to create ‘places of national pride’ while improving everyday living conditions. The architectural trio of Alejandro Castro Jiménez Labora, Mauricio Rocha Iturbide, and Óscar Rodríguez Castañeda, along with their teams, were commissioned to design a linear park along both banks of the Grijalva. Each architect contributed their strength: Castro brought his expertise in poetic urban furniture; Rocha his sensitive and atmospheric architectural approach; and Rodríguez his thoughtful urban and traffic planning skills. The SEDATU team provided technical and participatory expertise, enabling contextual sensitivity by sharing essential information about the site’s topography, soil conditions and water flows. From the city’s existing observatory, the Torre del Caballero landmark, visitors enjoy an excellent view over the redesigned riverbanks. The historical centre and the Gaviotas neighbourhood now form a single ensemble, while the intervention carefully responds to the different conditions found along the length of the river. The project’s main objective is to reclaim some of the land previously allocated to cars and create a promenade for pedestrians and slower vehicles, punctuated with public spaces and facilities. On both sides of the river, cars are now limited to just one or two grey asphalt lanes. Running alongside are generous cycle paths and pedestrian walkways made of earth‑coloured concrete. Speed bumps in the same material and colour connect the pavements on either side of the road while helping to limit traffic speed to 30km/h, further enhancing pedestrian safety. Several design elements are found along almost the entire promenade. A ribbon of light‑grey benches delineates the edge of the elevated riverfront; stone walls, steps and ramps are used to negotiate the slight changes in level; planters and lush vegetation soften the transition to the walkways, creating a welcome buffer from street traffic. The most visually striking components are the tall, red‑pigmented concrete light poles on the elevated path, adorned with elegant L‑shaped steel light fixtures, which establish a strong and cohesive visual rhythm. Only upon closer inspection you notice the 2007 retaining walls peeking through the dense tropical vegetation. Removing these unattractive concrete barriers was never an option; they stand as a symbol of successful flood protection for the local population. The architectural team ingeniously built the elevated promenade atop the existing wall – an effective concealment from the street side while simultaneously inviting residents to reconnect with the Grijalva.  At the foot of the observatory, directly below the retaining wall, the earth‑toned concrete platforms of the Carlos A Madrazo Becerra Park stretch towards the river. Visitors can access the park via a ramp from the promenade on the western bank or by ferry from the opposite side. In the park, concrete furnishings invite visitors to linger among tropical vegetation set against tall natural stone walls. Importantly, it is a space that is durable and requires minimal maintenance – a survival formula for public parks in the Mexican context. Small traces on the concrete benches reveal that the park weathered its baptism of fire last year: the design accommodates the river’s natural dynamics, adapting to fluctuating water levels without compromising public safety. Beyond providing much‑needed shade, the extensive planting of native, low‑maintenance plants on both riverbanks has improved soil stability. Above the park, on a broad extension of the elevated pathway, stand three long, elegant buildings with large cantilevered roofs supported by hefty beams resting on distinctive double columns. The tall glass walls that enclose the interiors are set back, creating a visual flow between interior and exterior spaces. While the beams evoke timber construction, they – like the columns – are made of the same pigmented concrete used for the promenade paving. Despite their refined composition, these structures have remained largely unused since their completion over a year ago, neither serving their intended function as restaurants nor hosting alternative uses. Even the beautifully designed park sees only limited public engagement. The ambitious goal of SEDATU with the PMU projects to ‘counteract violence and strengthen the social fabric’ appears, for now, to have fallen short in this area. According to national statistics, Villahermosa ranks first in perceived insecurity among Mexican cities. This sense of insecurity is tangible on the promenade by the city centre, where buildings that look abandoned contribute to an atmosphere of neglect. The situation is markedly different on the opposite riverbank, in the Gaviotas neighbourhood. Construction of the 3.5km promenade on this side began in 2021 with three open pavilions housing several small kiosks, which quickly evolved into popular taco stands. The Plaza Solidaridad, revitalised by the architectural trio, draws people from the surrounding vibrant neighbourhood. Further south, the final section that was built is a large sports area and children’s playground, which were embraced by the local community even before their official inauguration in February 2024. Especially after sunset, when the air cools, the well‑lit Gaviotas riverfront comes to life. During daylight hours, however, air‑conditioned shopping centres remain the preferred gathering places for the residents of Villahermosa. Rocha describes the city’s new promenade as a ‘jazz composition’, a striking metaphor that speaks of rhythmic complexity and the freedom to improvise. With just a few designed elements and carefully selected colours, the architects have harmoniously layered the river’s urban spaces. The project is earning international recognition but, in Mexico, it faced sharp criticism and was overshadowed by accusations of nepotism. Castro is a friend of AMLO’s son, and the fact that the intervention took place in the home state of the then‑president, coupled with its substantial budget by local standards, drew considerable attention. According to residents, this undermined public acceptance. When asked about the negative press, Rocha speaks of the need to develop a ‘crisis muscle’; he says architects working on public projects in Mexico must ‘let go of perfectionism’ as much lies beyond their control.  During AMLO’s six‑year term, which ended in 2024, SEDATU implemented 1,300 PMU projects in 193 highly marginalised municipalities across the country. While many of these interventions undoubtedly improved people’s quality of life, the Villahermosa riverside project also reveals architecture’s limitations, exposing some of the programme’s weaknesses: architectural interventions often act as sticking plasters on an extensively damaged urban fabric. They are handed over from a national ministry with comprehensive expertise and funding to local governments lacking the means to sustain them. Although SEDATU conducted participatory consultations during the project’s implementation, this engagement was absent once the project was completed. Public acceptance and appropriation can take time; what this project does is send an invitation out. 2025-06-05 Reuben J Brown Share AR June 2025RoadsBuy Now

The transformation of Hangzhou’s old steelworks into a park is a tribute to China’s industrial past in a city of the future The congressional hearing about Chinese AI engine DeepSeek held in the US this April has propelled Hangzhou, the heart of China’s new digital economy, to the headlines. With companies such as DeepSeek, Unitree and Alibaba – whose payment app allowed me to get on the metro without needing to buy a ticket – headquartered in Hangzhou, China’s future in AI, robotics and automation is emanating from this city. Getting off the metro in the suburban area of Gongshu, the sun was shining on an old steelworks, overgrown with vines and flowers now that it is being transformed by Jiakun Architects and TLS Landscape Architecture into the Grand Canal Steelworks Park. The unfolding trade war might help to accelerate China’s journey into an automated future, leaving the world of factories behind, yet this new public space shows an impulse to commemorate the country’s economic history, and the forces that have shaped its contemporary built environment. Starting in Hangzhou and travelling more than 1,700km to Beijing, the Grand Canal is an engineering project built 2,500 years ago to connect the different regions of eastern China. The country’s geography means rivers flow from west to east: from higher elevations, culminating in the Himalayas, to the basin that is the country’s eastern seaboard. Historically, it was difficult to transport goods from mercantile centres in the south, including Hangzhou and Suzhou, to the political centre in Beijing up north. As a civil engineering project, the Grand Canal rivals the Great Wall, but if the Great Wall aims to protect China from the outside, the Grand Canal articulates Chinese commerce from the inside. The historic waterway has been an important conduit of economic and cultural exchange, enabling the movement of people and goods such as grain, silk, wine, salt and gravel across the country. It became a UNESCO World Heritage site in 2014. The state‑owned enterprise collective was founded, and the physical facility of Hangzhou steelworks built, in the 1950s during the Great Leap Forward, when China strove for self‑sufficiency, and wended its way through the country’s economic trajectory: first the economic chaos of the 1960s, then the reforms and opening up in the 1980s. Steel remains an important industry today in China, home to more than half of the world’s production, but the listing of the Grand Canal enabled city leaders to move production to a new site and decommission the Hangzhou steelworks. External mandates, including entry into the World Trade Organization, the Beijing Olympics and UNESCO listings, have been instrumentalised in the country to pursue a range of internal interests, particularly economical and real estate ones.  In 2016, the factory was shut down in 150 days, in what the company describes as a ‘heroic’ effort, and the site attracted tourists of industrial ruins. In the competition brief, Hangzhou planners asked for ‘as much of the existing blast furnaces and buildings’ as possible to be preserved. When I arrived in China in 2008, Chinese cities were notorious for heritage demolition, but today urban planners and architects increasingly work to preserve historical buildings. Just like several industrial sites in Beijing and Shanghai have been transformed into major public and cultural spaces in the past decade, in the Yangtze River Delta – of which Hangzhou is a major hub – several industrial sites along the Grand Canal’s course are being given a new lease of life. Today, the three blast furnaces of Hangzhou steelworks remain, with the silhouettes of their smokestacks easily recognisable from a distance. The project preserves as much as possible of the aesthetics of a steel mill with none of the danger or dust, ready to welcome instead new community facilities and cultural programmes in a vast and restored piece of landscape. Situated in a former working‑class district that has been gentrifying and welcoming young families, the new park is becoming a popular venue for music festivals, flower viewing in springtime and year‑round picnics – when I visited, parents were teaching their children to ride a bicycle, and students from Zhejiang University, about a kilometre from the park, were having lunch on the grass. New programmes accommodated in the old coke oven and steel mills will include a series of exhibition halls and spaces welcoming a wide range of cultural and artistic workshops as well as events – the project’s first phase has just completed but tenant organisations have not yet moved in, and works are ongoing to the north of the park. On the day of my visit, a student art exhibition was on display near one of the furnaces, with works made from detritus from the site, including old packing containers. The rehabilitated buildings also provide a range of commercial units, where cafés, restaurants, shops, a bookshop, ice cream shop and a gym have already opened their doors to visitors.  Several structures were deemed structurally unsafe and required demolition, such as the old iron casting building. The architects proposed to partially reconstruct it on its original footprint; the much more open structure, built with reclaimed bricks, now houses a semi‑outdoor garden. Material choices evoke the site’s industrial past: weathered steel, exposed concrete and large expanses of glazing dominate the landscape. The widespread use of red, including in an elevated walkway that traverses the park – at times vaguely reminiscent of a Japanese torii gate in the space below – gives a warm and reassuring earthiness to the otherwise industrial colour palette. Elements selected by the designers underwent sanitisation and detoxification before being reused. The landscaping includes old machinery parts and boulders; recuperated steel panels are for instance inlaid into the paving while pipes for pouring molten steel have been turned into a fountain. The train tracks that once transported material continue to run through the site, providing paths in between the new patches of vegetation, planted with local grasses as well as Japanese maples, camphors and persimmon trees. As Jiawen Chen from TLS describes it, the aesthetic feels ‘wild, but not weedy or abandoned’. The landscape architects’ inspiration came from the site itself after the steelworks’ closure, she explains, once vegetation had begun to reclaim it. Contaminated soil was replaced with clean local soil – at a depth between 0.5 and 1.5 metres, in line with Chinese regulations. The removed soil was sent to specialised facilities for purification, while severely contaminated layers were sealed with concrete. TLS proposed phytoremediation (using plants to detoxify soil) in selected areas of the site ‘as a symbolic and educational gesture’, Chen explains, but ‘the client preferred to be cautious’. From the eastern end of the park, hiking trails lead to the mountain and its Buddhist temples. The old steel mill’s grounds fade seamlessly into the hills. Standing in what it is still a construction site, a sign suggests there will soon be a rowing centre here.  While Jiakun Architects and TLS have prioritised making the site palatable as a public space, the project also brings to life a history that many are likely to have forgotten. Throughout, the park incorporates different elements of China’s economic history, including the life of the Grand Canal and the industrial era. There is, for example, a Maoist steelworker painted on the mural of one of the cafés, as well as historical photographs and drawings of the steelworks peppering the site, framed and hung on the walls. The ambition might be in part to pay homage to steelworkers, but it is hard to imagine them visiting. Gongshu, like the other suburbs of Hangzhou, has seen rapid increases in its property prices.  The steelworks were built during the Maoist era, a time of ‘battling with earth, battling with heaven, battling with humanity’, to borrow Mao’s own words. Ordinary people melted down pots and pans to surpass the UK in steel production, and industry was seen as a sharp break from a traditional Chinese way of life, in which humans aspire to live in harmony with their environment. The priorities of the government today are more conservative, seeking to create a garden city to attract engineers and their families. Hangzhou has long represented the balmy and sophisticated life of China’s south, a land of rice and fish. To the west of the city, not far from the old steelworks, are the ecologically protected Xixi wetlands, and Hangzhou’s urban planning exemplifies the Chinese principle of 天人合一, or nature and humankind as one.  Today, Hangzhou is only 45 minutes from Shanghai by high‑speed train. The two cities feel like extensions of one another, an urban region of 100 million people. The creation of the Grand Canal Steelworks Park reflects the move away from heavy industry that Chinese cities such as Hangzhou are currently making, shifting towards a supposedly cleaner knowledge‑driven economy. Yet the preservation of the steelworks epitomises the sentimental attitude towards the site’s history and acts as a reminder that today’s middle classes are the children of yesterday’s steelworkers, drinking coffee and playing with their own children in grassy lawns next to shuttered blast furnaces.  The park’s second phase is already nearing completion, and the competition for the nearby Grand Canal Museum was won by Herzog & de Meuron in 2020 – the building is under construction, and should open at the end of this year. It is a district rich in history, but the city is resolutely turned towards the future.  2025-06-02 Reuben J Brown Share AR May 2025CircularityBuy Now

The ways roads are used, with ever larger and heavier vehicles, have dramatic consequences on the environment – and electric cars are not the answer Today, there is an average of 37 tonnes of road per inhabitant of the planet. The weight of the road network alone accounts for a third of all construction worldwide, and has grown exponentially in the 20th century. There is 10 times more bitumen, in mass, than there are living animals. Yet growth in the mass of roads does not automatically correspond to population growth, or translate into increased length of road networks. In wealthier countries, the number of metres of road per inhabitant has actually fallen over the last century. In the United States, for instance, between 1905 and 2015 the length of the network increased by a factor of 1.75 and the population by a factor of 3.8, compared with 21 for the mass of roads. Roads have become wider and, above all, much thicker. To understand the evolution of these parameters, and their environmental impact, it is helpful to trace the different stages in the life of the motorway.  Until the early 20th century, roads were used for various modes of transport, including horses, bicycles, pedestrians and trams; as a result of the construction of railways, road traffic even declined in some European countries in the 19th century. The main novelty brought by the motorway was that they would be reserved for motorised traffic. In several languages, the word itself – autostrada, autobahn, autoroute or motorway – speaks of this exclusivity.  Roman roads varied from simple corduroy roads, made by placing logs perpendicular to the direction of the road over a low or swampy area, to paved roads, as this engraving from Jean Rondelet’s 19th‑century Traité Théorique et Pratique de l’Art de Bâtir shows. Using deep roadbeds of tamped rubble as an underlying layer to ensure that they kept dry, major roads were often stone-paved, metalled, cambered for drainage and flanked by footpaths, bridleways and drainage ditches Like any major piece of infrastructure, motorways became the subject of ideological discourse, long before any shovel hit the ground; politicians underlined their role in the service of the nation, how they would contribute to progress, development, the economy, modernity and even civilisation. The inauguration ceremony for the construction of the first autostrada took place in March 1923, presided over by Italy’s prime minister Benito Mussolini. The second major motorway programme was announced by the Nazi government in 1933, with a national network planned to be around 7,000 kilometres long. In his 2017 book Driving Modernity: Technology, Experts, Politics, and Fascist Motorways, 1922–1943, historian Massimo Moraglio shows how both programmes were used as propaganda tools by the regimes, most notably at the international road congresses in Milan in 1926 and Munich in 1934. In the European postwar era, the notion of the ‘civilising’ effect of roads persevered. In 1962, Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, then‑secretary of state for finances and later president of France, argued that expanded motorways would bring ‘progress, activity and life’. This discourse soon butted up against the realities of how motorways affected individuals and communities. In his 2011 book Fighting Traffic: The Dawn of the Motor Age in the American City, Peter D Norton explores the history of resistance to the imposition of motorised traffic in North American cities. Until the 1920s, there was a perception that cars were dangerous newcomers, and that other street and road uses – especially walking – were more legitimate. Cars were associated with speed and danger; restrictions on motorists, especially speed limits, were routine.  Built between 1962 and 1970, the Westway was London’s first urban motorway, elevated above the city to use less land. Construction workers are seen stressing the longitudinal soffit cables inside the box section of the deck units to achieve the bearing capacity necessary to carry the weight of traffic Credit: Heritage Image Partnership Ltd / Alamy To gain domination over cities, motor vehicles had to win priority over other street uses. Rather than restricting the flow of vehicles to minimise the risk of road accidents, a specific infrastructure was dedicated to them: both inner‑city roads and motorways. Cutting through the landscape, the motorway had, by definition, to be inaccessible by any other means of transport than motorised vehicle. To guarantee the fluidity of traffic, the construction of imposing bridges, tunnels and interchanges is necessary, particularly at junctions with other roads, railways or canals. This prioritisation of one type of user inevitably impacts journeys for others; as space is fragmented, short journeys are lengthened for those trying to navigate space by foot or bicycle.  Enabling cars to drive at around 110–140km/h on motorways, as modern motorways do, directly impacts their design, with major environmental effects: the gradient has to be gentle (4 per cent), the curves long (1.5km in radius) and the lanes wide, to allow vehicles to overtake each other safely. As much terrain around the world is not naturally suited to these requirements, the earthworks are considerable: in France, the construction of a metre of highway requires moving some 100m3 of earth, and when the soil is soft, full of clay or peat, it is made firmer with hydraulic lime and cement before the highway’s first sub‑layers are laid. This material cost reinforces the criticisms levelled in the 1960s, by the likes of Jane Jacobs and Lewis Mumford, at urban planning that prioritised the personal motor vehicle. When roads are widened to accommodate more traffic, buildings are sliced and demolished, as happened in Dhaka’s Bhasantek Road in 2021 Credit: Dhaka Tribune Once built, the motorway is never inert. Motorway projects today generally anticipate future expansion (from 2×2 to 2×3 to 2×4 lanes), and include a large median strip of 12m between the lanes, with a view to adding new ones. Increases in speed and vehicle sizes have also translated into wider lanes, from 2.5m in 1945 to 3.5m today. The average contemporary motorway footprint is therefore 100 square metres per linear metre. Indeed, although the construction of a road is supposed to reduce congestion, it also generates new traffic and, therefore, new congestion. This is the principle of ‘induced traffic’: the provision of extra road capacity results in a greater volume of traffic. The Katy Freeway in Texas famously illustrates this dynamic. Built as a regular six‑lane highway in the 1960s, it was called the second worst bottleneck in the nation by 2004, wasting 25 million hours a year of commuter time. In 2011, the state of Texas invested US$2.8 billion to fix this problem, widening the road to a staggering total of 26 lanes. By 2014, the morning and afternoon traffic had both increased again. The vicious circle based on the induced traffic has been empirically demonstrated in most countries: traffic has continued to increase and congestion remains unresolved, leading to ever-increasing emissions. In the EU, transport is the only sector where greenhouse gas emissions have increased in the past three decades, rising 33.5 per cent between 1990 and 2019. Transport accounts for around a fifth of global CO₂ emissions today, with three quarters of this figure linked to road transport. Houston’s Katy Freeway is one of the world’s widest motorways, with 26 lanes. Its last expansion, in 2008, was initially hailed as a success, but within five years, peak travel times were longer than before the expansion – a direct illustration of the principle of induced traffic Credit: Smiley N Pool / Houston Chronicle / Getty Like other large transport infrastructures such as ports and airports, motorways are designed for the largest and heaviest vehicles. Engineers, road administrations and politicians have known since the 1950s that one truck represents millions of cars: the impact of a vehicle on the roadway is exponential to its weight – an online ‘road damage calculator’ allows you to compare the damage done by different types of vehicles to the road. Over the years, heavier and heavier trucks have been authorised to operate on roads: from 8‑tonne trucks in 1945 to 44 tonnes nowadays. The European Parliament adopted a revised directive on 12 March 2024 authorising mega‑trucks to travel on European roads; they can measure up to 25 metres and weigh up to 60 tonnes, compared with the previous limits of 18.75 metres and 44 tonnes. This is a political and economic choice with considerable material effects: thickness, rigidity of sub‑bases and consolidation of soil and subsoil with lime and cement. Altogether, motorways are 10 times thicker than large roads from the late 19th century. In France, it takes an average of 30 tonnes of sand and aggregate to build one linear metre of motorway, 100 times more than cement and bitumen.  The material history of road networks is a history of quarrying and environmental damage. The traces of roads can also be seen in rivers emptied of their sediment, the notches of quarries in the hills and the furrows of dredgers extracting sand from the seabed. This material extraction, arguably the most significant in human history, has dramatic ecological consequences for rivers, groundwater tables, the rise of sea levels and saltwater in farmlands, as well as biodiversity. As sand is ubiquitous and very cheap, the history of roads is also the history of a local extractivism and environmental conflicts around the world.  Shoving and rutting is the bulging and rippling of the pavement surface. Once built, roads require extensive maintenance – the heavier the vehicles, the quicker the damage. From pothole repair to the full resurfacing of a road, maintenance contributes to keeping road users safe Credit: Yakov Oskanov / Alamy Once roads are built and extended, they need to be maintained to support the circulation of lorries and, by extension, commodities. This stage is becoming increasingly important as rail freight, which used to be important in countries such as France and the UK, is declining, accounting for no more than 10 per cent of the transport of commodities. Engineers might judge that a motorway is destined to last 20 years or so, but this prognosis will be significantly reduced with heavy traffic. The same applies to the thousands of motorway bridges: in the UK, nearly half of the 9,000 highway bridges are in poor condition; in France, 7 per cent of the 12,000 bridges are in danger of collapsing, as did Genoa’s Morandi bridge in 2018. If only light vehicles drove on it, this infrastructure would last much longer. This puts into perspective governments’ insistence on ‘greening’ the transport sector by targeting CO2 emissions alone, typically by promoting the use of electric vehicles (EVs). Public policies prioritising EVs do nothing to change the mass of roads or the issue of their maintenance – even if lorries were to run on clean air, massive quarrying would still be necessary. A similar argument plays out with regard to canals and ports, which have been constantly widened and deepened for decades to accommodate ever-larger oil tankers or container ships. The simple operation of these infrastructures, dimensioned for the circulation of commodities and not humans, requires permanent dredging of large volumes. The environmental problem of large transport infrastructure goes beyond the type of energy used: it is, at its root, free and globalised trade. ‘The material life cycle of motorways is relentless: constructing, maintaining, widening, thickening, repairing’ As both a material and ideological object, the motorway fixes certain political choices in the landscape. Millions of kilometres of road continue to be asphalted, widened and thickened around the world to favour cars and lorries. In France, more than 80 per cent of today’s sand and aggregate extraction is used for civil engineering works – the rest goes to buildings. Even if no more buildings, roads or other infrastructures were to be built, phenomenal quantities of sand and aggregates would still need to be extracted in order to maintain existing road networks. The material life cycle of motorways is relentless: constructing, maintaining, widening, thickening, repairing, adding new structures such as wildlife crossings, more maintaining.  Rising traffic levels are always deemed positive by governments for a country’s economy and development. As Christopher Wells shows in his 2014 book Car Country: An Environmental History, car use becomes necessary in an environment where everything has been planned for the car, from the location of public services and supermarkets to residential and office areas. Similarly, when an entire economy is based on globalised trade and just‑in‑time logistics (to the point that many service economies could not produce their own personal protective equipment in the midst of a pandemic), the lorry and the container ship become vital.  The final stage in the life of a piece of motorway infrastructure is dismantling. Like the other stages, this one is not a natural outcome but the fruit of political choices – which should be democratic – regarding how we wish to use existing roads. Dismantling, which is essential if we are to put an end to the global extractivism of sand and aggregates, does not mean destruction: if bicycles and pedestrians were to use them instead, maintenance would be minimal. This final stage requires a paradigm shift away from the eternal adaptation to increasing traffic. Replacing cars and lorries with public transport and rail freight would be a first step. But above all, a different political and spatial organisation of economic activities is necessary, and ultimately, an end to globalised, just-in-time trade and logistics. In 1978, a row of cars parked at a shopping centre in Connecticut was buried under a thick layer of gooey asphalt. The Ghost Parking Lot, one of the first projects by James Wines’ practice SITE, became a playground for skateboarders until it was removed in 2003. Images of this lumpy landscape serve as allegories of the damage caused by reliance on the automobile Credit: Project by SITE Lead image: Some road damage is beyond repair, as when a landslide caused a large chunk of the Gothenburg–Oslo motorway to collapse in 2023. Such dramatic events remind us of both the fragility of these seemingly robust infrastructures, and the damage that extensive construction does to the planet. Credit: Hanna Brunlöf Windell / TT / Shutterstock 2025-06-03 Reuben J Brown Share

Mauricio Rocha | TaAU | Alejandro Castro | OMA | Michel Desvigne | Robert Moses | El Equipo Mazzanti | ContraFuerte |  Batlleiroig | Christian Kerez Earlier this year, news broke that levels of fine particulate matter in Paris had dropped by an astounding 55 per cent since 2005. Through a combination of regulation and public policy, the city has vastly reduced the number of cars on its streets, introducing bike lanes and public green spaces in the place of around 50,000 parking spaces. This issue is dedicated to roads and the architectures that support them. Cities around the world are reckoning with 20th-century car-oriented urban planning, as epitomised by Robert Moses’s New York (p36). Existing roads are increasingly repurposed for broader uses, prioritising pedestrians, cyclists and other forms of movement. São Paulo’s Minhocão has been gradually reclaimed by residents, and the restoration of a historical promenade in Reus is inclusive for all. Meanwhile, OMA’s new bridge in Bordeaux is designed to host public events – as well as six lanes of motorised traffic. Elsewhere, automobile infrastructure continues to expand; in Bahrain, four new car parks stand largely empty, and a roadside service station in Colombia is yet to be occupied. Roads promise prosperity and progress, often with expansionist ambitions; as Nadi Abusaada writes, ‘The road is both the myth and mechanism of the colonial frontier’.  Electric vehicles are now heralded as the future of transport, but as Nelo Magalhães writes in this issue’s keynote, ‘EVs do nothing to change the mass of roads or the issue of their maintenance’. The shift needed is more radical and wide‑reaching.  1522: Roads cover (above)Highway #5, Los Angeles, California, USA (2009) is part of Edward Burtynsky: The Great Acceleration, an exhibition on view at the International Center of Photography in New York City until 28 September. In it, a motorway bulldozes its way through suburbia, sending out smaller branches that further subdivide it. Credit: © Edward Burtynsky, courtesy Flowers Gallery, London folio (lead image)Home follows a family living in a house next to an uncompleted motorway, who reclaim it, temporarily, as an extension of their home. Credit: Album / Alamy keynote How much does your road weigh? Nelo Magalhãesbuilding Malecón de Villahermosa by Taller de Arquitectura Mauricio Rocha, TaAU and Alejandro Castro in Villahermosa, Mexico Laure Nashed building Simon Veil bridge by OMA and Michel Desvigne Paysagiste in Bordeaux, France John Bingham-Hall reputations Robert Moses Andy Battlebuilding Control and operations centre by El Equipo Mazzanti and ContraFuerte in Bolombolo, Colombia Felipe Walter essay Cape to Cairo Sara Salem essay A short history of the roadblock Jan-Werner Müller outrage The Amazonian road to COP30 Martha Dillonrevisit Schlangenbader Straße estate in Berlin, Germany Sophie Lovell essay Living with the Big Worm Richard J Williamsbuilding Passeig de Boca de la Mina by Batlleiroig in Reus, Spain Blanca Pujals essay Taking Norway’s scenic routes Tomà Berlanda building Pearling Path car parks by Christian Kerez in Muharraq, Bahrain Oliver Wainwright typology Petrol station Tom Wilkinson essay The road is the frontier Nadi Abusaada

The chief executive of the developer Antracit discusses her ambitions for the contest contest to retrofit and upgrade the former Palace Hotel in Ostrava, Czechia Zuzana Bajgarová inside the Palace Hotel Credit: Image by Vladimir Prycek Magazine Patriot Why are you holding an international contest for the renewal of the Palace Hotel in Ostrava? The former Palace Hotel building holds great historical and cultural significance for Ostrava. Since 1913, it has been an integral part of city life – fondly remembered by several generations, whether as a venue for cultural and social events or as a backdrop to everyday urban life. That’s why we are approaching its renewal with the utmost respect and openness to diverse architectural perspectives. We believe that an international competitive dialogue is the most effective way to arrive at a high-quality, sensitive solution that also aligns with the expectations of investors. We view the project as one of our company’s flagship initiatives – one that will shape the future appearance of Ostrava’s historic centre, in the Czech Republic’s third-largest city. What is your vision for the future of this important city centre building? Our vision is to transform the Palace Hotel into a vibrant, open space that seamlessly integrates into the everyday rhythm of city life. We believe it can offer the kind of amenities and services that Ostrava currently lacks. We aim to develop stylish, small-scale rental housing, complemented by services, community spaces, and potentially even a modern lifestyle hotel. A key priority is revitalizing the building’s ground floor as a dynamic public space and thoughtfully incorporating historical features into its renewed identity. This is a long-term investment focused on sustainability and on creating lasting value – not only for the people of Ostrava, but for the city as a whole. What sort of teams would you like to see step forward for this unique opportunity? We would like to invite teams that think beyond the immediate task – those with the courage to approach this project with both respect and vision. We value interdisciplinary collaboration that brings together architecture, urbanism, design, and experience in the transformation of historic buildings. Equally important to us is an understanding of urban life and the ability to design spaces that serve people naturally and intuitively. We are seeking a long-term partner – someone who will accompany us from concept through to successful implementation, and help restore the Palace Hotel to its rightful place on the map as a vibrant, confident presence in contemporary Ostrava. 2025-06-01 Merlin Fulcher Share

A competition is being held to rethink the Flemish Community Commission’s property portfolio in Brussels (Deadline: 17 June 2025) The competition – organised by the Brussels ‘Bouwmeester’ chief architect – will select a ‘multidisciplinary and transversal’ team to draw up a high-level vision for the commission’s estate which includes 64 buildings and campuses across the Brussels-Capital Region The winner of the €190,000 contract will create short (1–5 years), medium (5–15 years), and long term (15–30 years) strategies for the organisation which provides cultural, educational, well-being and health services to Flemings across the city. According to the brief: ‘The Flemish Community Commission (VGC) holds a significant public real estate portfolio in the Brussels-Capital Region, covering approximately 246,000m², of which around 94,000m² is under its direct management. ‘This property, consisting of 64 buildings and campuses operated under various models and real estate contracts, now requires a clear and structured long-term vision. The VGC aims to move beyond its current multi-year plan and develop a long-term strategy focused on sustainable and resilient infrastructure.’ Brussels is the capital of the French Community of Belgium and home to a Dutch-speaking Flemish community of around 240,000 people. The Flemish Community Commission was founded in 1989 to provide a range of community services to Flemings in Brussels. De Vaartkapoen in Sint-Jans-Molenbeek, Brussels is a venue run by the Flemish Community Commission Credit: Image by Lotte222 Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license The competition is the latest to be organised by the Bouwmeester, which has recently launched international contests for an upgrade of the Les Jardins d’Élise school, to retrofit and convert a European Commission office block, and for 25 new affordable homes in the Usquare development of Brussels. The latest project aims to identify a ‘range of sustainable, future-oriented’ solutions for the city’s many Flemish Community Commission buildings and their management. The study will be expected to take into account ‘programmatic, spatial, technical, and financial dimensions.’ Participating teams will be required to have expertise in spatial research including architecture, urban planning, and building services with knowledge of urban development, real estate, and socio-spatial issues. The competition language is Dutch and the winning team will work receive an estimated €190,000 contract. Non-winning teams who submit qualifying bids will each receive a €2,000 honorarium. How to apply Deadline: 11am local time, 17 June Competition funding source: Not supplied Project funding source: Not supplied Owner of site(s): Not suppliedVisit the competition website for more information

An open international contest is being held to retrofit and upgrade the Brutalist-style Prior shopping centre in Most, Czechia (Deadline: 27 June) The two-stage competition – organised by the Centre for Central European Architecture (CCEA MOBA) on behalf of the City of Most – will select a design team to upgrade the 1973 complex located on a prominent site in the centre of the planned 1970s coal-mining settlement. The £750,000 (22.2 million CZK) ‘SuperMost – SuperPrior’ project will transform the landmark building – which is the centrepiece of a vast planned city designed by Václav Krejčí and constructed following the demolition of historic Most to make way for a lignite mine – into a new community and cultural hub for the settlement. Competition site: SuperPrior, Most According to the brief: ‘The city of Most is announcing its first competitive dialogue, SuperMost – SuperPrior. Prior, opened in 1976 as the city's main shopping centre, has the potential to become a community and cultural hub. ‘The aim is to design a new future for the former department store – a place for new functions, sharing, and meeting. The current building is to be reintegrated into the life of the city and offer meaningful use.’ Founded in mid-13th century, Most is a historic settlement of 63,000 inhabitants located in the Ústí nad Labem Region of Czechia close to Germany’s southern border. Most was demolished from 1965 to 1985 to make way for a lignite mine with a new planned settlement created in the Brutalist style featuring housing estates, a shopping centre, a culture centre, planetarium and an office skyscraper. The latest contest also comes shortly after CCEA MOBA launched a contest to retrofit and upgrade the former Palace Hotel in Ostrava. The ‘SuperMost – SuperPrior’ contest is the first part of a bigger programme of renewal drawn up by CCEA MOBA and the City of Most which will include an artistic intervention on the city hall and wider city centre renewal initiative. Competition site: SuperPrior, Most The project focuses on transforming the shopping centre into a new venue for film screenings and a gastronomy marketplace addressing the lack of similar facilities in the local area. Judges will include Marie Kašparová, director of Kultura Praha 3; Gerry Schwyter, architect at EM2N in Zurich; Marina Kounavi, founder of ANAGRAM in Athens; and the mayor of Most, Marek Hrvol. The contest language is Czech and English. Submissions will be judged on architectural quality including social-cultural value, aesthetic and functional quality; and technological solution comprising material and structural choices, environmental responsibility and energy performance. The overall winner will receive a £23,540 (CZK 700,000) prize while a second prize of £20,180 (CZK 600,000), third prize of £13,450 (CZK 400,000) and a fourth and fifth prize each worth £8,410 (CZK 250,000) will also be awarded. How to apply Deadline: 2pm local time, 27 June Competition funding source: Not supplied Project funding source: Not supplied Owner of site(s): Not supplied Contact details: karin@cceamoba.czVisit the competition website for more information

The Swiss Federal Railways’ repair works in Zürich are being lightly transformed for new commercial uses Workers at the Swiss Federal Railways’ (SBB) central repair works in Zürich used to climb the roof of its halls and practise handstands. It was as good a place as any to do gymnastics: out in the open air, with a view to the Käferberg rising across from a tangle of railway tracks and the river Limmat. A photograph from 1947 survives in the SBB archives, showing a light turf growing on the roof – most of the buildings that make up the works had been constructed about 30 years earlier, between 1906 and 1910 – and a group of young apprentices exercising under the stern supervision of a foreman. The photograph captures the beginning of the repair works’ heyday. SBB was formed in 1902, the result of an 1898 referendum to nationalise the nine major private railway companies operating in Switzerland at the time. The construction of the Zürich repair works began soon after, with an office building, a workers’ canteen, shower rooms, workshops, stores and carriage halls laid out across a 42,000m2 site flanked by Hohlstrasse to the south‑west and the railway tracks connecting Zürich Central and Altstetten stations to the north‑east. Here, rolling stock could easily be redirected to the works, and transferred into its functional, skylit brick halls with the use of a lateral transfer platform.  In the postwar decades, the works came to employ upwards of 800 staff, and served as the SBB’s main repair works, or Hauptwerkstätte – there were smaller ones in Bellinzona, Chur, Yverdon-les-Bains and other locations, established by the private railway firms before nationalisation. In the same period, SBB gained international fame for its early electrification drive – the landlocked confederation lacks fossil fuel deposits but has hydropower aplenty – and modern industrial design. The Swiss railway clock, designed in 1944 by SBB employee Hans Hilfiker, is now used in transit systems around the world, and the network’s adoption of Helvetica for its graphic identity in 1978 contributed to the widespread popularisation of the typeface – long before the first iPhone.  At the turn of the millennium, SBB was turned into a joint‑stock company. All shares are owned by the state and the Swiss cantons, but the new company structure allowed the network to behave more like a private enterprise. Part of this restructuring was an appraisal of the network’s sizable real-estate holdings, which a new division, SBB Immobilien, was set up to manage in 2003. Around the same time, the Hauptwerkstätte in Zürich was downgraded to a ‘repair centre’, and plans were drawn up to develop the site, which was vast, central and fashionably post‑industrial – and so ripe for profitable exploitation. The revenue generated by SBB Immobilien has only become more important to the network since then, as its pension fund – long beset by market volatility and continuous restructurings – relies heavily on it. When, in 2017, SBB and the city and canton of Zürich organised a competition for the redevelopment of the old repair works, Swiss architecture practice Baubüro In Situ was selected as winner ‘for its expertise in adaptive reuse, sustainable circular practices and participatory approach’, says an SBB Immobilien spokesperson. For SBB, it was important that the redevelopment, now dubbed Werkstadt Zürich, made use of the railways’ enormous catalogue of existing materials and components. (SBB even has its own online resale platform, where, for example, four tonnes of gravel, a disused train carriage or a stud welding machine can be acquired for a reasonable sum.) For the canton, it was imperative that the scheme make room for local manufacturing in line with a broader drive to bring production back into a city dominated by services.  Founded in Basel by Barbara Buser and Eric Honegger in 1998, Baubüro In Situ (previously Baubüro Mitte) was in a unique position to meet such a brief, as it operates alongside what it terms its three ‘sister companies’: Unterdessen (founded in 2004, to organise ‘meanwhile’ uses for buildings and sites), Zirkular (established in 2020, focusing on materials and circular construction), and Denkstatt Sàrl, an urban think tank run by Buser and Honegger together with Tabea Michaelis and Pascal Biedermann. All informed the masterplan for Werkstadt Zürich, which will complete its first phase this year.  The Zürich offices of the four companies have been housed in various spaces on the repair works site since 2017, while the project has been ongoing. For the past year, they have had a permanent home on a new mezzanine level constructed around the internal perimeter of the works’ cathedral‑like carriage hall. This level is accessed via two central staircases composed of reused components from SBB’s network – I‑beams of various profiles, timber, metal tube railings – which, as has become a trademark of Baubüro In Situ’s work, come together in an artfully mismatched whole. ‘The main thing this office does is as little as possible,’ says Vanessa Gerotto, an interior architect at the firm. SBB still uses parts of the site, as is evident from train tracks that crisscross it. ‘They do repairs in some of the halls,’ explains Gerotto. ‘But they have reorganised, relocated and compacted their repair sites,’ so that approximately 18,450m2 have been freed up for commercial use at Werkstadt Zürich, including a swathe of units in the carriage hall. Here, as in other areas where they are no longer needed, SBB’s tracks have been retained but filled in with concrete and smoothed over.  Businesses have slowly filled Werkstadt Zürich as new units have been completed, and are mostly rarefied, small‑scale producers of luxury consumables: there is a chocolatier, a granola‑maker, a micro‑brewery, a gin distillery and a coffee roastery, as well as a manufacturer of coffee machines. The first commercial tenant, however, was somewhat more in keeping with the original programme of the site: the Swiss outdoor equipment brand Transa moved its repair workshop into one of the spaces in Werkstadt Zürich’s magazine building, to the south of the site, in 2023. Here, a team of 13 craftspeople repair and waterproof Gore-Tex clothing, backpacks, tents and sleeping bags that individual customers either drop off or mail to them, or that official partnering brands send directly to the centre.  ‘The Transa team is currently working on a new set of curtains for the Baubüro In Situ’s offices across the yard’ This part of Werkstadt Zürich was also the first to be renovated. Baubüro In Situ, working closely with colleagues at Zirkular, undertook a substantial interior fit‑out of the triple-height space, located in the western part of the magazine wing. A new timber mezzanine was added to maximise use of the space for the client, who did not require a double-height ground floor space. This was designed to be structurally independent from the shell of the building, so that the listed structure was not impacted.  However, the weight of the mezzanine necessitated new foundations, which needed to support a load of 100kN per timber support. There were not any suitable concrete elements available on site at Werkstadt Zürich, so the teams opted for what Zirkular architect Blanca Gardelegui admits was an ‘experimental’ move, reusing concrete from a demolition site in Winterthur. Here, slabs were cut using a diamond blade saw and stacked on site using a crane. ‘Additional work,’ explains Pascal Angehrn, architect at Baubüro In Situ, ‘came from the temporary storage of the blocks,’ and their transport. Once the blocks had been fitted into place, new concrete nevertheless had to be poured around the timber supports. This meant that, although efforts were made to reuse a wide variety of components and fittings – heaters, doors, plumbing fixtures, lights and stone windowsills – the fit‑out did not meet the architects’ own best‑case scenario of 50 per cent greenhouse gas savings, compared with using new materials and components for the renovation. Instead, they calculated the savings to sit at around 17 per cent. ‘Concrete is one of the most challenging materials to recycle,’ says Gardelegui. ‘The idea is not to do something perfectly, but to learn from the process.’ Finally, the teams introduced a wide staircase into the centre of the space, using the timber from the cut-out mezzanine flooring to make up its steps. Upon moving in, the staff at Transa’s repair centre embraced the architects’ spirit of reuse, creating their own furniture from pallets, and uplholstering with insulation cut‑offs. Tobias Stump, a member of staff at the centre, explains that their team is currently working on a new set of curtains for Baubüro In Situ’s offices across the yard.  ‘The idea is not to do something perfectly, but to learn from the process’ Werkstadt Zürich has the atmosphere of a creative testing ground, where materials get shifted around and reconfigured as needs and uses change. There is genuine camaraderie among the new commercial tenants: they make curtains for each other; organise monthly ‘open factory’ days; and have even recreated the 1947 photograph of the gymnasts on the roof. But antics on the roof may not be viable much longer. The next phase of Werkstadt Zürich involves the construction of vertical extensions atop the halls and magazine wing, densifying the site for further financial gain. Bland, brand new residential towers loom just off site, a little further up Hohlstrasse. Altstetten is gentrifying rapidly, part of the city’s continual remaking of itself.

The Obalende bus terminus is one of Lagos’s most important transport nodes and a ‘graveyard’ for old danfos, which in Yoruba means ‘hurry’. These yellow‑painted minibuses form the backbone of Lagos’s informal transport system and are mostly second‑hand imports from the global north. Located in the heart of Lagos Island, Obalende is one of the first areas to be developed east of the lagoon that splits Lagos into two main halves: the Island and the Mainland. It receives a large portion of urban commuters daily, especially those entering Lagos Island for work. Obalende plays a critical role in the cycle of material reuse across the city. The life of a danfo does not end at retirement; it continues through a vast network of informal markets and recyclers that sustain entire communities. Their metal parts are either repurposed to fix other buses or sold as scrap at markets such as Owode Onirin. Located about 25km away on the Lagos Mainland, Owode Onirin, which means ‘money iron market’ in Yoruba, is a major hub for recycled metals. Waste collectors scour the city’s demolition sites for brass and mild steel; they find copper, bronze and aluminium in discarded vehicles. These materials are then processed and sold to companies such as African Foundries and Nigerian Foundries, as well as to local smiths who transform them into building parts, moulds and decorative objects. Sorters, welders and artisans form the backbone of this circular micro‑economy. Their labour breathes new life into discarded matter.  Lagos has a State Waste Management Authority, but it is fraught with politicking and inefficient in managing the city’s complex waste cycle. In the absence of intelligent state strategies, it falls on people to engineer solutions. They add armatures, build networks and modulate the static thresholds and borders imposed by the state. Today, these techniques and intelligences, born out of scarcity, are collectively labelled ‘informality’, a term that flattens their ingenuity.  Across the streets of Obalende and around its central roundabout, kiosks and pop‑up shops dominate the landscape. Most are constructed from materials such as timber reclaimed from collapsed buildings or fallen fascias, along with salvaged tarpaulins. Stones and concrete blocks found at demolition sites are moulded into anchors using discarded plastic paint buckets, serving as bases for umbrellas offering relief from the scorching Lagos sun. To anticipate flash flooding, many structures are raised slightly above ground on short stilts. Space, which is in short supply, is creatively repurposed to serve different functions at various times of the day; a single location might host breakfast vendors in the morning, fruit sellers in the afternoon and medicine hawkers at night. Due to its proximity to the city centre, Obalende experiences constant population shifts. Most entering the city at this node have no means of livelihood and often become salvagers. Under the curling ends of the Third Mainland Bridge, for example, a community of migrants gathers, surviving by scavenging motor parts, sometimes from old danfos, zinc roofing sheets and other materials of meagre value. Discarded mattresses, bedding and mosquito nets are repurposed as shelter beneath the noisy overpass, which becomes both workplace and home. In the absence of supportive state frameworks, communities like those in Obalende create micro‑responses to urban precarity. Their fluid, multifunctional spaces are adaptive and resilient architectures resulting from necessity, survival and material intelligence.  ‘Informality as a way of life is inherently circular in its use of space and materials’ In Lagos, the most populous city in Nigeria and one of the most populated in Africa, two thirds of the population live on less than US$1 a day, according to Amnesty International. This speaks not only to income levels but to multidimensional poverty. Unlike global cities such as Mumbai, Cape Town and Rio de Janeiro, where poorer demographics are largely confined to specific neighbourhoods at the margins, informality in Lagos is not peripheral but integral to how the city functions, defying the rigid thresholds and boundaries of formal urban planning.  Across Lagos, self‑sustaining circular economies flourish. Orile, a metal market located on the mainland, is one of the sites where discarded metals from sites in Lagos can be sold as part of a recycling system. Further out in the suburbs of Lagos, also on the mainland, is the Katangua Market, which is the biggest second‑hand clothes market in the city. In Nigeria’s largest hardware technology hub, Computer Village, just south of Lagos in Ikeja, used electrical and electronic equipment (UEEE) is sold for parts. A TRT World report notes that about 18,300 tonnes of UEEE arrive in Nigeria annually – although the number varies in other studies to as much as 54,000 tonnes smuggled in – with the majority coming from Europe, closely followed by the US and China.  Computer Village evolved into a dense network of shops, stalls and kiosks between 1998 and 2000, just before Nigeria adopted early digital cellular network technology. The market sits just minutes from the local airport and the Ikeja High Court, but its edges are fluid, spilling out from the Ikeja Underbridge. Over time, formal plots have dissolved into an evolving mesh of trade; the streets are lined with kiosks and carts, built from repurposed plywood, corrugated metal and tarpaulin, that come and go. Space is not owned but claimed, temporarily held, sublet and reshuffled.  Today, Computer Village generates an estimated US$2 billion in annual revenue. Yet most of the shops lack permanence and are constantly at risk of demolition or displacement. In March this year, over 500 shops were demolished overnight at Owode Onirin; in 2023, shopping complexes at Computer Village were torn down in a similar way. The state has continuously announced plans to relocate Computer Village to Katangua Market, with demolition of parts of Katangua Market itself making way for the move in 2020. Urban development patterns in Lagos prioritise formal sectors while ignoring self‑organised makers and traders. This contributes to spatial exclusion, where such communities are often under threat of eviction and relocation.  Discarded devices eventually make their way to landfills. Olusosun, in the very heart of Lagos, is one of Africa’s largest landfills. Over 10,000 tonnes of waste are delivered daily, and more than 5,000 scavengers live and work here, sifting through an artificial mountain of refuse in search of value: aluminium, copper, plastic, cloth. The waste stream, enlarged by the influx of used hardware and fast fashion from the global north, creates both livelihood and hazard. Recent studies have shown that most of the residents in and around the site are exposed to harmful air conditions that affect their lungs. Additionally, the water conditions around the site show infiltration of toxic substances. Scavengers have lost their lives in the process of harvesting metals from discarded electronics.  More than a landfill, Olusosun is a stage for the politics of waste in the global south. Poor regulation enables the flow of unserviceable imports; widespread poverty creates demand for cheap, second‑hand goods. The result is a fragile, and at times dangerous, ecosystem where the absence of the state makes room for informal innovation, such as space reuse and temporary architecture, material upcycling and recycling. In Olusosun, metals are often extracted, crushed and smelted through dangerous processes like open burning. Copper and gold harvested from the ashes then make their way back into products and institutions, such as the insets of bronze or aluminium in a piece of furniture that might eventually travel back to the global north. In its usual fashion, the government has promised to decommission the Olusosun site, but little has been seen in terms of an effective plan to repurpose the site under the state’s so‑called ‘advanced waste treatment initiative’. Informality as a way of life is inherently circular in its use of space and materials. It embodies adaptability, resilience and an intuitive response to economic and environmental conditions. The self‑built infrastructures in Lagos reveal the creativity and resilience of communities navigating the challenges of urban life. Now is the time for designers, policymakers and community leaders to work together and rethink urban development in a way that is more sustainable and responsive to the needs of the people who make cities thrive. The question is not whether informal economies will continue to exist, but how they can be designed into wider city planning – making them part of the solution, not the problem. Featured in the May 2025 issue: Circularity Lead image: Olympia De Maismont / AFP / Getty 2025-05-30 Reuben J Brown Share

An open international ideas contest is being held to rethink Baghdad’s underused main railway station (Deadline: 1 October) Open to architects, students, engineers, planners and designers – the single-stage competition seeks proposals to upgrade and revitalize the landmark 1953 complex which was designed by Scottish architect JM Wilson and originally provided a range of domestic and international services but now only operates one overnight train to Basra. The call for ideas – organised by Iraqi architectural awards initiative Tamayouz – aims to generate ideas that celebrate the partially disused station’s heritage while also helping to unlock renewal in the surrounding area. The overall winner will receive the Dewan Award named after a practice in Dubai which sponsors the competition. Baghdad Central Station Credit: Image by Mondalawy Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license According to the brief: ‘This is more than a design challenge. It’s an open call to envision how architecture can honour the past while shaping the future. We welcome bold, context-sensitive proposals that balance heritage preservation with civic ambition, and architectural vision with urban integration. ‘Participants will have the opportunity to contribute to a meaningful dialogue about the role of public space, mobility, and memory in shaping Baghdad’s urban fabric. Whether working individually or in multidisciplinary teams, entrants are encouraged to explore innovative and inclusive ideas that reconnect this iconic site with the life of the city.’ The competition focusses on the site of Baghdad Central Station on Qahira Street which opened in 1953 and was renovated in the early 2000s but has now become ‘disconnected from Baghdad’s urban life’ and is considered in a state of decline. The station is located in a major development zone a short distance from the Green Zone and the site of the unfinished ‘Grand Saddam Mosque’ which had been earmarked for a new Iraqi parliament designed by Zaha Hadid Architects. The brick-built station – which is crowned by a 21-metre turquoise dome framed by two prominent clock towers – is currently severed from the wider city by several large congested roads and suffers from underuse and outdated infrastructure. Baghdad Central Station Credit: Image by Mondalawy Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license The call for concepts seeks to reconnect the landmark building with the surrounding city and transform it into a ‘vibrant, functional civic space’ which could accommodate new modes of transport including a planned future metro system and other mobility needs. Submissions will be expected to highlight the architectural and cultural value of the station, restore the existing entrance hall and platforms, upgrade the public realm by creating a safe and pedestrian-friendly station forecourt, introduce new small-scale retail and food outlets that support everyday use, and integrate new sustainable and energy efficient technologies. Judges will include Wendy Pullan, professor at Cambridge University; Sebastian Hicks from Oxford Brookes University; Jala Makhzoumi, professor of landscape architecture at the American University of Beirut; and Nadia Habash, head of the Palestinian Engineers Association. The latest contest is the 13th Dewan Award competition to be organised by Tamayouz which is headquartered in Coventry, England. In 2020, the organisation held a contest to regenerate the post-industrial Dakeer Island in Basra which was won by ADD Architects from Alexandria, Egypt. The overall winner, to be announced in November, will receive USD $6,000 or a half-year paid internship at Dewan Architects and Engineers in Dubai. A second prize of USD $3,000 and third prize of $1,000 will also be awarded. The competition language is English. How to apply Deadline: 1 October Fee: $75 from April to 31 May; $90 from 1 June to 31 Aug; $100 from 1 Sep to 29 Sept Competition Funding Source: Sponsored by Dewan Architect + Engineers in Dubai Project Funding Source: N/A , Ideas competition at this stage Owner of Site(s): Iraqi Republic Railways CompanyVisit the competition website for more information

An open international contest is being held to retrofit and upgrade the former Palace Hotel in Ostrava, Czechia (Deadline: 6 June) The two-stage competition – organised by the Centre for Central European Architecture (CCEA MOBA) on behalf of the developer ANTRACIT – will select a design team to upgrade the historic complex located on a prominent site in the centre of Czechia’s third largest settlement. The £20 million (600 million CZK) project will transform the landmark building – which first opened in 1913, became abandoned in the 1990s and was later converted into a student accommodation complex – into a new vibrant city block playing a key role in Ostrava's urban and social fabric. Competition site: Palace Hotel, Ostrava According to the brief: ‘We'd like to invite you to participate in an international architectural competition as a competitive dialogue, aimed at reviving the Hotel Palace in the heart of Ostrava. ‘This building bears the marks of its era – it is a witness to changing ideals, visions, and the city's rhythm. Now, the time has come for it to become a vibrant place once again – a home for new residents, open to services and unexpected encounters. ‘We are seeking a solution that connects historical value with the needs of the present, one that understands Ostrava and the people who shape it.’ Founded in 1267, Ostrava is a large industrial city located close to the Polish border in the north-east of Czechia. The settlement is home to around 280,000 people and local landmarks include the contest-winning Ostrava Concert Hall by Steven Holl Architects. In January, the City of Ostrava launched a competition create a new €100 million (CZK 2.5 billion) football stadium for FC Baník Ostrava on the location of the club’s existing grounds which have been in use since 1959 and are located near to Ostrava’s New City Hall. The latest contest also comes just months after international competitions were announced for a new urban quarter in Jindřichův Hradec, for the €244 million upgrade of flood defences in Olomouc and to transform the disused Hotel Strojař in nearby Přerov. Competition site: Palace Hotel, Ostrava Judges will include Silvia Forlati, architect and co-founder of a Viennese studio SHARE; Pascal Müller, architect and co-founder of the office Müller Sigrist Architekten; Zuzana Bajgarová, director of ANTRACIT; and Michaela Yaparsidi, architect and project manager in HESTA Immobilien in Zurich. The contest language is Czech and English. Submissions will be judged on architectural quality, urban context, design economy and the potential benefits for city residents and visitors. The overall winner will receive a £27,000 (CZK 800,000) prize while a second prize of £20,000 (CZK 600,000), third prize of £15,000 (CZK 450,000) and a fourth and fifth prize each worth £13,500 (CZK 400,000) will also be awarded. How to apply Deadline: 6 June Competition funding source: ANTRACIT Palace 2 Project funding source: ANTRACIT Palace 2 Owner of site(s): ANTRACIT Palace 2 Contact details: karin@cceamoba.czVisit the competition website for more information

Laurie Baker never advocated an imitation of his architecture. He instead intended that his design principles would generate a truly Indian architecture. ‘Be honest and truthful in design, material usage, construction, costs, and about your own mistakes,’ he wrote as one of 20 guiding principles, which he duly respected in his projects. His last major commission started as the Navayatra community living centre, and became the Laurie Baker Centre for Habitat Studies (LBC), a place where his design ethos and philosophy live on.  The project started in 1994, when Baker was 77 years old. Keith Saldanha, an economist based in Canada, decided to relocate to the southern Indian state of Kerala and build a community centre dedicated to fostering creative abilities for children with special education needs. Having purchased a three‑and‑a‑half‑acre site in Vilappilsala, outside the city of Thiruvananthapuram, Saldanha named his project Navayatra, or ‘a new journey’, and reached out to Baker. He had heard of the British‑born Indian architect, whose full original name was Lawrence Wilfred Baker, because his work in the region had been gaining traction. Baker was rigorous in applying his own design principles (Laurie Baker Centre) The small yet densely populated state of Kerala, created in 1956, had become known as a ‘model of development’ in the ’70s. An extended period of political stability under the able stewardship of successive communist governments led to significant improvement of human development parameters, including health, education and housing, despite low economic growth. Baker’s cost‑effective design philosophy and work resonated with the holistic welfare ideology of then chief minister Chelat Achutha Menon, who commissioned him to design several welfare projects, despite his ‘unconventional’ building methods. After he retired in 1985, Achutha Menon founded the Centre of Science and Technology for Rural Development (COSTFORD), a non‑profit, with Baker as its chief architect. His innovative approach to sustainable and cost‑effective architecture emphasised the use of local resources, labour and harmony with the natural environment. ‘Always study your site: its soil, topography, water, climate and neighbours (noisy temples, smelly factories, etc)’ was another of Baker’s principles. In his sketch for Navayatra’s masterplan, Baker meticulously noted the natural features; his proposal made the most of the complex topography, preserving the prominent granite rock formations as well as the scattered coconut and mango trees. The abandoned quarry pit was turned into a rainwater harvesting tank, which catered to the water requirement of the new centre all through the year. Functional spaces were housed on the high rock outcrops so that the natural drainage would not be disturbed and to curtail foundation costs.  Construction began in 1996, with a meandering pedestrian path connecting the different buildings. Each one is unique, but they are held together by the consistent use of exposed brick and the verdant landscape. The canteen hugs the rocky edges of the large granite quarry pit, with steps descending from its kitchen to the water body. The circular array of bedrooms in the guest house preserves the existing trees, while the undulating roof of the dormitory mimics the adjacent rock formations. The curved, perforated brick walls, while appearing irregular, are meticulously designed to respond to the site’s visual context and prevailing breezes. Baker’s rejection of rigid geometries made his spaces fluid, dynamic and adaptable. Each space appears to flow seamlessly into the next, a quality particularly exemplified in the dormitory.  Read Laurie Baker’s Reputations essay Discarded materials such as cut bricks, glass bottles, stone chips, timber pieces and broken tiles, all sourced within a 5km radius of Vilappilsala, were repurposed throughout the site, and local labour was employed. Baker had an in‑depth understanding of brick, timber and stone, which he deployed in myriad ways. He himself facilitated training, in collaboration with his engineer and constant companion PB Sajan. ‘Laurie Baker firmly refused ostentation and decoration for its own sake,’ recalls Sajan, ‘yet his buildings were never dull. There would always be an element of surprise, either in the use of an ordinary material or the geometrical interpretation of space. He believed in the intrinsic beauty of all things, living and non‑living.’     The spaces designed by Baker must be appreciated in light of his design philosophy. The 20 principles of architecture that he advocated in his writing and talks are an amalgamation of his Quaker beliefs and the Gandhian ideal of commitment to social justice and non‑violence; he believed architecture should be a non‑violent insert into the land and local ecology. This new aesthetic was refreshingly non‑invasive, even if it alienated some contemporary modernists. Baker’s innovative adaptation of local craft techniques was both playful and resourceful. His designs, frugal and pragmatic, were driven by a desire to be cost‑effective – rather than the expression of purely stylistic choices.  The programmatic needs of Navayatra evolved and translated into the construction of new structures, including accommodation for invited artists and a residential space for the client. There was no electrical connection on the site; all activities took place in the daytime. The extensive use of perforated walls helped to keep the spaces cool and well ventilated. The dormitory, on the higher western edge of the site, is the last structure Baker designed for Navayatra. It was the primary learning and living quarters for the tutors who conducted classes. Its semi‑open terrace, nestled in the undulating roof, proved an ideal learning and interactive space. Its completion in 2002 marked Baker’s last site visit to Navayatra.  PB Sajan continued work on the site, designing, for example, the two small structures along the pathway at the entrance, for which Baker gave his approval. Both were experiments to test concrete roof slabs using bamboo reinforcement instead of steel rods. The centre continued to function as a vibrant community space for a couple of years, but once Saldanha moved out, due to deteriorating health, managing Navayatra became difficult. At the same time, COSTFORD, still under the guidance of Laurie Baker, required a dedicated space. The architect welcomed Saldanha’s offer to sell Navayatra, with a view to turning it into an independent centre for learning that would focus on innovation and research in alternative building technologies, but financial constraints, as well as Baker’s failing health, delayed the process. Two years after Baker’s death in 2007, Kerala’s finance minister sanctioned 8 million rupees (£70,000) to purchase the land. The Laurie Baker Centre for Habitat Studies was inaugurated in October 2009; Sajan has since been the director of both COSTFORD and the LBC. The centre encourages the appropriate use of natural resources, disseminates non‑conventional and eco‑friendly design strategies, and provides hands‑on training in innovative construction methods. ‘The thrust is not to propagate a “Laurie Baker architecture” but to understand the sound principles behind his life’s work,’ explains KP Kannan, chairman of LBC and COSTFORD, ‘and apply them to questions of housing and inclusive development.’  Due to the steep spike in construction over the decade, Kerala faces an acute shortage of sand (because of uncontrolled sand mining), granite (quarrying of hills is rampant) as well as bricks (as suitable clay is becoming scarce). The LBC’s research on, and advocacy of, alternative and low‑energy construction materials has led them to turn to mud and bamboo, while continuing to explore the use and potential of recycled materials. Sajan and the COSTFORD team designed additional buildings for the LBC, including an office annexe and a four‑storey library used for research. They also added spaces for workshops and for treating bamboo to Baker’s original masterplan, and the entire centre has been availed of electrical and plumbing connections for a better work environment.  Built primarily with mud and bamboo, the new office annexe and library serve the functional purpose of the centre, but stand out from Laurie Baker’s original designs and fail to blend into his original masterplan, even though they do follow nearly all his design principles. Baker liked to advise to ‘use common sense and have fun designing’, but the playfulness feels absent, as these two new buildings are primarily concerned with showcasing construction techniques. As a result, they compromise on spatial quality. While all of Baker’s structures were strategically positioned in relation to one another, the library seems isolated; it is conspicuous instead of blending in with the older brick buildings and the landscape. The play of light and darkness, the fluidity of spaces and the meticulous attention to detail, which are the salient hallmarks of Laurie Baker’s designs, are also missing in these new additions. The temporary sheds used for training sessions and workshops could have been envisioned as thatched pavilions instead of pitched blue tarpaulins.  What makes LBC’s success, however, is the strength of its educational programmes: the sharing of knowledge about alternative building technologies with architecture students, and the willingness to build on existing research and their own archive, which is made accessible to all visitors. Students, professionals and construction workers all come here to learn about dry rubble stone masonry, building with mud, bamboo treating and joinery, brick arches and walls, including Baker’s much loved rat trap bond, as well as the preparation of lime plasters. The centre is interested in further researching water management and establishing a permanent material lab and research space for scholars and professionals. In his lecture ‘Truth in Architecture’ at Thiruvananthapuram’s College of Engineering in 1982, Baker critiqued the resource‑intensive architecture that was starting to mushroom in the city. The indiscriminate use of concrete, excessive ornamentation and overconsumption of resources were popularly understood as a marker of status. Baker foresaw the impending crisis that such excesses would trigger. What he anticipated has only accelerated. In the face of the climate emergency, Kerala confronts significant challenges, including diminishing natural resources and rising construction costs coupled with sluggish economic growth. Ahead of its time, Baker’s practice advocated a pragmatic and reasonable use of resources – ‘don’t rob national resources and do not use them extravagantly and unnecessarily,’ he wrote in his list of principles. To this day, Baker’s philosophy represents a vital rallying call to interrogate contemporary notions of modernity.  This article was featured in the May 2025 Circularity issue. Purchase your copy here

Bold recycling claims deliberately distract from the disastrous ecological effects of plastic in buildings The building industry consumes nearly a fifth of all plastic produced globally. Plastic enters buildings not only as elements – window frames, fences, gutters and cable sheathing – but also in the form of petrochemical‑based polymers that permeate building products less visibly: dissolved in solvents, mixed into concrete and asphalt, impregnated into wood products, and affixed, laminated or otherwise agglomerated with other materials. These applications preclude their separation from other waste for recycling – a major reason why only a tiny proportion of the estimated 77 million metric tonnes of plastic waste from demolition or renovation is recycled. The rest is incinerated, landfilled or mismanaged.  This does not prevent building product manufacturers from routinely promoting plastic products as recyclable. VinylPlus, the recycling wing of the European Council of Vinyl Manufacturers, claims that nearly 27 per cent of vinyl products were mechanically recycled in 2021. But nearly two thirds of this was sourced from factory waste, before the vinyl even became flooring or roofing.  Recycling claims serve an important ideological function: to deflect corporate accountability for plastic’s deleterious effects, and to delay and derail efforts to restrict plastic production. Promoting these claims serves as a passcode to a ‘green’ building material industry expected to reach a value of over US$1 trillion by 2032. The infiltration of plastic in buildings runs deep. Some of the largest producers of construction chemicals and synthetic building products include the world’s largest private and state‑owned fossil fuel companies, such as Shell, ExxonMobil, Sinopec and Saudi Basic Industries (SABIC). The chemical and plastics industries are intertwined with the fossil fuel industry via extensive infrastructural, institutional and ideological ties, ranging from their shared and interdependent supply chains, to common political interests and secure global transport routes. These companies provide thousands of polymer‑based building products ranging from ready‑to‑install components (rigid insulation boards, waterproofing membranes, etc), to myriad adhesives, coatings, binders, sealants, admixtures and insulating foams – or provide their constitutive chemicals. ‘Architects must look up from their carbon calculators to question manufacturers’ claims of circularity’     The modern building product industry arose in tandem with the fossil fuel, chemical and plastics industries in the postwar era in the US and Europe. The massive productive capacity that had supplied the war effort was transformed to meet the needs and long‑repressed desires of a populace eager to partake in the fruits of peace, modernity and affluence, resulting in a flood of new plastic consumer goods. Among the new uses for plastic emerged an ever‑widening array of building products from flooring to cladding and furniture. By the late 1960s, however, plastic’s durability began to represent an existential threat to plastics and petrochemical companies as demand for plastic consumer goods began to wane. Industry’s solution? Disposability – not in response to consumers’ demand for convenience, but to the saturation of the market of plastic consumer goods that lasted too long. Disposability transformed a crisis of declining profit into a wellspring of unending demand and plastic waste. Eventually, producers became increasingly unable to credibly deny the problem of discarded plastic accumulating in great heaping piles and circling ocean gyres. What they could do was flood the mediascape with solutions that worked for them: redirecting focus from the obvious step of curtailing production, to downstream, consumer‑focused measures, such as increased recycling and the adoption of biogenic and recycled plastic feedstocks. Though plastic building products are less disposable than single‑use plastics, claims of ‘circularity’ similarly serve to sanction plastic use while ensuring that end‑of‑life costs stay off company ledgers.  Facing the prospect of declining demand for fuel due to electrification and the adoption of electric vehicles in much of the world, petrochemical industries have doubled down on expanding plastic fabrication as an economic lifeline. The immensely powerful nexus of fossil fuel, petrochemical and plastic industries have poured billions of dollars into new refineries and plastic production facilities. With nearly a fifth of plastic demand coming from the construction industry, these cartels have much at stake in maintaining their business. Accordingly, use of plastic in building is widely promoted by their well‑funded trade lobbies, including the American Chemical Council, Plastics Europe and the British Plastics Federation. These trade lobbyists work fervently to influence legislation to ensure the cost and responsibility of recycling is displaced onto consumers and municipalities, ‘externalising’ the cost of remediating what will be a legacy of toxic pollution left for future generations.  As a result, architects remain pressurised and incentivised to specify plastic products due to their low cost, superior performance, availability and lack of alternatives. Architects must look up from their carbon calculators, not only to question manufacturers’ claims of circularity, but also the limits of circularity within an economy predicated both on compulsory growth and – for some time to come – on fossil fuels. Lead image: Plastic is used in numerous applications in the built environment, from cladding and fences to adhesives and insulation foams. Manufacturers claim their plastic products are widely recycled as a tactic to obscure their origin in the petrochemical industry and their contribution to the climate emergency that causes extreme weather events such as wild fires. (Don Bartletti / Los Angeles Times / Getty) 2025-05-21 Reuben J Brown Share AR May 2025CircularityBuy Now

Casalgrande Padana’s Terrae tiles collection Earthy tones bring a timeless charm to everyday living spaces, and are conducive to a sensation of wellbeing. Casalgrande Padana’s new Terrae collection draws on colour shades offered by the pigments and precious minerals of the earth. Tiles in the Terrae collection are available in six colours (beige, white, caramel, brick, tobacco and taupe grey) and different shapes, including square (200×200mm, 600×600mm, 900×900mm, 1,200×1,200mm) and a range of rectangular options (82×250mm, 300×600mm, 600×1,200mm and 1,200×2,780mm). Different thicknesses, from 6mm to 9mm to 200mm, and finishes are available, including natural and grip surfaces. The aim is to provide a pleasant tactile sensation while meeting a range of technical requirements. A version of the beige, tobacco and taupe grey tiles in 600×600×20mm and 600×1,200×20mm is specially designed for the outdoors, with an anti-slip surface. These tiles can either be laid directly on turf, gravel or sand, or glued on screed or raised supports to allow for the installation of electrical and plumbing systems. Porcelain stoneware is a compact, hard and non-porous ceramic material made from finely ground clays, quartz and other minerals that are fired at high temperatures. Resistant to water and scratches, this durable material is particularly well suited to flooring and wall cladding. In additional to the solid colours, the Terrae collection comprises more decorative tiles with elegant ribbed, gridded and other geometric patterns that make use of several colours in the collection’s earthen palette. These tiles help create attractive visual and tactile effects, with unique colour contrasts that add character and a touch of sophistication to both indoor and outdoor spaces. Suitable for the most challenging design applications, the tiles will maintain their aesthetic and functional characteristics intact over time. The silver-based treatment Bios Antibacterial applied to the tiles guarantees continual protection against micro-organisms, while the tiles are easy to both lay and clean. The durability and outstanding technical performance offer designers an impressive range of creative options, allowing for customised uses in various types of projects, whether adaptive reuse or new builds, and including private homes, civic spaces and commercial interiors. Based in Italy, Casalgrande Padana has been producing advanced ceramic materials since 1960. Carrying out continuous research and experimentation has enabled them to improve their products’ aesthetic and technical features over time. They currently produce 24,000,000m2 of porcelain stoneware tiles per year, entirely made in Italy, and work with 70 countries around the world. To find out more about Casalgrande Padana’s new Terrae collection, please visit casalgrandepadana.com/product/terrae 2025-05-20 AR Editors Share

Commissioned when material reuse was banned in public projects, a recycling centre in Antwerp by Bovenbouw Architectuur confronts the absurdity of waste ‘Waste is a religious thing,’ says Nick Shay, the main character of Don DeLillo’s novel Underworld from 1997. ‘We entomb contaminated waste with a sense of reverence and dread. It is necessary to respect what we discard.’ Nick is a waste manager. In 1978, he attends a conference in the Mojave Desert. Jesse Detwiler, a ‘waste theorist whose provocations had spooked the industry’, lectures about the scenery of the future, which will be, according to him, a scenery of waste. ‘Basic household waste’, he says, ‘ought to be placed in the cities that produce it. Bring garbage into the open. Let people see it and respect it. Don’t hide your waste facilities. Make an architecture of waste. Design gorgeous buildings to recycle waste and invite people to collect their own garbage and bring it with them to the press rams and conveyors. Get to know your garbage.’ Despite Detwiler’s advice, waste management is rarely the remit of architecture. Incinerators, landfills and recycling centres are usually a matter of infrastructure, of machinery, or of landscapes that have been destroyed by being filled to the brim. In Belgium, this has changed in recent decades; the majority of public commissions – even those relating to waste management – are now a matter of architecture. In 2009, Antwerp‑based practice Bovenbouw Architectuur won a competition organised by the City of Antwerp for the masterplan of its recycling centres, referred to as containerparken. The very first public recycling facility in Belgium opened in 1976, next to the incinerator of the municipality of Izegem, close to the French border. It could boast of three containers: one for glass, one for metal and one for combustible household waste. At this time, garden waste was collected separately and occasionally incinerated together with fuel oil and old tyres; economy and efficiency, rather than environmental considerations, were the main motivations for selective collection. A decade of national protests against the numerous rubbish dumps and the (profitable) import of foreign waste followed. This situation started to change on a national level in 1981, when the Flemish government issued a ‘waste decree’ and established the Openbare Vlaamse Afvalstoffenmaatschappij (Public Flemish Waste Management Institution or OVAM). Since then, foreign waste has continued to be imported, but it is processed instead of dumped. Waste collection at home started to be separated, and in many Flemish cities, five categories were collected weekly or biweekly: plastics, compostable waste, paper, glass and everything else. By means of generous subvention, OVAM also encouraged every municipality to open a recycling centre – with an estimated cost of about €75,000 each. These facilities had a quadruple purpose: to prevent illegal dumping, to promote recycling, to make the population aware of waste, but also to save on energy and raw materials. Construction and demolition waste could be used for local road paving; garden and pruning waste could be composted on site; OVAM took care of all the dangerous waste while contracts with specialised firms, foreign or domestic, were necessary for all the other materials. The first recycling facility in the city of Antwerp opened in 1988; today, almost 40 years later, the city has eight container parks, and five of them have been upgraded by Bovenbouw since they won the open competition in 2009; a facility at Kielsbroek, to the west of the city and next to its main highway junction, opened at the end of 2024. The site is next to a junction of highways in an industrial zone of warehouses, set among mature trees and vegetation. The city, however, is very close: trains whizz by, and new towers of apartments are visible in the distance, as is the river Scheldt, and the petrol‑blue substation by noAarchitecten built in 2009, that supplies a large part of Antwerp with electricity. The entrance of the facility is accompanied by a building for workers, housing a reception, staff room, toilets and changing rooms. The roof is extended to form a large steel canopy supported by a large laminated‑timber beam, under which hazardous waste is stored, such as liquids, batteries or polystyrene. The building’s facades are made out of red bricks, stacked lying on their long edge, so the two holes that puncture each brick are exposed – a kind of ‘improper use’ that draws attention to the specificity and tactility of materials, a tactility shared by everything that passes through the hands of the visitors into the containers. A circular window is cut out from the outer leaves of brickwork at the corner of the building, exposing the inside of the bricks and leaving the edges raw, in a playful but also slightly brutal, DIY way, revealing the different possibilities of banal building materials. The windows offer views of a square, at the project’s centre, intended as a semi‑public meeting place. In reality, visitors are mostly concerned with their waste; an initial part of the project to organise workshops and infosessions – about, for example, composting – has been dropped by the city. Opposite the long building, the square is demarcated by a row of containers and their retaining walls, made out of prefabricated concrete elements, that can be, so the architects argue, disassembled and reused later. An existing height difference in the terrain was preserved: the containers are set into this lower level – accessible only to lorries that come to collect the waste – and visitors are able to drop rubbish into them from the higher square without having to climb a stepladder. Yellow numbers for the containers, hung high on a steel structure with vertical tube lights, indicate what belongs where. The visitor circulation – for cars, although nothing prevents you from arriving by cargo bike – was duplicated to allow for two circuits: one free and one paid‑for (for rubble and combustible waste), accessible via a weighbridge. Once on the square, however, it is easy to switch between the two zones (and, for example, to deliver combustible waste without paying), which is why it was recently decided to send everyone past the weighbridge. The container park does not escape surveillance, and compared with other Belgian cities, everything in Antwerp is strictly regulated. It is, for example, forbidden to take other people’s waste home with you, even if it is still perfectly usable, although the option to put things aside for charity shops is offered. The new Kielsbroek recycling centre was a slow process. In the proposed concept from 2012, the architects explained that they wanted to favour ‘creativity and craftmanship’ over ‘industrial production’. At the same time, they regretted ‘the ban on the reuse of material in a public tender’, which is why they decided to ‘use as much ecological building material as possible,’ (wood insulated with cellulose, for example, or OSB with reduced formaldehyde), ‘without resorting to literal reuse’. Bovenbouw is currently participating in competitions for containerparken elsewhere and, according to founder Dirk Somers, they will pursue ecological standards and approaches more strictly. Thanks to the pioneering work of specialist Belgian design practice Rotor, the legislation in the country has changed: since 2020, the principles of the circular economy are encouraged. The guidelines no longer stipulate the exclusive use of new materials; recycled or reused components have become more accessible and less expensive. For reasons of continuity, however, but also because the client preferred a smooth and efficient process, the starting points of the masterplan from 2012 were preserved. The project replaces an older and smaller facility, a few hundred metres away, from which some elements were reused, such as the storage volumes for chemical materials. Bovenbouw’s material and organisational approach in Kielsbroek – but also at the four other locations – makes it possible to get to know your garbage, as DeLillo’s character phrased it; the contents of the open containers are visible, and although the building’s materials are not recycled or reused, they are conspicuously presented as ‘materials’. It is a space in which to confront that weird and ultimately absurd activity of recycling. Why, after all, bother acquiring something that you have to throw away later anyway? Recycling, in this sense, is what continues to enable production and consumerism. This is how Slavoj Žižek expresses it in his recent book Against Progress: ‘The ecological dream‑notion of total recycling (in which every remainder is used again)’ is ‘the ultimate capitalist dream.’ At the same time, the optimisation of recycling is equally dependent on the industry. Most of the waste in Kielsbroek travels to the port of Antwerp‑Bruges, which also houses the largest chemical cluster in Europe. The private firm Indaver processes approximately five million tons of waste annually, coming from large‑scale factories, public authorities (such as the city of Antwerp), but also from other waste companies, including those from abroad. Indaver has 2,300 collaborators all over Europe, and achieved a turnover in 2023 of €871 million. At the Hooge Maey, some 20km north of Kielsbroek, a 1960s landfill closed in 2018; a new one close by is still in use, while rubbish continues to be destroyed at high temperature in rotary kilns. ‘How’s the waste business?’ someone asks Nick in Underworld. His reply: ‘Booming. The waste business. Bigger by the minute.’ 2025-05-19 Christophe Van Gerrewey Share AR May 2025CircularityBuy Now

The winning team has been named in an open international competition to transform the 410ha A Panda da Dá estate in Galicia, Spain The overall winner – picked ahead of four rival finalist teams – is a collaboration between Atelier Ander Bados, Estudio Copla, Bamba Studio and TO Arquitectura. Their winning ‘forest of celebration’ concept was praised by the jury for its ‘architectural coherence, technical precision, and ability to create diverse spaces open to evolution.’ The proposal integrates contemporary architecture with the site’s heritage while also delivering new flexible spaces allowing existing forestry activities to coexist alongside proposed new uses. The other finalists included Arrokabe Arquitectos from Santiago and Brandão Costa Arquitectos from Porto. A collaboration between Madrid’s CoLab and London’s Turner Prize-winning collective Assemble, and João Mendes Ribeiro with Luísa Bebiano completed the shortlist. The non-anonymous, two-stage competition – organised by local timber company Finsa and the David Chipperfield-founded Fundación RIA – sought to transform the remote farmstead into a new space dedicated to the sustainable management of the surrounding territory. The call for concepts set out to identify a range of innovative solutions that could help to rehabilitate the architecture and landscape of its 410ha site while also promoting new training and research activities and facilitating visits from organisations involved in the sustainable management of Galicia’s timber. Located close to the settlement of As Pontes de García Rodríguez, the A Panda da Dá estate is a large forestry plantation which has been owned by Finsa for more than three decades.  The main cluster of buildings on the estate includes a staff office and several disused structures. The contest invited architects, architectural firms, and multidisciplinary teams of any nationality to draw up concepts to transform the site into a new local and international hub for sustainable forest management. Contest site: A Panda da Dá, Galicia Credit: Image © Adrián Capelo – Fundación RIA The competition comes seven years after the independent non-profit agency and thinktank Fundación RIA was founded by the British architect David Chipperfield. Concepts were judged 40 per cent on design quality, 20 per cent on outdoor spaces, 20 per cent on sustainability, 10 per cent on feasibility and 10 per cent on economics. The judging panel included two representatives from Finsa along with Aurora Armental of Estar Studio, Graça Correia of Correia/Ragazzi and Carme Pinós of Estudio Carme Pinós who jointly won an earlier contest held by Fundación RIA to transform the Lourizán estate into a forestry complex. The five shortlisted teams each received an honorarium to participate in the second design phase of the contest. The overall winner will receive a €20,000 prize and the remaining finalists will each receive a €5,000 prize. Contest site: A Panda da Dá, Galicia Credit: Image © Adrián Capelo – Fundación RIA

The Romanian Order of Architects has announced an open international contest to upgrade Mircea cel Bătrân Square in Tulcea (Deadline: 2 June) The single-stage contest – organised on behalf of the Tulcea Municipality – invites proposals to revitalise the town centre public space which occupies a prominent site closely connected to the Saint George Branch of the River Danube. The estimated €7.8 million project focuses on upgrading the historic plaza, which serves an important social and civic role in the centre of Tulcea. Key aims include upgrading pedestrian links, respecting existing heritage and supporting a range of urban functions including housing, administration, commerce, food, leisure, culture and civic life. Competition site: Mircea cel Bătrân Square, Tulcea According to the brief: ‘The competition aims at a high-quality contemporary redevelopment of this space in the context of the urban regeneration of the city centre and the strengthening of pedestrian connections with the Danube waterfront, by transforming Unirii Street into a pedestrian street and restoring the “Trei Fântâni” area. ‘The aim of the competition is to formulate a solution for the development of public space that takes into account the current built heritage and the layers that history has deposited here. ‘Contest participants should take into account all the needs of the studied area — housing; public administration; restaurants, cafes and confectioneries; small-scale commercial spaces; leisure and entertainment; culture and civic life, etc. — to enhance them and situate them in an urban platform for the subsequent coherent development of the entire central area of ​​Tulcea municipality.’ Tulcea is a historic port city located close to the Danube estuary on the eastern fringes of Romania near to the Black Sea and the border with Ukraine. Key local landmarks include the Tulcea Art Museum and the Azizyie Mosque. The competition comes a year after an open international student contest was held for a pop-up community hub next to an abandoned church in Babșa, Romania. Vladostudio and Atelier de Arhitectura Terchila won a contest to upgrade the Cibin Market in Sibiu two years ago. The latest project focuses on upgrading Mircea cel Bătrân Square while also improving its connections to the waterfront and surrounding historic areas. Concepts will be expected to address ‘contemporary needs generated by climate, social and economic changes.’ Competition site: Mircea cel Bătrân Square, Tulcea Judges will include Andreea Catrinel Matache, representing the local chief architect; the architects Ana Maria Zahariade, Laura Cristea, Irina Popescu-Criveanu and Gustavo Figueira Serrano; and the landscape architects Jörg Michel and Barnabás Ede Szakács. Bids will be evaluated 25 per cent on functional response to the brief, 20 per cent on ecology and landscape, 10 per cent on sustainability and economic efficiency, 5 per cent on cost, 15 per cent on development vision and civic purpose, 15 per cent on civic identity and general atmosphere, and 10 per cent on quality and clarity of presentation. The overall winner – to be announced 29 July – will receive an estimated £320,000 (1.9 million LEI) design contract while a second prize of £16,400 (99,500 LEI), third prize of £8,200 (49,000 LEI), fourth prize of £2,000 (12,400 LEI) and fifth prize of £2,000 (12,400 LEI) will also be awarded. How to apply Deadline: 2 June Competition funding source: Not supplied Project funding source: Not supplied Owner of site(s): Not supplied Contact details: achizitii@primariatulcea.roVisit the competition website for more information