A blackboard under a wooden canopy. Rows of desks nestled between thick greenery. Children raising their hands in an open-air classroom somewhere in the Netherlands in the 1950s. This quietly powerful image, showing a teacher instructing children outside, reminds us that learning was never meant to be confined by four walls. It was—at its best—meant to be lived, breathed, and shared. In a time when architecture and pedagogy are seeking to repair the social and psychological fractures left by a pandemic, it’s worth revisiting the legacy of outdoor learning and the radical creativity that shaped educational spaces in mid-century Europe and America. More than a nostalgic curiosity, these open-air schools offer a blueprint for how we might reimagine education today—not just through curriculum, but through space itself.
The School is the City
The idea that the school is the city is not new, but it is deeply instructive. Aldo van Eyck’s Amsterdam Orphanage (1955–1960) brought this philosophy to life by turning an institutional building into a microcosm of urban experience. With small plazas, connected courtyards, and a careful play of scale, Van Eyck designed for children as full citizens—offering a range of spatial experiences that reflected the complexity of civic life. Van Eyck didn’t just create a place for learning. He created a place for becoming. A place where a child could find a corner to hide, a stair to climb, a space to gather, a friend to meet. His Orphanage blurred the distinctions between inside and outside, learning and playing, self and community. If we treat schools as small cities, we begin to imagine education as something relational and open-ended—not a path to conformity but a ground for discovery.
The Dutch Open-Air Classrooms
In the post-war Netherlands, open-air classrooms were not only a response to tuberculosis and public health concerns—they were a vision for life. Schools like the Openluchtschool in Amsterdam, designed by Johannes Duiker in 1930, were grounded in the idea that fresh air and sunlight were integral to a child’s physical and mental health. These were spaces of exposure—not only to light and air but to the unpredictable richness of the world. In these settings, students weren’t merely passive recipients of knowledge. Learning happened in rhythm with nature: the sound of birdsong during a lesson, the breeze lifting a child’s paper, the warmth of sunlight marking the passage of the day. This architecture of openness rejected confinement and control in favor of flexibility and sensory richness—qualities sorely missing in many of today’s educational environments.
Richard Neutra’s Biorealism: The School as a Living System
Across the ocean, modernist architect Richard Neutra was developing his own philosophy of school design in the United States. Deeply influenced by biology and psychology, Neutra’s idea of biorealism insisted that architecture should respond to the biological realities of its users. His schools, like the Corona Avenue Elementary School (1935) in California, dissolved the boundaries between inside and outside. Classrooms opened directly onto gardens. Walls were glass. Trees became part of the structure. For Neutra, the school was not a building—it was a living system. A child’s ability to learn was tied to their physical comfort, sensory experience, and connection to the natural world. He wrote passionately about the “psychic nourishment” that architecture could provide. We now know from neuroscience and developmental psychology that Neutra’s instincts were right. Sensory engagement, movement, and natural light are critical to learning—especially for young children. Yet many of our contemporary schools remain static, over-lit, and disconnected from their environments. Neutra’s work is a compelling reminder that spatial design is never neutral. It either supports or constrains growth.
Hertzberger and the Democratic Classroom
Dutch architect Herman Hertzberger further expanded the notion of school as public space. In projects like the Montessori School in Delft (1960–66), he experimented with thresholds—spaces that were neither inside nor outside, neither hallway nor room. These “in-between” spaces were where social life flourished. A niche under the stairs became a reading spot. A widened corridor transformed into a gathering place. As Hertzberger stated, “The origin of architecture is the public.” He rejected the idea of buildings as static objects. Instead, he designed schools as frameworks for interaction—modular, flexible, responsive. Importantly, he also emphasized that spaces should not be over-designed. They should leave room for interpretation, adaptation, and ownership by the users—children included. This philosophy, often associated with architectural structuralism, treats learning environments as small cities: layered, collective, and alive with possibility. In a recent interview, Hertzberger noted that the school, more than the house, represents his architectural ideal—not because it serves elite clients, but because it serves the many. “A school building is a sort of urbanism.”
Structure as Pedagogy: Hunstanton School
Completed in 1954, the Hunstanton Secondary Modern School by Alison and Peter Smithson marked a bold shift in postwar educational architecture. Designed as a direct and honest response to function, its exposed steel frame, brick infill, and rigorous plan made it one of the earliest examples of New Brutalism. The Smithsons viewed the school as a “work of architecture” shaped by the realities of education, not precedent. At its core was the assembly hall, seamlessly flowing into the dining and entrance areas—an intentional spatial gesture to integrate circulation and community. While austere, the architecture embraced clarity and legibility, allowing students to intuitively understand and navigate the building. Its spatial economy and transparency reflected an ethical stance: education deserved architecture that was precise, democratic, and unadorned. Hunstanton remains an influential case of how form, material, and spatial coherence can reinforce institutional purpose without sacrificing architectural ambition.
Creativity as Infrastructure
What unites these precedents—open-air classrooms, Neutra’s biorealism, Hertzberger’s democratic spatiality, and the Smithsons’ structural clarity—is their shared belief that architecture is formative. Space teaches. Space shapes behavior. Space carries values. So why do so many of today’s schools still replicate industrial-era models of control and separation? Why is creativity the first thing sacrificed in standardized educational design? If we are to foster curiosity, empathy, and collaborative problem-solving in young people, we must embody these principles in the spaces where they spend their most formative years. This is not a call for expensive or high-tech solutions. Rather, it is an argument for spatial generosity—for outdoor spaces that welcome the weather, for classrooms with porous boundaries, for gardens that double as science labs, for corridors that encourage conversation. It is also a call to revalue play, exploration, and joy as essential components of learning. The classroom should not be a factory. It should be a playground for the mind and body.
Fuji Kindergarten: A Circular Playground of Joy
A brilliant example of this ethos is the Fuji Kindergarten. In Tokyo’s Tachikawa suburb, Tezuka Architects designed a one-story, oval-shaped building accommodating over 600 children aged two to six. The structure features an open-air rooftop that serves as a continuous playground, allowing children to run laps, climb trees, and engage with nature seamlessly. Large sliding glass doors blur the boundaries between indoor and outdoor spaces, fostering an environment where learning and play coexist harmoniously. The design emphasizes inclusivity and freedom. Notably, the kindergarten’s open environment benefits children with autism by providing ambient background noise, which helps alleviate symptoms associated with sensory sensitivity. The architects’ approach challenges conventional educational spaces, promoting a setting where children are treated as integral parts of the natural world. In recognition of its innovative design and positive social impact, the Fuji Kindergarten was awarded the 2017 Moriyama RAIC International Prize. The jury praised the project as “a giant playhouse filled with joy and energy,” highlighting its role in redefining educational architecture to enhance children’s well-being and learning experiences.
Learning from Gando: Designing with Dignity
One of the most inspiring examples of education and architecture coming together with limited means is the Gando Primary School (2001) in Burkina Faso, designed by Francis Kéré. A native of Gando, Kéré studied architecture in Germany and returned to his home village to build a school that addressed the harsh climate, lack of resources, and social disconnection many students faced. The design combines traditional clay construction with passive cooling strategies, high ceilings, and perforated walls that allow for natural ventilation and filtered light. The structure is both climate-responsive and deeply participatory—built with the help of the local community. More than a building, the Gando school is a process: a demonstration of how architecture can empower, teach, and nourish. It proves that dignified, beautiful learning environments are not a luxury. They are a necessity—and a right.
Teaching Outside: A Personal Reflection
I was born in a small village in northern Spain, in a rural area with unpaved roads, ostracized during the dictatorship. I attended a one-room schoolhouse for children aged five to ten, bringing together kids from neighboring villages. We walked to class. The most memorable moments didn’t happen at a desk, but outside—on a walk, under a tree. Something shifts. Children listen differently. Ideas loosen. Teaching outside demands vulnerability, but it also fosters connection. It breaks down hierarchies. It encourages kids to observe, to feel, to reflect. Holding model-making classes in the sun, I already loved drawing and was invited to sketch what I heard rather than what I saw. These moments are not add-ons. They are the curriculum. Especially in times of social fragmentation and screen fatigue, bringing education into open spaces is not just a design strategy—it is an ethical one.
Designing for Learning and Belonging
As an architect, early in my career I collaborated with LahozLopez Architects in Spain on the design of several public schools. One project—the San Gil Abad Public School (2009) in Cuenca—was especially formative. We aimed to create spaces that supported learning while nurturing a child’s sense of freedom and belonging. Set in a small town in Castilla-La Mancha, the school was designed to feel both civic and intimate. Porches became social thresholds. A central corridor acted as a gathering space. The boundaries between indoors and outdoors were softened to reflect how children naturally move through space—freely, playfully, with imagination. We used modest materials, natural ventilation, and attention to light to craft a school that was joyful without being extravagant. These projects—detailed further on my site, habitable.studio—continue to shape how I think about learning environments today: not as static enclosures, but as living frameworks for growth and creativity.
The School and Suburbia: A Student Exploration
This ethos of designing adaptable, community-rooted schools is also reflected in the work I do with my students. One design studio project years ago reimagined the suburban school not as an isolated institution, but as an active ecosystem intertwined with the city and the land. Inspired by Rem Koolhaas’s growing interest in the rural, which culminated with his Countryside, The Future exhibition in 2020, I created a syllabus aimed at reinventing suburbia, centered on the dichotomy between urban and rural life. The idea was to explore how innovative school typologies could transform suburbia—questioning it, challenging it, and ultimately reinventing it. Building on that framework, my student Michael Lindemann developed a project that proposes a new campus model where city and countryside collide—creating an environment where social and ecological processes coexist.
Michael’s project rests on three core beliefs: (1) suburbia tends to be uniform and isolating, (2) children are inherently unique and curious, and (3) schools must be adaptable, regenerative, and community-centered. By integrating agriculture and communal programs, his design fosters a sense of global citizenship and environmental stewardship from an early age.
The proposed campus uses two building prototypes—the barn and the tower. Barns house communal spaces such as libraries, gymnasiums, and markets/cafeterias, accessible to the broader community outside school hours. Towers consolidate classrooms into vertical structures featuring cantilevered farms and rooftop greenhouses. This dual strategy preserves generous open space while maintaining strong access to light and nature. Farming areas connected directly to science labs and classrooms expand on Richard Neutra’s idea of biorealism, reconnecting education to the cycles of food, growth, and community life.
Toward a Habitable Pedagogy
To build a truly habitable city, we must begin with its youngest citizens. We must ask not only what kind of education we want, but what kind of world we are preparing children to inhabit. What if schoolyards were community parks? What if rooftops became outdoor classrooms? What if public libraries were designed like forests of ideas—sheltered but open? This is not utopia. We have the precedents. We have the knowledge. What we need is the will to design differently—to return, perhaps, to the simplicity of a blackboard in a garden, where a teacher in a straw hat once reminded a group of children that the world is big, and beautiful, and waiting.