citydrafts

[citydrafts]

We should write more about buildings, not just design them.

Architecture is not just physical, it’s deeply human, carrying stories and struggles and hope. It captures the legacy of civilizations, of grief and power, of faith and love.

When we think about architecture, the obvious thing we notice is that we experience it through our senses, especially sight. We touch, feel, and smell the spaces or structures around us, but rarely do we experience them through words. And when I say "words", I don't just mean technical reports or specifications. I mean narratives that unpack why a space matters, who it was built for, and the stories and emotions it carries.

Image Source: Unplash

Prehistorically, architecture preserves a legacy. Think about the pyramids. They are not just massive structures known for their precise geometry, but they endure the test of time and carry a meaning carved in stone, with hieroglyphs preserved as testaments to legacy, authority, beliefs, and power. Architecture also carries memory. For instance, the story of the Taj Mahal is quite romantic because this structure was built in memory of Emperor Shah Jahan's wife. It is not just a monument or a majestic structure but a testament to grief, love, and devotion.

Image source: Unplash

In the same way, architecture can embody faith and spiritual longing.  I remember a tragic and yet profound story of Antoni Gaudí and his unfinished masterpiece, Sagrada Familia. Not everyone knows that behind its towering spires lies a lifetime of devotion—Gaudí dedicated the last years of his life solely to Sagrada Familia, and he poured his soul into its design. Tragically, he died and was not able to finish it when he was struck by a tram, and even the hospital mistook him for a homeless man because of his worn clothes and appearance. Back then, his masterpiece was overlooked, only gaining recognition years after his death. But today, the Sagrada Familia stands as a spiritual legacy, carried through drawings, memory, and the labor of generations who believe in what he began.

Image Source: Unplash

Architecture can also be a vessel of collective mourning. I used to think that grand monuments were only built to honor—decorative stones meant to be remembered. But I’ve come to realize that they also carry years of pain. Take the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin, for instance. It is composed of thousands of gray concrete slabs of varying heights. It doesn’t instruct you on how to feel, but as you walk through its disorienting paths, you begin to sense the weight of absence, the gloominess, and the harrowing past of what happened here.

Image Souce: Unplash

Here, architecture becomes a language of silence, where grief is built, not spoken. Despite this loss and grief, architecture also becomes a reflection of hope. As people learn to gather in this place, they learn to grieve, heal, connect, and begin again.

With all of these stories, buildings are not just forms—they are written narratives meant to be heard. We should write more about them, not just design them. They carry stories, and writing helps us remember that buildings are not only made of concrete, wood, and steel, but also of longing, memory, grief, belief, and hope. Writing is also a way to honor the lives that have passed and to reflect on how architecture continues to shape the present and the future.

 I want to be someone who remembers. And to remember well, we must write.

[citydrafts]

Outdoor Spaces Are Not Leftover Spaces: Architect’s Role in Outdoor Spaces

Designing with intentions serves purpose...

In many projects, the built structures always come first, and the outdoors are treated as leftover spaces. It is often viewed as an element between buildings, sometimes serving as a buffer zone and sometimes as excess space where clients decide to add plants or pave it over, but some are unsure about what to do with it. But these spaces, however overlooked, hold untapped potential. They are not simply in-between zones; they are lived-in, transitional moments, an intermediary spaces that shape how people move, pause, and connect.

Image source: Unplash

Architects play a unique role in shaping these environments, and it is not enough that architects design buildings to impress; they must also create spaces that invite life. Beyond aesthetics and designing buildings and various types of spaces, they consider functionality, climate, orientation, and even the psychology of design, such as the use of colors, wind direction, environmental conditions, noise, terrain, understanding of users, the materials, and the scale, balancing form with function to create spaces that are not only shaded and safe but also meaningful.

Good outdoor design begins with an understanding of the site, and Architects need to analyze site conditions to come up with better design solutions, making sure there is no wasted space. They recognize that even the in-between areas or outdoor spaces serve a purpose, whether it is for resting, gardening, gathering, or simply a space where people can breathe. It's also respecting the site's natural character that follows the lifestyle of those who will use it, and not just about filling gaps, but also designing with care and intention.

For architects, the goal is to make sure that every space has a clear sense of purpose, and outdoor spaces should not compromise beauty. As outdoor spaces become more essential in urban and home life, architects are not just focused on drawing but are also able to shape how people will interact in the environment that the design they create. Architects' role interprets the potential of space, and every square meter matters to them.

[citydrafts]

Stories from the Sidewalk: How Everyday Spaces Shape Us

Before I saw buildings, I noticed streets...

I didn't grow up in an urban setting. So when I moved to Manila for college and began living in the city, everything felt new, unfamiliar, and overwhelming. Streetlights lined the roads like maps to the cars destination. The loud, impatient honking of jeepneys filled the air, and the taxi stand waited by the curb, its line never empty. The jungle of concretes, towering buildings, tangled spaghetti wires, crowded sidewalks that sometimes a motorcyle lane,pothole, or simply a missing piece of the city puzzle quickly became my everyday backdrop.

Living in the hustle and bustle of Manila, I began to see that streets are more than just passageways for cars or pedestrians. In the midst of the city's chaos and active streets, I found joy in slow, aimless-walks-where sidewalks became a breathing spaces and a path where I don't usually overthink and just follow the line headed to my dorm. They weren't just physical paths, but quiet withnesses to many lives unfolding parallel.

I saw a vendor selling fishballs and pancakes in the morning and still there as night fell, unmoved by time. I passed by elderly men crouched over a chessboard on the curb, a mother cradling her child while selling sampaguita, and a man quietly polishing shoes, waiting fos someone to notice. These streets weren’t just spaces to walk through—they were stories I never heard but could feel.

The urban landscape is a reality many of us used to grow — and eventually overlooked. But it’s not just the spaces that are neglected , it is also the different people who are using it everyday. People with disabilities struggles to move through sidewalks that were never designed with them in mind. Narrow paths, lack of curbs, ramps becomes optional, lack of accesible sidewalks, tactile grounds for blind people, quiet reminders of how exlusion is built into the city.

Not just that, rain pours and there’s no shelter; the sun blazes and there’s no shade. Still, people learn to adapt, vendors become resourceful using umbrellas to have shades, locals drag out stools to rest their tired legs, people always adjust because they had to. These are not conveniences by design, but signs of a community surviving what the city failed to provide.

Sidewalks and pedestrians seem like an afterthought in this city. The streets weren’t built for walkers like me or our friends on wheels, but we walk them anyway because we have to; we need to survive the day, to go to work, to live and earn, or because we still believe in the simple joy of walking. The sidewalks become a mirror of a broken system, and yet somehow they teach you to appreciate life more. The city I witnessed is full of different stories, both seen and unseen, some tender and some uncomfortable. People get used to it; they learn to survive and get by. There was a strange mix of harsh truths and fleeting comforts—a kind of nostalgia stitched into even the most overlooked spaces.

To walk along Manila’s sidewalks is to witness more than the urban streets and the vibrant movement of city lights; it's to see resilience stitched into the cracks. I no longer walk just to get somewhere—I want to understand. I learn to pause and listen. This city holds everything: the noise, struggle, rest, survival, and somehow even hope. Hope that not all people will settle for this broken system and not just get by and accept things the way they are but have a realization that we must question and reshape it one day.

I noticed streets, because I have to and I choose to.