For some time now, it has become common for us to ask where what we consume comes from. We check labels, look for local producers, and investigate supply chains in an attempt to understand the impact of our habits—on our own health and on the planet.
In architecture, however, this question still remains relatively marginal. We often know who designed a building, we are familiar with its finishes, the manufacturer of its window frames, the brand of its cladding systems, and even its energy performance—but we almost never ask where the tons of material that made its existence possible came from.
Because before becoming concrete, brick, steel, or processed timber, all these materials share a common origin: they were extracted from the Earth. Construction therefore always begins underground, long before the building site, and perhaps no material reveals this condition more directly than stone. Present in the foundations of architecture since its origins, it accompanies the history of human construction from the earliest civilizations to the aggregates that make up contemporary concrete. This apparent naturalness tends to hide the complexity of its extraction.
Quarries as Temporary Sites, Permanent Scars
The extractive industry occupies a central position in the global economy. Present in 81 countries and responsible for around a quarter of global GDP, it employs approximately 3.7 million workers. In Latin America, this relationship takes on a particular dimension. Brazil, Chile, Peru, and Mexico are among the main producers of mineral resources, and the expansion of the construction industry has turned mining into one of the silent foundations of regional economic growth.
This economic importance is directly linked to the fact that much of the built environment depends on materials extracted from the ground. Granite, marble, sand, and limestone form the physical base of contemporary cities. Granite, often used for countertops, flooring, and facades, is the most visible face of a much broader mineral extraction chain. Concrete itself—the material that defined architectural modernity—depends on clinker produced from limestone subjected to extreme temperatures, a process responsible for around 7% of global carbon emissions.
But the cost of this material goes far beyond carbon. Without proper management plans and environmental mitigation strategies, actions such as vegetation removal, blasting, and the opening of large pits can permanently alter hydrological systems, fragment habitats, and destroy ecosystems that have developed over thousands of years. At the same time, the expansion of extraction areas reorganizes local economies, puts pressure on water resources, and in many cases displaces entire communities. In different parts of the world, opaque supply chains have also been associated with territorial conflicts, poor working conditions, and human rights violations, showing that the impacts of extraction go far beyond environmental boundaries.
Brazilian cases make these conflicts tangible. In Minas Gerais, reports of granite quarrying in Permanent Preservation Areas within the Sete Salões State Park expose the risks of extraction in sensitive ecosystems and the lack of enforcement. In the south of the country, former quarries within what is now the Itapuã State Park have left marks that still require restoration decades later—in other words, once extraction is no longer economically viable, what remains are voids, rock walls, and flooded craters.
A condition that echoes what anthropologist Tim Ingold describes as a rupture in the correspondence between humans and their environment. Instead of understanding the Earth as a living system with which we coexist in reciprocity, extractive logic reduces it to a stock of resources available for exploitation. Territory ceases to be understood as an ecosystem and becomes raw material.
In the Trail of Matter
If stone extraction is capable of altering ecosystems and landscapes, then material specification is no longer a purely aesthetic or technical decision. Specifying natural stone means, to some extent, becoming co-responsible for the chains of extraction, processing, and transportation that made its presence possible. A granite countertop may carry very different histories: from operations committed to environmental recovery and responsible practices to contexts marked by environmental degradation and labor conditions analogous to slavery.
This ethical dimension makes it even more urgent to trace the origin of materials. In Reciprocal Landscapes: Stories of Material Movements, Jane Hutton proposes a shift in perspective by arguing that materials are not abstract entities, but displaced landscapes. A slab of granite is, ultimately, a missing mountain; a marble plate represents a transformed territory, embodied energy, and embedded labor. In other words, what we touch is only the visible part of a much larger geography.
However, this task of tracing materials is far from simple. Unlike the food, pharmaceutical, and automotive sectors, where traceability is widely established, the construction industry remains marked by fragmented and opaque supply chains. A single stone may pass through multiple agents, processes, and intermediaries before reaching the construction site, making its extraction and processing conditions virtually invisible.
A study conducted by Asselya Katenbayeva at Loughborough University identified this fragmentation as one of the main barriers to implementing traceability systems in construction. The lack of regulation and the low level of integration among suppliers make it difficult to share information and build transparent supply chains. This issue is particularly relevant in cases such as sandstone extraction in Rajasthan, India, where international organizations have been working to combat child labor and poor production conditions. The lack of transparency therefore prevents not only the measurement of environmental damage, but also the verification of fundamental issues related to human rights and socio-environmental responsibility.
Life After Extraction: A New Ethics for Materials
In response to the complexity of this scenario, new tools are being developed to make materials less “anonymous.” So-called material passports, for example, propose that buildings be accompanied by a set of information on composition, origin, environmental impact, potential for disassembly, and future reuse possibilities. More than a technical inventory, these systems turn buildings into material banks and aim to preserve the memory of matter over time.
This search for greater transparency is also reflected in initiatives focused on the natural stone industry. Developed through the ANSI standardization process, the Natural Stone Sustainability Standard proposes a comprehensive approach to assessing environmental, ecological, and extraction-related aspects of stone production. The system considers criteria such as energy and water consumption, waste management, social responsibility, site rehabilitation, and even planning for the future use of quarries after operations cease. More than a label, the standard seeks to establish parameters capable of quantifying practices that in many cases were already being adopted by certain quarries, while also encouraging new processes of innovation and continuous improvement across the supply chain.
However, understanding impacts does not necessarily mean transforming them. According to international projections, global demand for natural stone is expected to nearly double by 2050, indicating that improvements in traceability and certification alone will be insufficient. As Kate Raworth argues in Doughnut Economics, the contemporary challenge is to move away from linear models of extraction, consumption, and waste toward circular systems. In architecture, this implies designing buildings from the outset with their disassembly, reuse, and reintegration into new production cycles in mind.
In this context, the discussion is not limited to materials themselves, but also extends to the landscapes from which they are removed. If extraction remains an inevitable part of the production of the built environment, it becomes equally important to reflect on the fate of territories transformed by it. Although irreversible, the degradation caused by mining can be partially reconfigured through environmental restoration processes capable of transforming former extraction sites into parks, nature reserves, or public spaces.
Among the most emblematic examples is the Braga Municipal Stadium, in Portugal, designed by Eduardo Souto de Moura, built within a former granite quarry. Rather than building on the landscape, the architect works with the landscape that remains. Carved into the rock, the stadium transforms the void created by extraction into a constitutive part of the architecture, establishing a relationship that is simultaneously geological and spatial. A similar strategy was used in the design of Quarry Nos. 09 and 10 in China, which today serve as performance and gathering spaces.
Jane Hutton writes that materials do not disappear when incorporated into buildings—they only change place. Perhaps this is the central issue raised by the contemporary environmental crisis. Architecture has always been concerned with what it builds, but rarely with what it removes. Before becoming a wall, a column, or a countertop, every element was a landscape. And in a world of finite resources, understanding the origin of what we touch may be the first step toward rebuilding our relationship with matter.
This article is sponsored by VELUX, a global leader in daylight and ventilation solutions, and official partner of both the UIA 2026 World Congress of Architects and Barcelona 2026 World Capital of Architecture.As part of ArchDaily's coverage of the UIA 2026 World Congress of Architects, this series explores topics related to the Congress's curatorial theme, 'Becoming. Architectures for a Planet in Transition.'
At the Congress, VELUX will introduce Re:Living, an approach initiative exploring how existing buildings can be transformed from degenerative structures into regenerative catalysts for human and planetary health, positioning renovation as a critical pathway for addressing the interconnected climate, housing, health, and affordability challenges facing Europe.
