Articles by Eduardo Souza

Created by California surfers who wanted to bring the lines of surfing onto asphalt, skateboarding soon outgrew its role as a simple alternative for flat days. It established itself as a practice that reads the city through a different logic, reinterpreting steps, handrails, walls, and interstitial spaces as possible lines, challenges, and opportunities. Over time, it evolved into a global urban culture, a way of inhabiting and transforming public space through movement. What was once marginal has become a catalyst for urban activation, community building, and new uses for overlooked spaces. At its core, skateboarding reveals how many cities coexist within the same city, depending on who moves through them and how each person is able to reinterpret their surroundings.

In 1952, American composer John Cage presented his groundbreaking piece “4’33”” for the first time. In it, the orchestra produces no intentional sound for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. What can be heard instead are breaths, movements, and subtle noises that would normally go unnoticed, but here become part of the composition itself. With this work, Cage revealed that absolute silence does not exist. There is always sound, even when unplanned.

Cities bring together the best and worst of the human condition. They concentrate opportunities for work, social networks, and cultural production, but they also expose deep social inequalities. Among the many forms of urban exclusion are limited access to transportation, housing, leisure, or safety issues. One form that is rarely discussed is thermal inequality. In lower-income neighborhoods, where there are fewer trees, parks, and permeable surfaces, heat accumulates and thermal discomfort dominates, resulting in higher energy consumption and health risks. As concern about the climate crisis grows, this discussion becomes more urgent: extreme heat is no longer just a climatic phenomenon but also a spatial expression of inequality.

Behind layers of plaster, paint, and finishes lies an intricate network of pipes, electrical conduits, beams, and other structural elements that make a building function and stand, yet remain invisible to the everyday eye. Within these layers, traces of different periods accumulate: replaced systems, improvised adaptations, and technical solutions that once responded to specific contexts and urgencies. In adaptive reuse, the greatest challenge often begins before construction even starts, which is understanding what lies within when little or no reliable documentation exists. During a renovation, pleasant or unpleasant surprises are inevitable. The unexpected is part of the process, but it also represents cost, delay, and risk factors that often discourage investors and professionals from engaging in this type of project.

Water is the foundation of life. It shapes landscapes, regulates climates, and sustains every living organism. Yet on the only known inhabited planet, this essential resource faces a growing crisis: although 70% of Earth’s surface is covered by water, less than 1% is actually available for human use. Most of it is consumed by agriculture and industry, while in households, activities like bathing and flushing use vast amounts of drinking water for non-essential purposes. The bathroom, therefore, has become a key space for innovation, where technology and design can help redefine how we use and reuse this vital element.

The practice of combining materials to achieve better performance has accompanied humanity since the earliest constructions. One of the first known examples emerged over five thousand years ago, when civilizations in Mesopotamia and Egypt mixed mud and straw to mold sun-dried adobe bricks. Light and fibrous, straw prevented cracking and increased strength, while mud acted as a binder and protection. This simple yet ingenious invention can be considered the first composite in history, illustrating the ancestral intuition that distinct materials, when combined, can become something stronger and better.

Aristotle is credited with the proverb “One swallow does not make a summer.” In nature, the arrival of these migratory birds often announces the change of seasons, a universal symbol of renewal and hope. Yet it is only when many take flight that the true warmth of summer begins. The same can happen in architecture: an isolated project, however exemplary, rarely changes a reality on its own. When, however, a work teaches, inspires, and can be replicated, it becomes the harbinger of something greater.

Concrete, steel, wood, glass. Every year, millions of tons of construction materials are discarded, piled up in landfills, and silenced beneath the weight of the next building. Entire structures disappear to make way for others, restarting a voracious cycle of resource extraction, material production, and replacement. Along with the debris that accumulates, something deeper is also lost: time, human labor, stories, and the collective memory embedded in matter. At a time when climate goals demand reducing emissions and extending the lifespan of what already exists, demolition is increasingly recognized as a form of urban amnesia, one that erases not only cultural continuity but also the embodied energy of buildings. And even though it is often said that the most sustainable building is the one that already exists, that principle rarely survives when other interests come into play.

Concrete, steel, wood, glass. Every year, millions of tons of construction materials are discarded, piled up in landfills, and silenced beneath the weight of the next building. Entire structures disappear to make way for others, restarting a voracious cycle of resource extraction, material production, and replacement. Along with the debris that accumulates, something deeper is also lost: time, human labor, stories, and the collective memory embedded in matter. At a time when climate goals demand reducing emissions and extending the lifespan of what already exists, demolition is increasingly recognized as a form of urban amnesia, one that erases not only cultural continuity but also the embodied energy of buildings. And even though it is often said that the most sustainable building is the one that already exists, that principle rarely survives when other interests come into play.

As global concerns about climate change grow each year—reshaping our daily lives, cities, and landscapes—some places face a paradoxical challenge: extreme cold. In the world’s harshest latitudes, designing sustainable, habitable buildings requires more than conventional approaches; it demands innovation and a deep respect for the local environment. This is the commitment of BIOSIS, an architecture studio based in Copenhagen, which has embraced the challenge of working in some of the planet’s most extreme climates. Specializing in climate-driven design, the firm adapts each project to its surrounding environment, respecting and collaborating with nature. For founders Morten Vedelsbøl and Mikkel Thams Olsen, with whom we spoke, this approach represents more than structural resilience—it’s a way to harmonize buildings with the environment in regions where extreme cold is a daily reality.