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. 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, established in 2019, to increase trade within the continent. The contemporary manifestation of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway – also known as Trans‑African Highway4 – 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 #cape #cairo #making #unmaking #colonial

Meet Martha Swope, the Legendary Broadway Photographer Who Captured Iconic Moments From Hundreds of Productions and Rehearsals She spent nearly 40 years taking theater and dance pictures, providing glimpses behind the scenes and creating images that the public couldn’t otherwise access Stephanie Rudig - Freelance Writer June 11, 2025 Photographer Martha Swope sitting on a floor covered with prints of her photos in 1987 Andrea Legge / © NYPL Martha Swope wanted to be a dancer. She moved from her home state of Texas to New York to attend the School of American Ballet, hoping to start a career in dance. Swope also happened to be an amateur photographer. So, in 1957, a fellow classmate invited her to bring her camera and document rehearsals for a little theater show he was working on. The classmate was director and choreographer Jerome Robbins, and the show was West Side Story. One of those rehearsal shots ended up in Life magazine, and Swope quickly started getting professional bookings. It’s notoriously tough to make it on Broadway, but through photography, Swope carved out a career capturing theater and dance. Over the course of nearly four decades, she photographed hundreds more rehearsals, productions and promotional studio shots. Unidentified male chorus members dancing during rehearsals for musical West Side Story in 1957 Martha Swope / © NYPL At a time when live performances were not often or easily captured, Swope’s photographs caught the animated moments and distilled the essence of a show into a single image: André De Shields clad in a jumpsuit as the title character in The Wiz, Patti LuPone with her arms raised overhead in Evita, the cast of Cats leaping in feline formations, a close-up of a forlorn Sheryl Lee Ralph in Dreamgirls and the row of dancers obscuring their faces with their headshots in A Chorus Line were all captured by Swope’s camera. She was also the house photographer for the New York City Ballet and the Martha Graham Dance Company and photographed other major dance companies such as the Ailey School. Her vision of the stage became fairly ubiquitous, with Playbill reporting that in the late 1970s, two-thirds of Broadway productions were photographed by Swope, meaning her work dominated theater and dance coverage. Carol Rosegg was early in her photography career when she heard that Swope was looking for an assistant. “I didn't frankly even know who she was,” Rosegg says. “Then the press agent who told me said, ‘Pick up any New York Times and you’ll find out.’” Swope’s background as a dancer likely equipped her to press the shutter at the exact right moment to capture movement, and to know when everyone on stage was precisely posed. She taught herself photography and early on used a Brownie camera, a simple box model made by Kodak. “She was what she described as ‘a dancer with a Brownie,’” says Barbara Stratyner, a historian of the performing arts who curated exhibitions of Swope’s work at the New York Public Library. An ensemble of dancers in rehearsal for the stage production Cats in 1982 Martha Swope / © NYPL “Dance was her first love,” Rosegg says. “She knew everything about dance. She would never use a photo of a dancer whose foot was wrong; the feet had to be perfect.” According to Rosegg, once the photo subjects knew she was shooting, “the anxiety level came down a little bit.” They knew that they’d look good in the resulting photos, and they likely trusted her intuition as a fellow dancer. Swope moved with the bearing of a dancer and often stood with her feet in ballet’s fourth position while she shot. She continued to take dance classes throughout her life, including at the prestigious Martha Graham School. Stratyner says, “As Graham got older,was, I think, the only person who was allowed to photograph rehearsals, because Graham didn’t want rehearsals shown.” Photographic technology and the theater and dance landscapes evolved greatly over the course of Swope’s career. Rosegg points out that at the start of her own career, cameras didn’t even automatically advance the film after each shot. She explains the delicate nature of working with film, saying, “When you were shooting film, you actually had to compose, because you had 35 shots and then you had to change your film.” Swope also worked during a period of changing over from all black-and-white photos to a mixture of black-and-white and color photography. Rosegg notes that simultaneously, Swope would shoot black-and-white, and she herself would shoot color. Looking at Swope’s portfolio is also an examination of increasingly crisp photo production. Advances in photography made shooting in the dark or capturing subjects under blinding stage lights easier, and they allowed for better zooming in from afar. Martha Graham rehearses dancer Takako Asakawa and others in Heretic, a dance work choreographed by Graham, in 1986 Martha Swope / © NYPL It’s much more common nowadays to get a look behind the curtain of theater productions via social media. “The theater photographers of today need to supply so much content,” Rosegg says. “We didn’t have any of that, and getting to go backstage was kind of a big deal.” Photographers coming to document a rehearsal once might have been seen as an intrusion, but now, as Rosegg puts it, “everybody is desperate for you to come, and if you’re not there, they’re shooting it on their iPhone.” Even with exclusive behind-the-scenes access to the hottest tickets in town and the biggest stars of the day, Swope remained unpretentious. She lived and worked in a brownstone with her apartment above her studio, where the film was developed in a closet and the bathroom served as a darkroom. Rosegg recalls that a phone sat in the darkroom so they could be reached while printing, and she would be amazed at the big-name producers and theater glitterati who rang in while she was making prints in an unventilated space. From left to right: Paul Winfield, Ruby Dee, Marsha Jackson and Denzel Washington in the stage production Checkmates in 1988 Martha Swope / © NYPL Swope’s approachability extended to how she chose to preserve her work. She originally sold her body of work to Time Life, and, according to Stratyner, she was unhappy with the way the photos became relatively inaccessible. She took back the rights to her collection and donated it to the New York Public Library, where many photos can be accessed by researchers in person, and the entire array of photos is available online to the public in the Digital Collections. Searching “Martha Swope” yields over 50,000 items from more than 800 productions, featuring a huge variety of figures, from a white-suited John Travolta busting a disco move in Saturday Night Fever to Andrew Lloyd Webber with Nancy Reagan at a performance of Phantom of the Opera. Swope’s extensive career was recognized in 2004 with a special Tony Award, a Tony Honors for Excellence in Theater, which are given intermittently to notable figures in theater who operate outside of traditional awards categories. She also received a lifetime achievement award from the League of Professional Theater Women in 2007. Though she retired in 1994 and died in 2017, her work still reverberates through dance and Broadway history today. For decades, she captured the fleeting moments of theater that would otherwise never be seen by the public. And her passion was clear and straightforward. As she once told an interviewer: “I’m not interested in what’s going on on my side of the camera. I’m interested in what’s happening on the other side.” Get the latest Travel & Culture stories in your inbox. #meet #martha #swope #legendary #broadway

On November 4, 2003, a doctor gave Jon Gluck some of the worst news imaginable: He had cancer — one that later tests would reveal as multiple myeloma, a severe blood and bone marrow cancer. Jon was told he might have as little as 18 months to live. He was 38, a thriving magazine editor in New York with a 7-month-old daughter whose third birthday, he suddenly realized, he might never see.“The moment after I was told I had cancer, I just said ‘no, no, no,’” Jon told me in an interview just last week. “This cannot be true.”Living in remissionThe fact that Jon is still here, talking to me in 2025, tells you that things didn’t go the way the medical data would have predicted on that November morning. He has lived with his cancer, through waves of remission and recurrence, for more than 20 years, an experience he chronicles with grace and wit in his new book An Exercise in Uncertainty. That 7-month-old daughter is now in college.RelatedWhy do so many young people suddenly have cancer?You could say Jon has beaten the odds, and he’s well aware that chance played some role in his survival.Cancer is still a terrible health threat, one that is responsible for 1 in 6 deaths around the world, killing nearly 10 million people a year globally and over 600,000 people a year in the US. But Jon’s story and his survival demonstrate something that is too often missed: We’ve turned the tide in the war against cancer. The age-adjusted death rate in the US for cancer has declined by about a third since 1991, meaning people of a given age have about a third lower risk of dying from cancer than people of the same age more than three decades ago. That adds up to over 4 million fewer cancer deaths over that time period. Thanks to breakthroughs in treatments like autologous stem-cell harvesting and CAR-T therapy — breakthroughs Jon himself benefited from, often just in time — cancer isn’t the death sentence it once was.Our World in DataGetting better all the timeThere’s no doubt that just as the rise of smoking in the 20th century led to a major increase in cancer deaths, the equally sharp decline of tobacco use eventually led to a delayed decrease. Smoking is one of the most potent carcinogens in the world, and at the peak in the early 1960s, around 12 cigarettes were being sold per adult per day in the US. Take away the cigarettes and — after a delay of a couple of decades — lung cancer deaths drop in turn along with other non-cancer smoking-related deaths.But as Saloni Dattani wrote in a great piece earlier this year, even before the decline of smoking, death rates from non-lung cancers in the stomach and colon had begun to fall. Just as notably, death rates for childhood cancers — which for obvious reasons are not connected to smoking and tend to be caused by genetic mutations — have fallen significantly as well, declining sixfold since 1950. In the 1960s, for example, only around 10 percent of children diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia survived more than five years. Today it’s more than 90 percent. And the five-year survival rate for all cancers has risen from 49 percent in the mid-1970s to 69 percent in 2019. We’ve made strikes against the toughest of cancers, like Jon’s multiple myeloma. Around when Jon was diagnosed, the five-year survival rate was just 34 percent. Today it’s as high as 62 percent, and more and more people like Jon are living for decades. “There has been a revolution in cancer survival,” Jon told me. “Some illnesses now have far more successful therapies than others, but the gains are real.”Three cancer revolutions The dramatic bend in the curve of cancer deaths didn’t happen by accident — it’s the compound interest of three revolutions.While anti-smoking policy has been the single biggest lifesaver, other interventions have helped reduce people’s cancer risk. One of the biggest successes is the HPV vaccine. A study last year found that death rates of cervical cancer — which can be caused by HPV infections — in US women ages 20–39 had dropped 62 percent from 2012 to 2021, thanks largely to the spread of the vaccine. Other cancers have been linked to infections, and there is strong research indicating that vaccination can have positive effects on reducing cancer incidence. The next revolution is better and earlier screening. It’s generally true that the earlier cancer is caught, the better the chances of survival, as Jon’s own story shows. According to one study, incidences of late-stage colorectal cancer in Americans over 50 declined by a third between 2000 and 2010 in large part because rates of colonoscopies almost tripled in that same time period. And newer screening methods, often employing AI or using blood-based tests, could make preliminary screening simpler, less invasive and therefore more readily available. If 20th-century screening was about finding physical evidence of something wrong — the lump in the breast — 21st-century screening aims to find cancer before symptoms even arise.Most exciting of all are frontier developments in treating cancer, much of which can be tracked through Jon’s own experience. From drugs like lenalidomide and bortezomib in the 2000s, which helped double median myeloma survival, to the spread of monoclonal antibodies, real breakthroughs in treatments have meaningfully extended people’s lives — not just by months, but years.Perhaps the most promising development is CAR-T therapy, a form of immunotherapy. Rather than attempting to kill the cancer directly, immunotherapies turn a patient’s own T-cells into guided missiles. In a recent study of 97 patients with multiple myeloma, many of whom were facing hospice care, a third of those who received CAR-T therapy had no detectable cancer five years later. It was the kind of result that doctors rarely see. “CAR-T is mind-blowing — very science-fiction futuristic,” Jon told me. He underwent his own course of treatment with it in mid-2023 and writes that the experience, which put his cancer into a remission he’s still in, left him feeling “physically and metaphysically new.”A welcome uncertaintyWhile there are still more battles to be won in the war on cancer, and there are certain areas — like the rising rates of gastrointestinal cancers among younger people — where the story isn’t getting better, the future of cancer treatment is improving. For cancer patients like Jon, that can mean a new challenge — enduring the essential uncertainty that comes with living under a disease that’s controllable but which could always come back. But it sure beats the alternative.“I’ve come to trust so completely in my doctors and in these new developments,” he said. “I try to remain cautiously optimistic that my future will be much like the last 20 years.” And that’s more than he or anyone else could have hoped for nearly 22 years ago. A version of this story originally appeared in the Good News newsletter. Sign up here!See More: Health #weampamp8217re #secretly #winning #war #cancer

Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda| 1970s Photograph Luis Barragan’s work is often celebrated for its profound dialogue between form, memory, and landscape. In the Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda, Barragán channels these core principles into a singular architectural gesture. Situated at the culmination of the Paseo de los Gigantes, this fountain transcends utilitarian function to become a space of contemplation and poetic reflection. Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda Technical Information Architects1-2: Luis Barragán Location: Avenida Paseo de los Gigantes, Las Arboledas, Mexico Height: 14.6 meters Width: 10.4 meters Project Years: 1960s Plans by: Enrique Delgado Camara In Las Arboledas I had the pleasure of building a large rectangular pond among eucalyptus trees; however, while doing so, I thought of Persian gardens, I also thought of De Chirico, I also thought that water is a mirror, and I liked that it reflected the branches of the trees. You know, popular architecture has always impressed me because it is pure truth and because the spaces that occur in plazas, in porticos, in courtyards, are always given with generosity. – Luis Barragán Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda Photographs Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda| 1970s Photograph 1970s Photograph 1970s Photograph 1970s Photograph 1970s Photograph Spatial Composition and Geometric Manipulation The project extends Barragán’s broader explorations in Las Arboledas and Los Clubes, developments marked by an intimate relationship with nature and a restrained formal language. Here, water becomes material and metaphor, shaping a spatial experience that is as much about the mind as the body. The Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda is defined by the dynamic interplay of two elements: a towering white wall and a long, linear water trough. The wall, rising to a height of 14.6 meters, asserts its presence in the landscape as a vertical marker. It competes with, yet does not overshadow, the surrounding eucalyptus trees. The water trough, measuring 44 meters in length, 2.55 meters in width, and 0.67 meters in height, extends along the path in a measured horizontal counterpoint. This juxtaposition of vertical and horizontal geometries establishes a composition of duality. The white wall commands attention from afar, while the dark basin of water, offset to the side, quietly draws in the viewer’s gaze. The deliberate misalignment of these two forms prevents a static symmetry, generating a subtle sense of movement and tension within the space. Barragán’s manipulation of circulation further reinforces this dynamic quality. Rather than a direct approach, entry to the plaza is orchestrated through a series of turns. These indirect paths obscure the view and gradually reveal the fountain, heightening the sense of arrival and emphasizing the experiential choreography of the approach. Materiality and Sensory Qualities Material choices are critical in the fountain’s ability to evoke stillness and dynamism. The white stucco of the wall acts as a canvas for the interplay of light and shadow, particularly as the sun filters through the towering eucalyptus canopy. This shifting luminosity imbues the space with a living quality, constantly animated by the rhythms of the day. The basin of the fountain is constructed from dark anthracite, lending the water a reflective depth that absorbs and mirrors the surrounding environment. The edge of the water, defined by precisely cut, sharp-edged walls, creates an illusion of the water as a freestanding volume. This interplay of light, shadow, and reflection intensifies the perception of depth, dissolving the boundary between container and contained. The gentle sound of water flowing over the basin’s edge adds a sonic dimension to the experience. It serves as a subtle counterpoint to the plaza’s otherwise hushed atmosphere, enhancing the sensory richness without disrupting the meditative calm. Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda Cultural Resonance In this project, Barragán evokes a memory of rural Mexico that resonates with personal nostalgia and collective cultural imagery. The trough recalls the water basins of his childhood, echoing the hacienda landscapes and the enduring significance of water in Mexican life. Yet, by abstracting these elements into minimalist forms, he situates them within a modern architectural discourse that transcends mere historicism. Barragán’s insistence on the evocative power of space is evident in every aspect of the Drinking Fountain. It is a site of transition, marking the end of the linear paseo while simultaneously inviting introspection and pause. The project’s restrained materiality and precise spatial articulation distill Barragán’s belief in architecture as a vehicle for personal reflection and cultural continuity. His 1980 Pritzker Prize acceptance speech, in which he described his enduring fascination with water and the memories of fountains and acequias, underscores this deep personal connection. The Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda can be read as an architectural meditation on that theme. This work bridges the abstraction of modernism with the rich, elemental forces of the Mexican landscape. Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda Plans Floor Plan | © Enrique Delgado Camara Axonometric View | © Enrique Delgado Camara Drinking Fountain of La Arboleda Image Gallery About Luis Barragán Luis Barragánwas a Mexican architect renowned for his masterful integration of light, color, and landscape into architecture. His work blends modernist abstraction with deeply rooted Mexican traditions, crafting spaces that evoke memory, contemplation, and poetic resonance. Credits and Additional Notes Water TroughLength: 44 meters Water TroughWidth: 2.55 meters Water TroughHeight: 0.67 meters Material: Anthracite-colored stoneDelgado Cámara, Enrique. La Geometría del Agua: Mecanismos Arquitectónicos de Manipulación Espacial. Enrique Delgado Cámara, 2024.  Ambasz, Emilio. The Architecture of Luis Barragán. Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1976. #drinking #fountain #arboleda #luis #barragán

“Is that concrete all around, or is it in my head?” asked Ian Hunter in “All the Young Dudes,” the song David Bowie wrote for Mott the Hoople in 1972. Concrete is all around us, and we haven’t quite wrapped our heads around it. It’s one of the indispensable materials of modernity; as we try to decarbonize the built environment, it’s part of the problem, and innovations in its composition may become part of the solution. Understanding its history more clearly, the Skyscraper Museum’s new exhibition in Manhattan implies, just might help us employ it better. Concrete is “the second most used substance in the world, after water,” the museum’s founder/director/curator Carol Willis told AN during a recent visit. For plasticity, versatility, and compressive strength, reinforced concrete is hard to beat, though its performance is more problematic when assessed by the metric of embodied and operational carbon, a consideration the exhibition acknowledges up front. In tall construction, concrete has become nearly hegemonic, yet its central role, contend Willis and co-curator Thomas Leslie, formerly of Foster + Partners and now a professor at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, is underrecognized by the public and by mainstream architectural history. The current exhibition aims to change that perception. The Skyscraper Museum in Lower Manhattan features an exhibition, The Modern Concrete Skyscraper, which examines the history of material choices in building tall towers.The Modern Concrete Skyscraper examines the history of tall towers’ structural material choices, describing a transition from the early dominance of steel frames to the contemporary condition, in which most large buildings rely on concrete. This change did not happen instantly or for any single reason but through a combination of technical and economic factors, including innovations by various specialists, well-recognized and otherwise; the availability of high-quality limestone deposits near Chicago; and the differential development of materials industries in nations whose architecture grew prominent in recent decades. As supertalls reach ever higher—in the global race for official height rankings by the Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitatand national, corporate, or professional bragging rights—concrete’s dominance may not be permanent in that sector, given the challenge of pumping the material beyond a certain height.For the moment, however, concrete is ahead of its chief competitors, steel andtimber. Regardless of possible promotional inferences, Willis said, “we did not work with the industry in any way for this exhibition.” “The invention of steel and the grid of steel and the skeleton frame is only the first chapter of the history of the skyscraper,” Willis explained. “The second chapter, and the one that we’re in now, is concrete. Surprisingly, no one had ever told that story of the skyscraper today with a continuous narrative.” The exhibition traces the use of concrete back to the ancient Roman combination of aggregate and pozzolana—the chemical formula for which was “largely lost with the fall of the Roman Empire,” though some Byzantine and medieval structures approximated it. From there, the show explores comparable materials’ revival in 18th-century England, the patenting of Portland cement by Leeds builder Joseph Aspdin in 1824, the proof-of-concept concrete house by François Coignet in 1856, and the pivotal development of rebar in the mid-19th century, with overdue attention to Ernest Ransome’s 1903 Ingalls Building in Cincinnati, then the world’s tallest concrete building at 15 stories and arguably the first concrete skyscraper. The exhibition includes a timeline that depicts concrete’s origins in Rome to its contemporary use in skyscraper construction.Baker’s lectures, Willis reported, sometimes pose a deceptively simple question: “‘What is a skyscraper?’ In 1974, when the World Trade Center and Sears Tower are just finished, you would say it’s a very tall building that is built of steel, an office building in North America. But if you ask that same question today, the answer is: It’s a building that is mixed-use, constructed of concrete, andin Asia or the Middle East.” The exhibition organizes the history of concrete towers by eras of engineering innovation, devoting special attention to the 19th- and early-20th-century “patent era” of Claude Allen Porter Turnerand Henry Chandlee Turner, Ransome, and François Hennebique. In the postwar era, “concrete comes out onto the surfaceboth a structural material and aesthetic.” Brutalism, perhaps to some observers’ surprise, “does not figure very large in high-rise design,” Willis said, except for Paul Rudolph’s Tracey Towers in the Bronx. The exhibition, however, devotes considerable attention to the work of Pier Luigi Nervi, Bertrand Goldberg, and SOM’s Fazlur Khan, pioneer of the structural tube system in the 1960s and 1970s—followed by the postmodernist 1980s, when concrete could express either engineering values or ornamentation. The exhibition highlights a number of concrete towers, including Paul Rudolph’s Tracey Towers in the Bronx.“In the ’90s, there were material advances in engineering analysis and computerization that helped to predict performance, and so buildings can get taller and taller,” Willis said. The current era, if one looks to CTBUH rankings, is dominated by the supertalls seen in Dubai, Shanghai, and Kuala Lumpur, after the Petronas Towers“took the title of world’s tallest building from North America for the first time and traumatized everybody about that.” The previous record holder, Chicago’s SearsTower, comprised steel structural tubes on concrete caissons; with Petronas, headquarters of Malaysia’s national petroleum company of that name, a strong concrete industry was represented but a strong national steel industry was lacking, and as Willis frequently says, form follows finances. In any event, by the ’90s concrete was already becoming the standard material for supertalls, particularly on soft-soiled sites like Shanghai, where its water resistance and compressive strength are well suited to foundation construction. Its plasticity is also well suited to complex forms like the triangular Burj, Kuala Lumpur’s Merdeka 118, andthe even taller Jeddah Tower, designed to “confuse the wind,” shed vortices, and manage wind forces. Posing the same question Louis Kahn asked about the intentions of a brick, Willis said, with concrete “the answer is: anything you want.” The exhibition is front-loaded with scholarly material, presenting eight succinct yet informative wall texts on the timeline of concrete construction. The explanatory material is accompanied by ample photographs as well as structural models on loan from SOM, Pelli Clarke & Partners, and other firms. Some materials are repurposed from the museum’s previous shows, particularly Supertall!and Sky High and the Logic of Luxury. The models allow close examination of the Burj Khalifa, Petronas Towers, Jin Mao Tower, Merdeka 118, and others, including two unbuilt Chicago projects that would have exceeded 2,000 feet: the Miglin-Beitler Skyneedleand 7 South Dearborn. The Burj, Willis noted, was all structure and no facade for a time: When its curtain-wall manufacturer, Schmidlin, went bankrupt in 2006, it “ended up going to 100 stories without having a stitch of glass on it,” temporarily becoming a “1:1 scale model of the structural system up to 100 stories.” Its prominence justifies its appearance here in two models, including one from RWDI’s wind-tunnel studies. Eero Saarinen’s only skyscraper, built for CBS in 1965 and also known as “Black Rock,” under construction in New York City.The exhibition opened in March, with plans to stay up at least through October, with accompanying lectures and panels to be announced on the museum’s website. Though the exhibition’s full textual and graphic content is available online, the physical models alone are worth a trip to the Battery Park City headquarters. Intriguing questions arise from the exhibition without easy answers, setting the table for lively discussion and debate. One is whether the patenting of innovations like Ransome bar and the Système Hennebique incentivized technological progress or hindered useful technology transfer. Willis speculated, “Did the fact that there were inventions and patents mean that competition was discouraged, that the competition was only in the realm of business, rather than advancing the material?” A critical question is whether research into the chemistry of concrete, including MIT’s 2023 report on the self-healing properties of Roman pozzolana and proliferating claims about “green concrete” using alternatives to Portland cement, can lead to new types of the material with improved durability and lower emissions footprints. This exhibition provides a firm foundation in concrete’s fascinating history, opening space for informed speculation about its future. Bill Millard is a regular contributor to AN. #decades #ago #concrete #overtook #steel

It has been 3 months since ACSA canceled the Fall 2025 Journal of Architectural Educationissue about Palestine and fired its interim executive editor, McClain Clutter. In response, the JAE editorial board resigned in protest. ACSA subsequently put out a solicitation for services to honor its contract with Taylor & Francis, who publishes JAE, and it sought new theme editors to publish an alternative Winter 2025 issue. ACSA also hired Maverick Publishing Specialists to conduct an independent review of JAE and ACSA editorial policy and practices related to the terminated 79.2 Palestine issue. University of Houston’s Rafael Longoria and Michelangelo Sabatino of the Illinois Institute of Technology are the Winter 2025 JAE 79:2 editors. Their theme for the issue? “Educating Civic Architects.” The new call for papers situates itself in our “increasingly complex economic, environmental, and political reality.” Theme editors seek “contributions that explore the full range of expressions of civic architecture and community design—past, present, and future.” The word “civic” is repeated throughout the open call, which echoes the Trump administration’s recent mandate for “beautiful federal civic architecture.”  The open call asks: “How might educating civic-minded architects help inspire and guide the profession? How do architecture schools foster a culture of collaboration with community and city leaders? How can design research inform the evolving role that civic-minded architects can play? Beyond the design studio, what role should the teaching of history, theory, professional practice, policy, technology, and other disciplines play in educating civic architects?” The open call cites Luiz Paulo Conde, an architect who became the mayor of Rio de Janeiro; former Peruvian architect-turned-president ​​Fernando Belaúnde Terry; and Jaime Lerner, an architect-turned-mayor-turned-governor from Brazil as cases to emulate. Terry organized PREVI, an ambitious social housing competition in Lima in the 1970s, but he also launched a settler-colonial campaign in Peru’s Indigenous territories.Italian mayors Giulio Carlo Argan and Massimo Cacciari, of Rome and Venice, respectively, were other examples of aesthete politicians JAE cited. Domestic examples are also offered, like Joseph P. Riley Jr., former mayor of Charleston, South Carolina; Harvey Gantt, former mayor of Charlotte, North Carolina; and Maurice Cox, who was mayor of Charlottesville, Virginia, before going on to leadership roles in Detroit and Chicago city government. Practicing architects are cited, like Richard Rogers and Johanna Hurme of 5468796 Architecture. The editors also invite reflections on postmodernism as it led to “increased attention on contextual design, vernacular architecture, and perhaps more significantly a reinvigorated interest in urban design.” ACSA executive director Michael Monti told AN: “We solicited proposals from a number of potential editorial teams. The interim editorial team for the Fall 2025 issue was selected through a committee of the Board of Directors. They authored the theme and the Call for Papers.” “The organization continues with the next steps for the journal that we communicated to our membership in the spring. This includes an external assessment of decisions, processes, and structures related to JAE and ACSA,” Monti added. “We are also convening a special committee to provide guidance on broader threats and issues facing our member schools. Those steps will inform the appointment of a new Executive Editor and Editorial Board in the upcoming months as well as the direction of the journal.” Disclosure: The author previously responded to the JAE’s call for papers for its now-canceled issue on Palestine. #acsa #announces #new #jae #issue

House of the Future | 1956 Photograph Exhibited at the 1956 Ideal Home Exhibition in London, the House of the Future by Alison and Peter Smithson is a visionary prototype that challenges conventions of domesticity. Set within the context of post-war Britain, a period marked by austerity and emerging optimism, the project explored the intersection of technology, material innovation, and evolving social dynamics. The Smithsons, already recognized for their theoretical rigor and critical stance toward mainstream modernism, sought to push the boundaries of domestic architecture. In the House of the Future, they offered not merely a dwelling but a speculative environment that engaged with the promise and anxieties of the atomic age. House of the Future Technical Information Architects: Alison and Peter Smithson Location: Ideal Home Exhibition, London, United Kingdom Client: Daily Mail Ideal Home Exhibition  Gross Area: 90 m2 | 970 Sq. Ft. Construction Year: 1956 Photographs: Canadian Centre for Architecture and Unknown Photographer The House of the Future should be a serious attempt to visualize the future of our daily living in the light of modern knowledge and available materials. – Alison and Peter Smithson 1 House of the Future Photographs 1956 Photograph © Klaas Vermaas | 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph 1956 Photograph Design Intent and Spatial Organization At the heart of the House of the Future lies a radical rethinking of spatial organization. Departing from conventional room hierarchies, the design promotes an open, fluid environment. Walls dissolve into curved partitions and adjustable elements, allowing for flexible reinterpretation of domestic spaces. Sleeping, dining, and social areas are loosely demarcated, creating a dynamic continuity that anticipates the contemporary concept of adaptable, multi-functional living. Circulation is conceived as an experiential sequence rather than a rigid path. Visitors enter through an air-lock-like vestibule, an explicit nod to the futuristic theme, and are drawn into an environment that eschews right angles and conventional thresholds. The Smithsons’ emphasis on flexibility and continuous movement within the house reflects their belief that domestic architecture must accommodate the evolving rhythms of life. Materiality, Technology, and the Future Materiality in the House of the Future embodies the optimism of the era. Plastics and synthetic finishes dominate the interior, forming seamless surfaces that evoke a sense of sterility and futility. Often associated with industrial production, these materials signaled a departure from traditional domestic textures. The smooth, malleable surfaces of the house reinforce the Smithsons’ embrace of prefabrication and modularity. Technological integration is a key theme. The design includes built-in appliances and concealed mechanical systems, hinting at a utopian and disquieting automated lifestyle. Bathrooms, kitchens, and sleeping pods are incorporated as interchangeable modules, underscoring the house as a system rather than a static structure. In doing so, the Smithsons prefigured later discourses on the “smart home” and the seamless integration of technology into daily life. This material and technological strategy reflects a critical understanding of domestic labor and convenience. The house’s self-contained gadgets and synthetic surfaces suggest a future in which maintenance and domestic chores are minimized, freeing inhabitants to engage with broader cultural and social pursuits. Legacy and Influence The House of the Future’s influence resonates far beyond its exhibition. It prefigured the radical experimentation of groups like Archigram and the metabolist visions of the 1960s. Its modular approach and embrace of technology also foreshadowed the high-tech movement’s fascination with flexibility and systems thinking. While the project was ephemeral, a temporary installation at a trade fair, its theoretical provocations endure. It questioned how architecture could not only house but also anticipate and shape new living forms. Moreover, it crystallized the Smithsons’ ongoing interrogation of architecture’s social role, from their later brutalist housing schemes to urban design theories. In retrospect, the House of the Future is less of a resolved design proposal and more of an architectural manifesto. It embodies a critical tension: the optimism of technological progress and the need for architecture to respond to human adaptability and social evolution. As we confront contemporary challenges like climate crisis, digital living, and shifting social paradigms, the Smithsons’ speculative experiment remains an evocative reminder that the architecture of tomorrow must be as thoughtful and provocative as the House of the Future. House of the Future Plans Axonometric View | © Alison and Peter Smithson via CCA Floor Plan | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Floor Plan | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Section | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Section | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Section | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Section | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA Section | © Alison and Peter Smithson, via CCA House of the Future Image Gallery About Alison and Peter Smithson Alison and Peter Smithson were British architects and influential thinkers who emerged in the mid-20th century, celebrated for their critical reimagining of modern architecture. Their work, including projects like the House of the Future, the Robin Hood Gardens housing complex, and the Upper Lawn Solar Pavilion, consistently challenged conventional notions of domesticity, urbanism, and materiality. Central to their practice was a belief in architecture’s capacity to shape social life, emphasizing adaptability, flexibility, and the dynamic interactions between buildings and their users. They were pivotal in bridging the gap between post-war modernism and the experimental architectural movements of the 1960s and 1970s. Credits and Additional Notes Banham, Reyner. Theory and Design in the First Machine Age. MIT Press, 1960. Forty, Adrian. Words and Buildings: A Vocabulary of Modern Architecture. Thames & Hudson, 2000. Smithson, Alison, and Peter Smithson. The Charged Void: Architecture. Monacelli Press, 2001. OASE Journal. “Houses of the Future: 1956 and Beyond.” OASE 75, 2007. Vidler, Anthony. Histories of the Immediate Present: Inventing Architectural Modernism. MIT Press, 2008. Canadian Centre for Architecture. “House of the Future.” #house #future #alison #peter #smithson

#transformation #this #1970s #home #almost