Articles by Eduardo Souza

Design teams are not short on tools; they’re short on continuity. Project data remains fragmented across files, and decisions often lose context as work moves from planning to design to construction. As a result, teams spend valuable time reconnecting information instead of advancing projects.

Loud noises, the continuous hum of equipment, abrupt changes in light, or intense reflections often go unnoticed. For neurodivergent individuals, these stimuli can provoke significant discomfort or even intense physical and cognitive reactions. The term “neurodivergent” refers to people whose neurological functioning differs from what is considered typical, encompassing conditions such as autism, ADHD, and dyslexia, as their brain  processes information differently, particularly in relation to sensory input, attention and emotional regulation. 

Throughout much of history, weight has been closely associated with the very idea of architecture. Vitruvius, whose notion of firmitas linked construction to stability and permanence, understood solidity as one of its fundamental qualities, and building largely meant resisting the effects of time, gravity, and natural forces. In Greek and Roman architecture, monumentality depended on the available construction systems and materials, such as stone and solid masonry, whose expression was defined by mass, thickness, and structural repetition. Columns, walls, and podiums, beyond supporting buildings, asserted their presence in the territory, communicating order, durability, and power. Architecture met the ground with weight.

Using massive s plates, often several centimeters thick and weighing tons, Richard Serra‘s sculptures convey an almost improbable sense of lightness. This effect does not result from a reduction of mass, but from how that mass is organized: large curved surfaces tilt, narrow passages compress the body, and seemingly unstable elements create a constant sense of imbalance. Serra transforms weight into a dynamic spatial experience.

The well-known phrase “man is what he eats” (Der Mensch ist, was er isst), by Ludwig Feuerbach, asserts that the physical, mental, and even moral constitution of human beings is directly linked to what they consume. Today, this idea is widely internalized, with growing awareness around food, nutrition, and the impact of what we ingest on our bodies. Yet, this same level of awareness doesn’t extend to the environments we inhabit, where materials continue to be treated as technical decisions rather than active agents in the relationship between body and space. Considering that a large portion of the global population spends around 90% of their time indoors, it is rarely discussed what actually composes these spaces at their most fundamental level: materials. Walls, floors, and finishes are often approached as technical or aesthetic choices, when in reality they can function as continuous sources of exposure to potentially harmful substances.

Initial sketches in notebooks and tracing paper, conceptual diagrams, perspectives, physical models, and massing studies capture the architectural imagination. But they represent only the beginning of the practice. The real challenge is translating ideas into buildable systems. Every wall, junction, and assembly must be resolved in detail, with systems working together in a way that allows the project to be built as intended. This is where most of the effort, complexity, and risk are concentrated, and where projects are ultimately resolved or begin to stumble.

In the nineteenth century, entire railway networks became obsolete almost overnight, not due to physical deterioration, but because of changes in the technical standards that supported them. The expansion of railroads across Europe and North America adopted different track gauges (the transverse distance between rails), and as a dominant standard gradually emerged, these infrastructures became incompatible with one another. This required large-scale adaptations, conversions, or even complete reconstruction, in what became known as the “Gauge War.”

In an age dominated by screens and digital images, the full character of a designed object often remains hidden. Only when encountering an object in person can one sense its texture, notice how it interacts with light, or even perceive its subtle smell. These sensory qualities— so difficult to convey online—reveal why design fairs continue to matter. Increasingly, these fairs have become spaces for experimentation in contemporary design, where ideas about materials, collaboration, and social responsibility are publicly explored. Curated programs, exhibitions, and experimental installations transform these events into environments where designers, manufacturers, and researchers test new possibilities for the built realm.

​​The Myron and Berna Garron Health Sciences Complex (SAMIH), at the University of Toronto Scarborough, was shaped by a clear and non-negotiable mandate: at least 20% of the building’s energy consumption had to be generated from renewable sources installed on-site. To meet this ambitious requirement, the university partnered early with Mitrex, a manufacturer specializing in building-integrated photovoltaics (BIPV), to explore how solar technology could move beyond the roof and become embedded within the architecture itself—positioning the project within a broader shift toward performance-driven sustainable architecture. The 63,000-square-foot facility houses teaching, research, and clinical training programs dedicated to educating future healthcare professionals. Designed by MVRDV in collaboration with Diamond Schmitt Architects, the project initially followed a conventional path, pairing a restrained facade with rooftop photovoltaic panels.

If we ask a child to draw a house, a triangular silhouette will almost certainly appear, with two sloped planes meeting at a ridge. Few architectural forms are as universally recognizable as the pitched-roof house. From a semiotic perspective, this elemental image functions as a condensed sign of shelter that, in just a few traces, synthesizes protection, interiority, and belonging. What we now read as a universal symbol, however, emerged from a concrete necessity. From Alpine chalets shedding snow to Mediterranean roof tiles mitigating summer heat, the slope responded to climate and construction challenges long before it became an aesthetic code.