According to Ma Yansong, the legacy we will leave behind is an architecture of repair

I recently attended a symposium in Europe where one view held that, given current demographic trends, Europe may no longer need to build any new housing. Some even argued that certain buildings should be demolished, and that the future lies simply in continuing to use and adapt existing buildings.

 It sounds reasonable enough, but the more I think about it, the more something feels off – especially when we consider great historic buildings, extraordinary works created by previous generations and bequeathed to our time. If all we do is reuse what already exists, then what exactly is our generation’s act of creation? What unique gift will we leave to those who come after us? Could it be that our generation’s creativity lies precisely in how we navigate the coexistence of the old and the new?

There is an Eastern idea that matter is transient, but spirit endures. Japan’s Ise Grand Shrine has stood for more than 1,300 years, entirely constructed in wood. It follows a unique tradition that has continued for over a millennium, known as Shikinen Sengū – the complete reconstruction of the shrine every twenty years. During each reconstruction, all the timber is replaced, while the architectural form, scale and spatial configuration are faithfully reproduced on a strict one-to-one basis. Rather than clinging to the decaying material substance, what is truly preserved is the shrine’s spatial order and spiritual essence.

I find this perspective particularly compelling. Materials are organic; they decay and undergo cycles of renewal. So-called eternity is always relative. What truly transcends time is never static material, but the human creation and experience of space, and an unbroken spiritual lineage. There is a classic philosophical question: most of the cells in the human body undergo complete renewal every seven years. After all the cells have been replaced, is that person still the same person? I believe the answer is yes, because what defines a person is never merely their materiality. The same is true of architecture.

Especially in the aftermath of disaster and war, we come to realise that what truly needs mending is not just buildings, but memory and hope. I believe that how we regard the old, the obsolete and the historical is fundamentally a question of values, but also one of dynamic relationships. One might even say that the past itself is never the real point; what matters is our relationship with the past. This is exactly the difference between archaeology and anthropology: archaeology values the original material substance, those works of art and architecture, carefully preserved and restored like exhibits in a museum, untouchable, yet in a sense, “dead”. From an anthropological perspective, however, people are placed at the centre. The criterion for judging architecture is whether it serves people and can generate new meanings. Just like language, which cannot exist apart from human life, architecture only has vitality when it is used by people.

So when we speak of “people”, are we talking about people of the past, the present or the future? Of course, we are talking about people of the present – the relationship of contemporary human beings with the world, with history and with the future. It is within this relationship that we converse and express ourselves; this is what creation is.

How do people today view old buildings? For this issue, we have curated a fascinating feature: the Silo Series. We deliberately sought out adaptive-reuse projects involving large-scale storage structures such as grain silos, oil depots and gasometers from the industrial era. These structures have been transformed into art museums, cultural centres, residences and offices, and given entirely new functions. The original industrial-era architectural aesthetics are not the central value; rather, they provide the foundation and conditions for a new contemporary aesthetic. These buildings no longer serve storage purposes; instead, they are creatively transformed into new spaces for contemporary use.

This is what we define as “mending”: it is not merely resistance to the passage of time, but part of the unfolding of time itself. It has nothing to do with nostalgia; rather, it is a dynamic relationship – between our ever-changing selves and the existing world. When I was young, I was particularly anxious. Back then, I often found myself thinking that even the limited knowledge right in front of me took so long to learn, while human knowledge would only keep growing. If I spent my whole life learning the past, I would probably never be able to learn it all. That question troubled me for a long time. 

Now, thanks to AI, we have come to understand that learning to ask the questions we truly care about is far more important than mastering existing knowledge. Our choices are our creations. The new relationships we build with the world are the way our generation creates.