Samuel Medina

Personifications of pure, uncut genius square up against philistinism and its legion of jowly middlemen.

With each new draft—one more improvident than the last—Boris Iofan allowed the Palace of the Soviets to float higher into an illusory realm.

Upmarket is the extent of his desire.

Funny ideas hitch a ride on rivulets of sweat.

Rafael Herrin-Ferri’s guidebook to Queens’ polymorphous saltboxes, shotguns, and McMansions is a romp through New York’s “global village.”

Care for a sip?

The air in which the manifold facsimiles and translations were suspended was stale.

He was an architect who designed for infinity, if not for the future.

Without a Party, what is left other than trolling Dezeen?

Hard-nosed rationalism proves a poor prophylactic against sinuous human desire.