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How Le Corbusier and Walter Gropius built modernist Baghdad – and what remains today

“The government of Iraq was the first to show a practical interest [in my ideas],” wrote Le Corbusier in 1960. Walking along the car-choked streets of eastern Baghdad, Monocle passes hookah cafés and dukans (compact convenience shops) before encountering the soaring, curvilinear roof of the Swiss-French architect’s Baghdad Gymnasium. It’s a building that recalls a bygone age of design ambition in the Iraqi capital. The modernist was invited here by King Faisal II as the city was preparing a bid to host the 1960 Olympic Games. The UK-backed Hashemite regent had established the Iraqi Development Board as part of a nation-building programme and was using revenue from the British-controlled Iraq Petroleum Company to bring the best architects from across the globe to the country. Over the course of several decades – and despite revolutions – the programme enlisted Frank Lloyd Wright, Alvar Aalto, Gio Ponti and Josep Lluís Sert, alongside Le Corbusier. The goal was to make Baghdad the envy of the world.

“Baghdad belonged to the Ottoman Empire for centuries but the city didn’t really have a specific architecture,” says academic Pedro Azara Nicolás, who has extensively studied Baghdad’s modernist masters (his exhibition, City of Mirages: Baghdad 1952-1982, toured cities including Barcelona, Madrid, Boston and Baghdad between 2008 and 2023). “Ottoman architecture wasn’t necessarily suited to Iraq’s geographical and climatic conditions. King Faisal II decided to transform Baghdad into a major Western-style capital to distinguish it from other Arab cities that were looking to the Soviet Union for inspiration.”

To distance his country from Soviet aesthetics, the regent developed plans for a capital with an opera house, new universities and museums, as well as public, cultural and political institutions. Faisal II was the third ruler of the independent Arab state that is now modern-day Iraq, a nation formed after a revolt against the Ottomans in the provinces of Basra, Baghdad and Mosul. He was continuing a legacy established by his grandfather, Faisal I, who had devoted the early years of his reign to building roads and oil pipelines in order to finance development projects.

Faisal II had toured the world following the Second World War and, working with architects and engineers led by Nizar Jawdat – the Harvard-educated son of Ali Jawdat al-Ayyubi, Iraq’s former prime minister and ambassador to Washington from 1942 to 1947 – the king was committed to reinventing the nation’s capital at pace, project by project. Chief among these was Le Corbusier’s Gymnasium and plans for a 50,000-seat stadium complex, including a swimming pool with stands holding 5,000 seats and open-air amphitheatre. The Swiss-French architect would explore themes also seen in his design for Stade Firminy near Saint-Étienne, a lightly curved athletics grandstand built in a former sandstone quarry.

Around the same time, Walter Gropius, the founder of the Bauhaus movement, was reimagining an institute of higher learning in Baghdad. The German architect had first visited the city in 1954 on his way home from Japan. A First World War hero, he had gone into exile following Adolf Hitler’s rise to power, heading first to London and eventually arriving at Harvard University, where he joined some of the most important architects of the 20th century, pushing for social reform. One of his students there was Jawdat, who lobbied his politically influential family to bring Gropius to Iraq. This set of experiences enabled his firm, The Architects Collaborative, to secure prime position when it came to designing the Baghdad University campus.

“It’s hard to imagine now but Baghdad during the 1950s was a hub of modern arts and literary movements,” says Ali Shakir, an Iraqi-born architect who has written extensively on the country’s architectural past. “Young Iraqi alumni of prestigious European and US universities returned to their country of origin pulsing with potential and new ideas that they aspired to marry with their rich heritage.” Jawdat and his American-born wife, Ellen, were part of this cultural movement in which the educated diaspora returned to the fledgling modern nation.

The work on the campus was carried out with an understanding that the project was as much about good architecture as it was about providing a space to train a generation of Iraqi architects and engineers, so the country would no longer need to import Western expertise for every project. “We felt as though a large window had opened with such a wealth of new ideas, wise advice and calm optimism that we had to find some way of continuing the experience,” wrote Ellen at the time.

With the Iraqi Development Board’s blessing, Gropius and his advisers chose a piece of land in the southern part of Baghdad surrounded on three sides by the Tigris. The team believed that this site would remain secluded and unaffected by the city’s development. By 1959, Gropius and his office had a workable design of 273 buildings on 200 hectares encompassing three academic faculties: sciences, letters and humanities. Among the buildings that Gropius prioritised were those for architecture and engineering, as well as athletic and recreational facilities, an infirmary, student dormitories and staff housing, all surrounded by a ring road.

Outside this core campus, clusters of date-palm groves, open areas and artificial topography offsetting the otherwise flat terrain helped to counteract the excessive heat from May to September, with daily highs regularly climbing above 40C. Gropius’s design positioned the buildings close enough to overshadow one another, cooling the architecture. The shade and proximity also provided students with a sense of closeness and connection, regardless of the discipline that they were studying.

But the region was changing fast. Pan-Arab nationalism, fuelled in part by Gamal Abdel Nasser’s Egypt and resentment of the pro-UK monarchy’s Baghdad Pact alliance, was sweeping Iraq and Faisal II was assassinated in July 1958, marking the end of the Hashemite monarchy in the country. Led by Abdul Karim Kassem, a socialist son of a carpenter from Baghdad, the new regime reassured Gropius’s team that they wanted the project finished, though Kassem had his own ideas about it. The general wanted to add a small skyscraper to the campus plan that could be seen from his office in the defence ministry. The result was the 20-storey Faculty Office Tower, alongside Gropius’s symbolic, 25-metre-high entrance arch known as the Open Mind.

The construction of Le Corbusier’s athletics venues also continued. The sheer number of projects in which he was involved caused the process to drag. By the time the Gymnasium was completed in 1980 (23 years after the project commenced and 15 years since its architect’s death), Saddam Hussein had ascended to the presidency. He named the Le Corbusier Gymnasium complex after himself. The accompanying Al Sha’ab stadium that the architect had planned was never built. Instead, next to it, a 35,700-seat design by Portuguese architect Francisco Keil do Amaral went up in 1966.

It was in the shadow of these projects that Iraq’s own modernist master would emerge. Rifat Chadirji trained at the Hammersmith School of Arts and Crafts in London, returning in 1952 to Iraq, where he absorbed Gropius and Le Corbusier’s ideas by watching their Baghdad projects rise around him. Born into an influential Baghdad family, he opened his own architecture practice, Iraq Consult, with the aim of putting a regional spin on the international templates sweeping the globe in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s.

Chadirji’s first major commission came in 1959, when he was 33 years old. He was asked to create the Unknown Soldier Monument in Baghdad. A modernist statue modelled on the ancient Arch of Ctesiphon, it celebrated the wars of independence fought against the British monarchy. Chadirji soon hit a streak, creating the platform for Tahrir Square’s Freedom Monument, also in 1959; the Iraqi Scientific Academy in 1965; the Tobacco Monopoly Company building in 1966; the School for Veterinary Medicine in 1967; and the Central Post Telegraph and Telephone Administration offices in 1975. He also designed several homes for wealthy, ruling Ba’ath party members and supporters, including the Mahmoud Othman Residence. This project cemented the young brutalist’s style: it featured yellow brick for arched windows and wooden shutters in the traditional manner of old Iraqi markets. “From the very outset of my practice, I thought it imperative that, sooner or later, Iraq create for itself an architecture that is regional in character,” he wrote. “Yet, simultaneously, it needed to be modern, part of the current international avant garde style.” By 1978, at the pinnacle of his career at Iraq Consult, Chadirji was the country’s most renowned contemporary architect.

That year, however, Chadirji was sent to Abu Ghraib prison after refusing president Ahmed Hassan Al-Bakr’s request to use his international office for intelligence-gathering purposes (Iraq Consult had an additional studio in Bahrain). Al-Bakr had led Iraq since 1968 before his vice-president, Saddam, overthrew him in July 1979. The latter granted Chadirji freedom shortly after taking office but demanded that the architect lead Baghdad’s beautification plan – a brief, cosmetic yet deliberate echo of the Hashemites’ architectural courtship of the West decades earlier. It was a forced commission that led to the next great period of construction in the Iraqi capital.

“Saddam came to power and he wanted to prepare Baghdad for the conference of non-aligned countries that was to happen in 1982,” Chadirji recounted to the press years later. “He wanted somebody to replan the city and he was told that I was the one who could do it. A car took me to the palace, still in my prison clothes, and a secretary of the Revolutionary Council said, ‘The president wants to immortalise your name in history.’ So, I said, ‘Thank you very much.’”

With unlimited resources, Chadirji brought in design consultants from across the globe, including Robert Venturi from the US and Richard England from Malta. The team built pedestrian bridges and carried out planning for a cultural construction programme, which included new theatres. Tensions, however, eventually arose. The memory of his 20 months in prison became the catalyst for the architect to flee Iraq in 1983. A resentful Saddam subsequently tore down Chadirji’s Unknown Soldier Monument and replaced it with an enormous statue of himself. Chadirji considered returning on one occasion: in 2009, when the US invited him to reconstruct his Unknown Soldier Monument, following the overthrow of Saddam. This never materialised but it prompted him to share his thoughts on the city with the architectural media.

“I cannot believe what has happened to the buildings in Baghdad; everything has been almost completely destroyed,” said Chadirji. “The proper rebuilding is only half of the project; the other half, which is more important, is to keep it and take care of it, because it is part of the memory of the people and the society.” That challenge of keeping and taking care of these architectural memory banks has been put to the test continually. Chadirji’s Central Post Office withstood the Iran-Iraq War (1980 to 1988), the 1991 Gulf War and the 2003 US invasion, though postwar crews did rebuild and reinforce parts of its foyer. Similarly, Le Corbusier’s Gymnasium has, over the years, undergone a conversion from a 3,500-seat indoor arena – part of a wider athletics complex also including a stadium – to a US army barracks used during the occupation from 2003 to 2005. The arch and other prominent features of the university survived the invasion too and young students still gather underneath it to this day, reviewing notes, gossiping and waiting for a ride home. It’s an appropriate reflection of Gropius’s ambition, disseminating architectural modernism in the Middle East and inspiring many designers.

The future of much of this legacy, however, hangs in the balance. Recent conflicts have left many buildings destroyed or in a state of disrepair, including Chadirji’s Tobacco Monopoly Company, where the US-led forces undid the progress of dynasties and dictators. It is damage that hasn’t been helped by shifts in attitudes, as Baghdadis now look to the rapid development elsewhere in the Gulf for city-making benchmarks. “The United Arab Emirates is fascinating for young Iraqis and therefore young architects,” says Azara Nicolás. “That country projects an image of luxury, splendour, novelty and modernity that Iraq doesn’t have. Architects are holding conferences to try to save heritage but developers – and many residents as well – prefer to build a new city that resembles those in the Emirates.”

Glimmers of hope do exist. The governments of former president Abdul Latif Rashid and incumbent Nizar Amidi have been aware of the need for, well… something. There is a construction boom in Baghdad (Zaha Hadid’s Central Bank of Iraq is due for completion this year) and the executive office has tried to maintain some standards, overseeing the removal of hastily placed Chinese-made panels from some “new and gleaming” buildings due to the urban heat-island effect they have exacerbated. A few main streets have also been given a facelift and young people can again be seen sitting outside the 1979 National Theatre (constructed during Saddam’s building boom), discussing politics, business and the state of Iraqi society. In recent years, Le Corbusier’s Gymnasium has also been repaired, with his namesake foundation contributing to the renovation by adding hanging ceilings, traditional Iraqi coloured glass and multicoloured seats, as well as marble to replace outdated metal parts. Two international football matches have been held at the adjacent stadium. It’s a demonstration that Baghdad remains an avant garde architectural capital, albeit a dusty one.

Japanese craftsmanship finds a new stage in Kyoto’s Nishijin neighbourhood

For almost 20 years, a former barbershop on Kuramaguchi-dori has been home to Kamisoe, the studio and shop of karakami (decorative-paper) artisan Ko Kado. The Nishijin neighbourhood in the city’s northwest has been synonymous with silk textile production for more than 1,200 years. Kado was drawn to the area for its craftspeople and down-to-earth atmosphere, as well as its proximity to the Daitokuji temple complex. “There was nothing here at first, just a soba noodle shop on one side and a now demolished traditional confectionery shop on the other,” he says. “But these places drew a certain kind of person. Little by little, people became interested in my work.”

Kado was part of a vanguard that paved the way for other creatives. When Monocle visits, he has just completed artworks inspired by the music of Ryuichi Sakamoto. The musician and composer, who died in 2023, was one of Kado’s collaborators; the likes of artist Hiroshi Sugimoto and the founder of clothing brand Arts & Science, Sonya Park, have also sought out Kado. As his practice has developed, Kamisoe and Nishijin have become increasingly intertwined. “There are so many people here with a deep knowledge of Japanese culture, from dyeing artisans to tea-ceremony teachers, whose sharp eyes only make me feel more focused,” he says.

Nishijin continues to play a key role in the production of high-quality silk textiles. The industry still has some 275 manufacturers, many of them small, family-run enterprises, and 3,000 craftspeople. Building on this legacy, is the goal of Natsuki Okamoto, the 15th-generation head of textile manufacturer Rokumonjiya. The 42-year-old took over the family business after working in finance and consulting, then swiftly invested in a high-speed Italian rapier loom as well as traditional hand-operated models. “Presenting textiles made with different techniques, both automated and manual, reinforces each one’s unique characteristics,” says Okamoto.

Traditional crafts such as Kyoto-style yuzen dyeing, embroidery and kumihimo (braided cord) have also found a home here. After 25 years in the fashion industry, Masakazu Kuroda gave new life to a former kumihimo factory. With architect Souma Mori, Kuroda transformed the century-old building into Stactile, one of the city’s leading clothing shops. “I feel that retailers and fashion brands will look to escape to this area,” he says.

Nearby, Masahiro Kinoshita and Yuka Tsukano of Kino Architects are forging new connections through Nishijin Townhouse, their family home, architectural office and café, which was completed in 2024. Located on one of Kyoto’s classic narrow “eel’s bed” plots, the new building conforms to the city’s landscape regulations for the area. “Compared with Tokyo, there’s much more interaction with our neighbours here,” says Tsukano. “The neighbourhood association and bulletin boards are always active, while senior citizens and community members help out at the school. As some of our older customers say, Nishijin is a village.”

Mikiko Kayama has also found a community. After moving to Kyoto to learn about tea and traditional culture, she found her way to Nishijin. “It was a relief to meet so many people working independently,” says the 39-year-old calligrapher. Its calmness also aids her creativity. “As you leave the city centre behind and head north, the noise and crowds are gradually stripped away,” she says. “The peaceful atmosphere feels just right.”

Meet the artisans fighting to save Florence’s historic craft economy against the tide of mass tourism

Florence’s medieval guilds made the city famous for its craft excellence, from woodwork and goldsmithing to leather and textiles. Workshops of every kind filled its neighbourhoods, particularly Oltrarno. Today this district on the city’s narrow-laned left bank remains synonymous with artisans. “When I was growing up in Florence, craft was always close at hand and fascinated me,” says Duccio Maria Gambi, a designer who makes his own objects and furnishings in Oltrarno. His studio is housed in an old warehouse that he shares with six other creatives. Maria Gambi explains how the popularity of the district can also be a burden. “It’s hard to tell how many artists and designers Florence has because tourism is eating up the city,” he says. “But we have established a small community.”

At the new Vicolo Via Mameli boutique on the elegant Via Maggio, owners Nicola Pozzi and Ryan Weimer are optimistic. They felt immediately at ease with the idea of making this area the Florence base of their brand, which opened its first shop in Milan. “We chose to set up in Oltrarno because there are still workshops here and locals remain interested in craftsmanship,” says Pozzi. “We represent functional, traditional and artisanal Italian design. We felt that we belonged in Oltrarno.” The new space’s shelves are lined with handmade perfumed beeswax candles, handwoven fabrics, handpainted plates and other homewares from the brand’s line made by Italian artisans.

Vicolo Via Mameli is just one example of an outside venture drawn here alongside Fiorentini such as Filippo Mannucci who have returned to set up shop in the district. Just below Ponte Vecchio in Oltrarno, Mannucci has opened a showroom for his carved furnishings. The Florence native previously built boats on the Tuscan coast before launching his line of one-of-a-kind chairs, benches and stools. “Spending time here, surrounded by so many beautiful monuments, naturally influences you,” says Mannucci.

“But Florence could move beyond its historical canons, preserving them but creating newness unique to the city as well.”

Part of Oltrarno’s appeal is a can-do attitude, driven in part by a lack of civic support. When jeweller Margherita de Martino Norante was looking for a space to share with fellow designers and makers, she encountered many difficulties. A shared workshop space for artisans wasn’t permitted because it didn’t fit into pre-established categories but she persisted. Today, Officine Nora, by Piazza Santo Spirito, hosts a handful of resident members, alongside visiting designers.

De Martino Norante studied at Alchimia, an Oltrarno jewellery school that has trained numerous designers and goldsmiths. But even jewellery faces a tough market in Florence. “Tourists want cheap souvenirs,” she says. “But when they enter a workshop it helps them see that there’s no machine spitting out identical pieces every five seconds and there’s value in the handmade.”

Several skilled workshops are bridging this divide between traditional crafts and new design by collaborating with contemporary designers. “So many workshops have closed but if you want something handmade, Oltrarno is still the neighbourhood,” says Bronzetto’s Alessandra Schiavi. “Young people are opening new craft ventures here.”

Schola Academy opened in 2020 to impart a multidisciplinary range of craft skills. Students from across the globe enrol on courses that include shoemaking, leatherworking, sewing and perfumery. All are taught by local practitioners. “Schola is the counterpoint to social media and AI,” says co-founder Alessandro Colombo. “We’re for people searching for the extremely real: a spirit of artisanship, which Florence still retains.”

Where to next?
Monocle doesn’t view architecture, craft or furniture production as industries that work in isolation. Our coverage seeks to forge connections between design and business, culture, hospitality, fashion and even politics. We send our global network of reporters and editors out in the field to speak to people on the ground and cover events directly from trade floors. Our stories are told in print, online and on Monocle Radio, allowing our journalists to meet you where you are. See you out there.

Rotor is on a mission to rescue the building industry from its throwaway habit

“For most of history, you had to be mad not to reuse,” says Tom Schoonjans, a project manager at Brussels-based design firm Rotor. Today, however, this seems to be a minority position. The construction industry is the world’s biggest environmental polluter, responsible for almost 40 per cent of global carbon emissions. Amid the constant churn of demolitions and renovations, only a small amount of materials is rescued from landfill sites. For more than 20 years, Rotor has been practising and advocating a more sensible way of building.

Founded in 2005, Rotor is a non-profit that conducts publicly funded research into reuse projects and helps other architects to incorporate circularity into their work. Soon after its launch, the founders realised that the most direct way to promote reuse was for the company to dismantle buildings itself. Rotor DC, a spin-off salvage business with a warehouse in Evere, was founded in 2016. “One of the issues that we face today is that our economy is very white collar,” says Schoonjans. “People have lost the ability to work with materials, so they’re trying to solve the circular-economy equation with digital tools.” But we can’t rely on computers to fix this problem.

Implementing circularity is easier said than done, says Schoonjans. The existing building – or “the mine”, in industry lingo – first has to be inventoried in a time-consuming process that Rotor calls a “reclamation audit”. Working with developers, engineers and contractors, the architects must figure out what parts of the structure can be reused. Then comes the stage of slicing through floorboards or solid stone, plus cleaning, transporting and storing tonnes of material.

Reuse was historically the norm. Most of the solid stone columns that you see in Italian churches once belonged to earlier buildings. Aristocrats in medieval Rome stripped the marble off the Colosseum and repurposed it for their palace façades. In Istanbul, sixth-century builders used stone Medusa heads sourced from a Roman temple to build water cisterns. Stones repurposed in this way are called spolia – a word that comes from the Latin for “spoils” taken in war. Until the 1930s, demolition rubble wasn’t considered waste. Contractors paid for the right to take apart an old building, then turned a profit by selling the materials, from wooden staircases to floor tiles, to the public.

It was only with the expansion of industrially produced materials after the Second World War and the usurping of stone and brick by concrete that new became cheaper than old. Entire buildings started to end up in landfills. Rotor DC is bucking this trend. In its warehouse, there are long corridors lined with doors and crates of granite cobblestones; an outdoor shed is dedicated to sinks. There’s plenty of office furniture and enough school desks to fill dozens of classrooms. The company’s speciality is tiles. “We are obsessed,” says Margot Saulnier, Rotor DC’s commercial director and co-manager. Thanks to a proprietary machine that cuts off old mortar, Rotor DC can offer vintage Winckelmans tiles that once covered the floor of a school or a municipal building but now look as good as new.

The business’s focus is on postwar buildings, which most salvage yards would consider unworthy of their time. “The aesthetic barriers to reuse can be hard to overcome,” says Schoonjans. He gives the example of granite, which had a spell of popularity in 1990s countertops but now looks dated. The team tries to give the material a fresh appeal through the way that it’s cleaned and presented.

One of the well-worn adages of modernism is that a designer should be able to work from the scale of a spoon to that of a city. Rotor approaches reuse with the same philosophy – or, at least, from the scale of a bathroom tile to that of an office park.

For the past decade, the non-profit has worked on integrating reclaimed materials into the renovations of two modernist office buildings in Brussels, Multi and Oxy. The architects catalogued the contents of the existing structures and figured out what could be reclaimed, repaired and replaced with pre-used pieces.

Since both buildings were renovations, almost 90 per cent of the original materials were preserved. For Oxy alone, however, the remaining 10 per cent amounted to more than 30,000 tonnes of new materials. Rotor sourced about 600 tonnes of reclaimed materials – mostly natural stone for panelling and pavements – from other office renovations around Europe. This amounts to about 2 per cent of the new materials used in the building. That might not sound like much but it’s equivalent to the entire annual turnover of Rotor DC’s warehouse in Evere.

“With reuse, there’s no way to meet existing demand,” says Schoonjans. In other words, quality salvage is unable to keep up with a global construction industry built to, well, build. “We need to question the demand first and foremost.” Fortunately, though, Rotor is growing. Next year it begins a major renovation of its site in Evere. The expansion will triple the amount of storage space that the company has access to, easing one of the main problems facing reuse companies – that there’s insufficient room to store everything. The space has become increasingly necessary as Rotor’s fame has grown. Rotor DC’s materials used to come from salvage operations run by the non-profit Rotor; now they’re from its own dismantling work and from contractors and individuals bringing items to Evere.

A tour of Saint-Étienne, a French city betting that design can succeed where industry failed

Business was going well for French architect and designer Guillaume Crédoz. He had built a successful practice in Beirut and was overseeing a team of 36. In 2014 he started to construct 3D printers, a technology with which he had been experimenting for decades. Then, in 2019, the country’s financial crisis began. Crédoz’s money was invested in Lebanese banks and he lost everything. After the Port of Beirut explosion in 2020, which destroyed part of his home, he decided to move back to France.

He ruled out places such as Paris and Lyon, deeming them unaffordable. Then he remembered Saint-Étienne, a metropolitan area of some 400,000 people where he had exhibited in the past. “People said that the creative industry would save this city and I took them at their word,” he says. “I came with nothing, saying, ‘Please give me something.’”

Crédoz presented his work to the leadership of Saint-Étienne’s Cité du Design, a design quarter largely funded by the metropolitan government and earmarked as a future economic driver. Known for its historic red-brick-and-stone buildings, it’s home to the Saint-Étienne Higher School of Art and Design (Ésad Saint-Étienne), which moved here in 2009 and has served as a springboard for development. The quarter now houses the National Gallery of Design, the first venue in France that is dedicated to public design collections, as well as several exhibition halls, office space for creative companies and a restaurant. Two more phases are mooted, with the aim of adding retail, more restaurants and a hotel.

Crédoz came armed with a proposal: he would give students at the university access to his 3D printers in return for affordable workshop space. Larger, more market-driven cities might have rejected the idea but Saint-Étienne took up his offer and he was able to establish a new start-up, Post Industrial Crafts. After incubating it for two years in the Cité du Design, he moved the company headquarters to a large 1940s warehouse – a former foundry with a concrete, barrel-vaulted ceiling.

It’s safe to say that Crédoz is back on his feet. In the new digs, towering robot arms attached to extruders are linked with proprietary software. One of them moves slowly around a circular object as it adds a fresh layer onto an object’s surface. Post Industrial Crafts focuses on large-scale printed design pieces, from lamps to benches, using colourful, recycled plastic. Crédoz has raised €1.2m and is inundated with work; he is building a play castle for a park in Lyon and bidding for an airport-wall project in California.

Saint-Étienne’s design ecosystem has played a significant part in his success. To many in France, however, the idea that the city has a design scene at all might come as a surprise, in part because of its industrial reputation. Often compared to Manchester or Pittsburgh, Saint-Étienne was once an arms-manufacturing hub with a history of making weapons that can be traced back to the 14th century. France’s national arms factory, the Manufacture d’Armes de Saint-Étienne, was established here in the 18th century, bringing plenty of factory jobs and helping to forge the city’s blue-collar identity. It operated on a newer site from 1866 until 2001; a few years after it was shuttered, its buildings were redeveloped as the Cité du Design.

Coal mining also left a huge mental and physical imprint on the city. The industry provided raw materials for Saint-Étienne’s metallurgy and textile factories. Today, if you gaze up from the Grand’Rue, a thoroughfare that stretches from north to south, you will notice a series of hillocks. Many of these were originally deposits from excavation. The city’s largest mine, Couriot, closed in 1973. Crédoz’s 3D-printing warehouse now stands on this site.

With the end of coal production, Saint-Étienne suffered an economic slump and entered a prolonged period of soul searching. Even today, shuttered shops in its centre point to tough times. But it has something that many wealthier metropolises do not. Crédoz recalls the lifts that he used to receive when he couldn’t afford to buy his own car and the way that people rallied round him. “It’s not competitive here,” he says. “I received a lot of help from everyone.” In this football-mad city, community still matters and it’s a quality that Saint-Étienne can leverage as it seeks to build up its design scene.

“We are a very horizontal city where everybody has a chance to engage and make a change at their own level,” says Yannis Bekhti over lunch at the Cité du Design’s La Fabuleuse Cantine, a business with a mission to combat food waste. A former policy and economic adviser in the Middle East and North Africa, Bekhti is now the president of the entity that oversees the design neighbourhood and its school. He is also the deputy mayor in charge of managing the city’s image. Like many people involved in developing Saint-Étienne, he says that the focus on design is based on the city’s pre-existing skills and the sector’s strong links to the past.

Some of the industries that have historically thrived in Saint-Étienne – including ribbon-making, particularly for chocolate boxes – have given it a transferable savoir-faire, says Bekhti. Even arms manufacture required designers, which was a key factor behind the creation of one of France’s first drawing schools in the city in 1803. The establishment was renamed several times before becoming Ésad Saint-Étienne in 2006. “This is where the link is, between our industrial heritage and our contemporary relationship to design,” he says.

The metropolitan government also has a track record of serving as a patron of architecture. In the 20th century Eugène Claudius-Petit, the mayor Ferminy, a town just outside the city limits, commissioned modernist master Le Corbusier to design several buildings in the city, though only one of these was completed during the French-Swiss architect’s lifetime: the Unesco-recognised Firminy cultural centre. The futurist Église Saint-Pierre was built in fits and starts, and finally completed in 2006. Le Corbusier laid the foundation stone for Unité d’Habitation, a huge housing block that he called a “vertical town”, but died shortly afterwards, leaving the work to be finished by his former assistant André Wogenscky.

This past helps to explain why Saint-Étienne already punches above its weight. Since 1998 it has held the successful International Design Biennial, with each edition attended by tens of thousands of visitors. In 2010, Unesco recognised Saint-Étienne as France’s only Creative City of Design.

Its creative history features heavily in Design en Main: Du Langage à l’Objet (“Design in Hand: From Language to Object”), the inaugural exhibition at the National Gallery of Design. The wood-panelled exhibition space is split into six sections that explore the hand’s relationship to design. “With Bare Hands” looks at the city’s ribbon-making, arms and mining industries; “Lending a Hand” focuses on the eye-catching graphics and products of Manufrance, a Saint-Étienne-based mail-order business that was popular in the 1970s; and “Losing a Steady Hand” showcases a fun collection of postwar domestic appliances, arranged on a mirrored surface.

The gallery’s director, Aurélie Voltz, says that the space has a responsibility to capture the “history of society”. The idea behind what she calls “this special venue for design” is simple: making exhibitions accessible and reminding audiences that design is a part of daily life. Related to the latter is the way that design can trickle down to other parts of the economy. “Saint-Étienne is the right place to talk about this,” says Voltz. “In formerly industrial cities, culture is the most important vehicle for helping a city to move on.” The exhibition borrows from the permanent collections of institutions such as Bordeaux’s Musée des Arts Décoratifs et du Design and Paris’s Centre Pompidou.

The building’s layout was conceived to entice visitors to physically engage with design. They first encounter Le Seuil, a space to chat, read and sit on chairs by the likes of Enzo Mari and Marcel Breuer. Upstairs, a mezzanine viewing gallery features modular furniture from French design studio Marie et Alexandre.

Éric Jourdan, the director general of the EPCC Cité du Design Ésad-Saint-Étienne – the body that oversees the city’s design ecosystem – recognises that there’s still plenty of work to do to convince people that design has a central role to play. While it might not have the funding of the major Paris-based institutions, Ésad Saint-Étienne is renowned for its hands-on workshops that span everything from woodwork to printing. Its graduates have the potential to stay on and play an important part in Saint-Étienne’s future.

Sticking around in the city has worked out for design studio Numéro 111, founded by Ésad Saint-Étienne alumni Sophie Françon and Jennifer Julien, alongside architect Grégory Peyrache. The trio first started working together 15 years ago at the International Design Biennial. Their project portfolio includes the Cité du Design shop, street furniture for the biennial and recently completed interiors for a café called Dussap, where Monocle meets the Numéro 111 team for coffee. The practice is proof that being outside design’s traditional echo chambers isn’t a problem – and can even be a creative advantage. “We are near Lyon, the Alps and Paris,” says Julien. Peyrache adds that being based in a postindustrial city means that there are plenty of skilled craftspeople with whom they can collaborate. Alongside designing pieces for luxury furniture company Ligne Roset, Numéro 111 is also working on projects such as a hotel in Provence and a riad in Morocco.

Numéro 111 is being joined in Saint-Étienne by many other designers who are either moving back home or settling from other parts of the country. They are motivated not just by the city’s efforts to make design part of its economic future but also by the simple fact that things remain affordable here. Ésad Saint-Étienne’s former home, where it was based before its move to the Cité du Design in 2009, has been converted into 30 studios for early-career designers. Every year, the city funds four graduates’ annual rent. We visit the large studio that Louis Chevalier and Mathilde Garcia share in the building. They have space for facilities including a showroom and a metal-welding area, where Chevalier can work on his architectural pieces, manipulating industrial forms. “We pay €250 rent a month,” says Garcia, who makes decorative pieces. “As we start our professional careers, it’s the best place.”

A five-minute walk from the Cité du Design, Anaïs Borie, another former Ésad Saint-Étienne’s student, is hand-cutting stained-glass pieces for a new commission. Borie spent a decade living in Eindhoven but she recently felt the urge to come home. In Saint-Étienne, she was able to buy a ground-floor studio that was previously a long-shuttered shop for less than a garage would cost in many cities. “I didn’t want to worry about moving from workshop to workshop,” she says. “Here, I can have a more settled practice.”

Borie, whose influences include art nouveau and science fiction, currently has an exhibition called Brèches Fertiles at the Cité du Design’s La Platine, a space dedicated to the work of emerging creatives. As well as the main objects on display – several of which were made in collaboration with nearby metal workshop Tôlerie Forézienne – she designed everything else, including the sets and the sound. It’s already paying off. The piece that she is currently working on in her studio was commissioned by a visitor to the show.

Stories such as Borie’s are encouraging – and evidence that Saint-Étienne’s punt on design is reaping rewards. Still, for all the encouraging green shoots, the city doesn’t claim to have its future entirely mapped out. But plenty of the necessary pieces are now in place. Some might suspect that Saint-Étienne is taking on too much risk, giving grants to businesses seeking to hire designers to improve products and talks about how design can improve public services. For Bekhti, though, it’s about making the city more resilient – and he’s in little doubt about the value that all of these efforts are bringing. “I believe that creative industries such as design will be viable tomorrow,” he says. “At a time when AI is challenging our perceptions of the world, we need to go back to what makes us human.”

Saint-Étienne timeline

1764: Royal arms factory, Manufacture d’Armes de Saint-Étienne, is established
1803: The city’s school of drawing is launched
1866: A new arms factory site opens
1886: The Gauthier brothers create the first French bicycle here
1987: The Musée d’Art Moderne et Contemporain de Saint-Étienne Métropole opens
1998: Saint-Étienne’s holds its first International Design Biennial
2005: The Cité du Design concept is born
2009: The formal inauguration of Cité du Design
2010: Saint-Étienne joins the Unesco Creative Cities of Design network
2026: National Gallery of Design opens in June

Jeanne Autran-Edorh is making the case for a West African architecture rooted in craft, not imports

French-Togolese designer Jeanne Autran-Edorh worked for Pritzker Architecture Prize winners Francis Kéré, Jean Nouvel and Herzog & de Meuron, before co-founding interdisciplinary practice Studio Neida. Based between Brussels and Lomé, its portfolio spans architecture, design and research, with a focus on locally sourced materials and regenerative craftsmanship. Autran-Edorh co-curated Togo’s first Venice Architecture Biennale pavilion for the event’s 19th edition in 2025, as well as its presentation at the Triennale in Milan.

Rooted in craft and context, Studio Neida’s work is a celebration of West Africa’s architectural roots. “They’re a rich foundation that we have to preserve,” Autran-Edorh tells Monocle, as she welcomes us into her home in Lomé. “And they’re at risk of disappearing because we live in an age when many crafts are being replaced by industrially made imports.” She tells us about what she plans to do about this and her ambitions for the studio.

How does a young practice such as Studio Neida win clients?
We started it three years ago after working at several other offices. What matters isn’t just the relationship with the client but with everyone that the architecture will affect. It’s about how your work changes life in a city or the community around it and how to ensure that those who will build it or live near it can have a say in the design process. The client isn’t one person – the word encompasses the people walking past a project too. It’s about asking not just whether a building is aesthetically pleasing or functional but also how it supports daily life.

What roles do place and context play?
Our goal is to create architecture that belongs to its place and reflects its people. In West Africa, this involves unlearning ways of designing imposed from elsewhere and restarting with a more collaborative practice. It’s about local knowledge and working together. Often, a project develops in collaboration with an artisan.

Does your process differ in Africa and Europe?
I have practised in European, African and US contexts on projects such as the National Assembly of Benin, which was heavily influenced by politics, and then at smaller scales, where you have much more freedom. There’s a kind of reversal of value: in Europe, craft has become a luxury and manufactured materials are the default. In West Africa, imported materials raise the cost, so making things locally is cheaper. The design process ends up far more tied to craft and drawing everything by hand. That, for me, is more stimulating and creative. If you need a new dress, you seek out a tailor and design it yourself; if you need a table, you go to a carpenter and make a custom one. Everyone becomes a designer because you must think about the dimensions, the shape and the materials.

One of your projects, a guesthouse in Lomé, makes a point of working with the site’s conditions. What can be learnt from taking such an approach?
It’s about making use of the available resources. That might sound like a constraint but it can also be an opportunity. The clay bricks for this guesthouse were made from soil dug up on site, pressed and sun-dried. We produced them as we built.

What’s your experience of working with big institutions and governments?
We started our practice with initiatives of our own: documenting abandoned buildings in Lomé and proposing adaptive reuse. That drew interest from institutions, which eventually led to us doing the Togo Pavilion at the Venice Architecture Biennale. It wasn’t a commission that came to us; we initiated the dialogue ourselves.

Tell us about some of the buildings in Lomé that you explored as part of this curatorial programme.
The exhibition looked at both post-independence and precolonial architecture. We wanted to put the two in dialogue and deliberately skip the colonial period to celebrate the architecture commissioned by the Togolese state. Post-independence architecture shows the building of a nation’s identity. There’s a strong language in those buildings. They express the pride and the history of a country.

Where is Togolese and Lomé’s architecture heading? And how can this be a springboard for your practice?
What’s sometimes difficult is a feeling of going backwards. Contemporary architecture is often less contextual and has less finesse than in the modernist era. We’re starting to see towers in Lomé that could be in London or New York. These are not adapted to the context, the climate. There’s a lot that we can learn from older architecture.

What can the rest of the world take from contemporary West African architecture?
Young architects in Africa are valuing traditional materials and existing knowledge. There’s a need to give value to these traditions of making and craftsmanship. It’s about not trying to follow existing models but trying to develop an architecture that belongs to its context.

‘Most have lost touch with the reality of the built world.’ Australian designer Henry Wilson on why working with independent makers matters

“I grew up with an architect mother who would cart me along to her studio and sample rooms, where I would collect little bits of material,” says Henry Wilson. The Sydney-based industrial designer is recounting how he became one of Australia’s top contemporary talents. “There was endless stuff that I was making and playing with: my radio-controlled car, for example, or a trailer to tow round the garden behind the dog.”

Today he produces furniture, lighting, homewares and more from his Paddington studio and showroom – housed in a low-rise 1926 brick building tucked beneath an old scout hall, finished with stainless-steel plinths and panels. His client list includes Aesop and Sydney’s Ace Hotel, with works shown at Maison & Objet in Paris and the Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences in Sydney. Wilson’s practice remains rooted in craftsmanship and his early interest in materiality. Here, he tells us about sand-casting, small foundries and why he would rather live with an object than simply admire it.

What is your earliest design memory?
As a kid, I was obsessed with how things went together, though there wasn’t an aesthetic angle to it yet. In hindsight, my parents were feeding that appetite – my mother especially. She’s also an art collector and used to drag me around museums. I probably went reluctantly at the time but it planted something in me that evolved.

What drew you to the idea of making things?
Initially, it was very practical. I was obsessed with utilitarian things, which is how I became interested in sand-casting, a method that uses packed sand to shape molten metal into custom parts. I loved the practicality of cast pieces that solved a problem and could be replicated. I found an extraordinary beauty and rawness in this centuries-old process.

Does the process dictate what you produce?
Totally. We’ll propose a casting or polishing process and get pushback from the foundry – “This is too thin; we’re getting holes here” – and we’ll rethink the form. It’s a constant back and forth. I also don’t want to make something that’s a pain to produce. You must consider the person making the object, the person who will use it and the person who will eventually be left with it. You have to ask: will they repurpose it, sell it or get rid of it? I try to keep an object’s uses abstract enough that it can find its way into different parts of your life. Take my little key tray: I have seen it holding coins, buttons and someone’s phone, as well as keys. I don’t want these things to be too prescriptive.

You collaborate with smaller, local foundries. Why is it important to keep working with such makers?
In Australia, it’s a real issue. The foundry that I have been working with for more than 10 years is now overseen by the son, who took it over from his father. It’s tricky business because a lot of the componentry is now moving to China. There has been a brain drain and we simply don’t make things any more. I see this in manufacturing generally and even among architects. If you want to do anything special, there’s only a handful of places left that can help you. That’s a real shame because it limits your thinking. It surprises me how impractical people have become. Try explaining how a wall plug works to someone and you’ll get blank stares. Most have lost touch with the reality of the built world. It has become something that they just walk through.

How has working and studying around the world shaped your practice?
I studied at the Design Academy Eindhoven and, honestly, the biggest part of my education there came from visiting flea markets across the Netherlands and Germany. In Berlin 15 years ago, you would find postwar artefacts. You couldn’t imagine these beautifully made objects being produced in bulk today – penknives with folding mechanisms, scissors for cutting candlewicks, knives and forks for specific fish. We don’t necessarily use these things any more but they’re worth looking back to – sometimes out of pure curiosity; sometimes because their ideas might find their way into a new product. Industrial designers are drawn to that kind of observation, building on what’s gone before.

Does the passage of time also help us to appreciate our objects and furniture more?
A lot of the resonance that our products have comes from the fact that they change. Take our hardware line: we initially started making these door pulls as one-off pieces because manufacturing had become so roboticised that you could barely tell an Ikea kitchen from the work of the fanciest Italian cabinetmakers. So we wanted to make hardware rooted in mid-century proportions but left unwaxed and untreated. This means that the dishwasher pull wears differently to the pantry pull, because one is grabbed with wet hands. People love the way that such details give their home a little more life. You see this in older European houses, with solid brass hardware worn bright. You wouldn’t come in and rip off those handles. That’s what we’re trying to put into homes: a sense of timelessness that grows with people. We joke in the office that if you don’t like the finish on your bronze lamp, just wait a week.

Editor’s letter: Monocle’s inaugural Design Directory

Why the Monocle Design Directory? And why now? To answer these questions, we need to rewind to the launch of Monocle in 2007. Since our first issue, politics, business, fashion and culture have been filtered through the lens of design. Diplomatic residences have been scrutinised, national economies assessed in terms of their industrial-design output and social cohesion in cities measured in terms of newly built galleries, museums and institutions. It’s an approach to journalism that recognises that the work of architects, graphic designers, furniture makers and design brands is far-reaching – beyond simply making beautiful things, these creatives have the power to shape our lives and build communities. It’s what drew me to Monocle in 2010 as a designer on the lookout for benchmark projects and then – after a slight career pivot – as a design journalist in 2018. And it’s why we’re pressing play on our first stand-alone magazine dedicated solely to design.

The world today needs good design and architecture more than ever. Across our pages, you’ll find homes with substance, businesses with heft and some gorgeous products too. For example, one can look at the reporting of this publication’s deputy editor, Grace Charlton, who took a tour through the Balkans, visiting Cold War-era memorials. Originally built to recognise conflict and postwar development, these monuments tell a story that is as much about reconciling the past and the present as it is about recognising striking architecture. The report might just inspire your next roadtrip.

Complementing this is a story from Edmund and Yuki Sumner, a photographer-and-journalist super team, who examined how contemporary Mexican architects are building inspiring homes. Meanwhile, our editor in chief, Andrew Tuck, paid a visit to the father-and-son duo behind Fenix Originals. This Barcelona-based outfit is drawing attention to forgotten mid-century Spanish designers through the restoration of vintage furniture. It’s a cause that tugs at the heartstrings and provides buyers with unique furniture with which to kit out their homes and offices.

Naturally, some broader themes have emerged.

Immersing ourselves in design communities in Tokyo, Paris and São Paulo, we report on how traditional craftsmanship lays the foundations for innovation. In our visits to projects across the globe – from Bidadari Park in Singapore to a repurposed flyover space in Surat, India – we examine how design can help to build communities. These stories will hopefully inspire you to use design to improve your life and wellbeing, while delivering on our promise to spotlight uplifting projects and beautiful wares for your home.

For more design coverage from our team, tune in to Monocle on Design every week, or subscribe to our weekly design newsletter at monocle.com/minute.

Monocle’s Global Design Directory 2025: Where to find designers around the world

Need an architect in Athens or collectable furniture in Copenhagen? Our new Design Directory connects you with vetted creatives on every continent. From emerging studios to market leaders, skilled craftspeople to cutting-edge brands, this guide delivers contacts for transforming any space – an address book for navigating the world of design.

Europe

Regional design identities remain strong in Europe. The continent’s design capitals maintain distinct visual languages – from Scandinavian minimalism to Italian luxury – shaped by local materials, cultural heritage and the peculiarities of each market.

Amsterdam

The Dutch capital plays host to some of design’s brightest minds, from the Amsterdam School’s community-minded architecture to its savvy housing scheme.


Antwerp

Belgium’s diamond capital layers cutting-edge contemporary structures on art nouveau mansions. Meanwhile, the city’s famed fashion academy plays an outsized role in shaping its creative scene.


Athens

Ancient craft traditions meet a contemporary design renaissance in the Greek capital, with marble and ceramic workshops influencing modern furniture makers.


Barcelona

Gaudí’s fairy-tale modernisme might be Barcelona’s calling card but the Catalonian city has never coasted on past glories, with a host of contemporary firms creating illuminating architecture, furniture and objects.


Basel

Despite the city’s compact size, celebrated international designers including Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid and Tadao Ando have worked in Basel. Swiss engineering prowess is also evident in the precision of the construction of its skyline.


Berlin


Copenhagen

Far from resting on the laurels of its mid-century designers, Copenhagen continues to export outstanding creative talent worldwide, thanks in no small part to its respected design schools.


Geneva

A lakeside city where French and German architectural traditions merge with Italian influences, Geneva also has a watchmaking heritage that brings mechanical flair to the city’s creative scene.


Helsinki

Finnish design’s reputation was built on the backs of companies such as Iittala and Artek, which embraced the country’s glassmaking and timber heritage – a trend that continues to evolve today.


Istanbul

Radical design has flourished on the Bosphorus for centuries, creating a patchwork where 1950s international style sits alongside 16th-century mosques. Its craft scene, defined by carpet weaving and kilim making, adds texture to interiors and the fabric of the city.


Lisbon

Portugal has a rich design heritage defined by a deep appreciation for craft and a recent influx of expats in the capital is enlivening the city’s artistic milieu.


London

The UK capital continues to attract global talent thanks to its world-class educational facilities and the diversity of its creative communities. The result is innovation in fashion, graphics, architecture and furniture.


Madrid

Grand boulevards and ornate fountains sit alongside village-like plazas and narrow streets in this city of contrasts. This varied inspiration shapes the work of its creatives.


Milan

Home to the famed Salone del Mobile, Milan continues to have far-reaching influence on global design trends and industries. Against this business backdrop is a city of impressively varied architecture, spanning from the gothic spires of the Duomo to Liberty decoration and Gio Ponti’s modernism.


Munich

From Olympiapark’s landscape-embedded stadiums to corporate headquarters, function precedes aesthetics in the Bavarian capital. The result? Practical industrial design and smart, contemporary architecture.


Oslo

Sustainable timber construction and landscape-integrated buildings reflect the Nordics’ love for nature. It’s an outlook embraced by Oslo’s leading furniture makers.


Paris

An appreciation for beauty and craft shapes Paris’s outlook on design, whether in the work of haute-couture ateliers or the magnificent rooftops lining Haussmannian boulevards.


Prague

A post-communism creative renaissance saw a design boom in the Czech capital, where Bohemian glass traditions and heritage woodworking and ceramic practices have been adapted to suit modern needs.


Rome

The Italian capital has a long history: Roman ruins and Renaissance churches join baroque basilicas. But new constructions in the city prove that its design know-how extends far beyond its ancient foundations.


Rotterdam

The Dutch city owes its reputation to the post-Second World War construction boom in which the city became an architectural playground filled with bold, experimental design.


Stockholm

Thriving creative neighbourhoods are scattered across the Swedish capital, defined by rusty townhouses, sky-splitting spires, baroque palaces and Nordic classicism.


Venice

A global standout in terms of urban design and architecture, the city is also home to the Venice Biennale’s famed International Architecture Exhibition, while its glassmaking scene on the island of Murano continues to inspire.


Vienna

The legacy of the city’s golden age at the turn of the 20th century laid the foundations for the Austrian capital to remain full of vibrant creativity.


Warsaw

A hub of Eastern European talent, Warsaw’s modernist architectural heritage, informed by postwar reconstruction, continues to influence its contemporary design.


Zürich

The international typographic style – a graphic movement that prioritised clarity, order and legibility – had a significant influence on Zürich. Today, those effects on its foundational home can still be seen, from architecture to print.

Middle East and Africa

From Accra to Riyadh, a new generation of designers is drawing on millennia of artistic heritage and traditional craft to produce work that is deeply contextual, sustainable and forward-looking. The region's creative scene is imbued with a bold sense of optimism about the future.

Abu Dhabi

Emirati traditions meet ultra-modern aspirations as contemporary designers reimagine the city’s cultural heritage, using everything from traditional Islamic geometries to mashrabiya latticework.


Accra

Ghana’s capital embraces both traditional craft and Africa’s best new design. Vibrant textile traditions and local hardwoods, such as mahogany, shape the furniture industry.


Beirut

At the crossroads of Mediterranean culture with a proud emphasis on Middle Eastern traditions, the Lebanese capital plays host to a design scene that is constantly rebuilding and reinventing itself.


Cairo

Five millennia of design heritage converge in Cairo, where specialist schools foster new talent while artisans in workshops across the city adapt ancient techniques for contemporary markets.


Cape Town

South Africa’s design capital has a creative scene full of manufacturing know-how and resourcefulness that produces architecture and furniture rooted in craft.


Dakar

Creativity blossoms in Senegal’s coastal capital, where designers are increasingly looking to work with local and indigenous materials, reducing reliance on imported goods.

Q08 Design Store
Curated design shop, connected to art and design centre Studio Quatorzerohuit, showcasing contemporary African design.
12 Avenue Georges Pompidou, Dakar
+221 78 100 14 08


Doha

The Qatari capital’s rapid transformation from fishing village to global creative hub is remarkable, with the city home to an international design festival and grand works of architecture by the likes of Jean Nouvel and Rem Koolhaas.


Dubai

The UAE’s creative centre is a dynamic city where global starchitects inspire a new generation of design talent and regional manufacturing expertise is combined with an international outlook.


Lagos

Nigeria’s megacity is home to one of West Africa’s strongest creative scenes. Here, rapid urbanisation and development work hand in hand with innovation.


Marrakech

Berber, Arabic and French design traditions collide to shape Marrakech’s design scene. Artisans can be found adapting ancient woodcarving and metalworking skills for contemporary furniture markets, while architects embrace traditional building techniques.


Nairobi

Nairobi’s creatives are resourcefully responding to its rapid development in this East African design hub. Local hardwoods and traditional basketweaving techniques inspire contemporary furniture making.


Riyadh

Saudi Arabia’s capital is on track to achieve its goal of becoming a global creative contender. Design schools and an emerging design week are nurturing a new crop of talent.

North America

From Chicago’s modernist heritage to Mexico City’s mid-century modernism, North America boasts an enviable variety of design influences. While Los Angeles and Vancouver draw inspiration from nature, New York and San Francisco push technological boundaries. The region remains a global leader in shaping the built environment.


Los Angeles

Abundant natural light and a balmy climate combine with car culture and the entertainment industry to inform southern California’s airy design aesthetic.


Mexico City

Home to arguably North America’s most vibrant design scene, Mexico City is where colourful mid-century modernism meets sustainable contemporary architecture. There’s a focus on local craft too, with furniture makers working hand in hand with manufacturers.


New York

The grid system and vertical ambition drive this regional design capital, with skyscraper innovation, small-space solutions and cultural diversity.


San Francisco

The Bay Area’s technology industry pushes innovations in fields from furniture to architecture. It’s a drive to rethink the future that is supported by some of the country’s top design schools in Berkeley and Stanford.


Toronto

Canada’s best creatives converge in its biggest city, thanks to a strong manufacturing base and abundance of design-minded events and festivals.


Vancouver

The Pacific Northwest influences Vancouver’s nature-inspired design aesthetic. Strong environmental consciousness drives everything from sustainable furniture manufacturing to architecture.

South America

South America's contemporary design scene builds on the foundations laid by 20th-century modernists and a resourceful industry that embraces local resources. It's a continent of opportunity, where socially minded design and architecture exist in tune with the environment.

Medellín

The Colombian city’s 21st-century transformation demonstrates how building socially minded architecture, embracing greenery and car-free transport can heal communities and foster hope.


Buenos Aires

Buenos Aires has been shaped by European immigration, with Spanish, French and Italian architectural influences prominent throughout the Argentinian capital. Genius loci is embraced in the form of indigenous materials, prominently used in the local furniture-making scene.


Santiago

Mountainous landscapes and seismic activity inform Chile’s design culture, where earthquake-resistant construction meets European-influenced architectural aesthetics.


Rio de Janeiro

Rio de Janeiro’s design culture embraces indoor-outdoor living. Carnival culture influences the city’s colourful, celebratory interior designs, while favela innovations inspire adaptive housing solutions.


São Paulo

A modernist architectural heritage and a strong manufacturing base inform contemporary practice, cementing São Paulo as one of Latin America’s leading creative scenes.

Asia & Oceania

A blend of global influences and deep-rooted local traditions mean that architecture and design scenes are ever evolving in Asia and Oceania – almost always imbued with a strong sense of place and a growing respect for traditional practice.

Auckland

New Zealand’s biggest city trades on multicultural influences, with a strong embrace of local materials and microclimates, thanks to its spectacular waterfront setting and Indigenous history.


Bangkok

Complex urban waterways and a tropical climate have influenced Bangkok’s design evolution, where traditional teak architecture meets sleek contemporary malls and high-rise towers.


Hong Kong

East meets West in Hong Kong, creating a distinctive fusion of style, evidenced in everything from the city’s architecture to works by local creative studios.


Jakarta

Indonesia’s capital has smartly built neighbourhoods embracing greenery, with traditional batik textiles and carved furniture techniques informing the contemporary design of everything from furniture to graphics.


Kyoto

Japan’s former imperial capital retains links to its storied past through the numerous furniture firms working in the city, building on its legacy of craft.


Melbourne

Design seemingly permeates every corner of Australia’s cultural capital. There’s a strong understanding of branding, splashed across café windows and coffee packaging, with design-minded retailers and some of the country’s best architects.


Mumbai

India’s financial capital has an equally bustling creative scene, where art deco buildings provide the backdrop for contemporary design innovation.


Seoul

A regional powerhouse, Seoul has a strong manufacturing tradition thanks to a postwar production boom. It’s a legacy that translates to strong product design today.


Singapore

A distinctive blend of multicultural influences and a pragmatic approach to urban challenges results in a particularly innovative design scene in the Lion City.


Sydney

Sydney’s creative scene is shaped by its spectacular harbour setting, balmy climate and strong culture of outdoor living, producing optimistic and environmentally minded design work.


Taipei

The Taiwanese capital’s thriving design scene draws on the East Asian city’s historic resilience and a forward-thinking spirit that brings together tradition and innovation.


Tokyo

Fire, earthquakes and rapid economic development laid the foundations for Tokyo’s dynamic architecture and its design scene, which plays host to numerous bubbly branding studios and sleek architecture outfits.


Wellington

New Zealand’s cultural hub has a creative scene that is shaped by its waterfront setting and seismic conditions, which drive creative architectural solutions and flexible planning.

Good design starts in bed, and everything we use should serve for a better life

“You were conceived in a bed that was designed – and probably born in one too,” Marva Griffin cheekily reminded me when I met the founder of SaloneSatellite, one of the world’s most significant showcases of emerging design talent, over lunch in Milan. “Design is really the oldest industry in the world because everything has been designed. I always say that [the purpose of] good design is simple: it’s for a better life. That is all.”

Her saucy reminder of my start to life has been a helpful jumping-off point for my own assessments of the quality of design. It’s easy to be distracted by beautiful materials and flashy forms without truly interrogating whether a design does more than simply look good. Examining things through Griffin’s lens, I have been inspired to seek out products and design approaches that might, indeed, encourage a better life.

Projects that have jumped out at me in recent months include a sleek, new camera by Japanese brand Sigma, aimed at making it easier to document the world around us. Fellow Japanese retailer Muji created an inspiring pop-up home using upcycled furniture and homeware that highlight potential ways to reduce environmental impacts, without the “hippy” look so often associated with repurposed furniture. UK-born Lulu Harrison has created beautiful glasses from waste products, cleaning up the local ecosystem and making smart pieces in the process. Meanwhile, Milan-based designer Keiji Takeuchi has curated a collection of walking sticks that, rather than taking the usual clinical or medical forms, are crafted from high-quality materials and feature distinct details that give dignity to the user – from hand grips made from woven rope to in-built baskets for carrying objects.

These works show that products that encourage a good life are rooted in serving users and making them more comfortable. It’s a vision that sums up what designers, from developers to architects, should be attempting to achieve in their work – and what everyday punters should be looking for. The best works of design – whether a sofa, a home or even the bed in which you were conceived – are uncompromising in their quality while putting service at their core.

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