Imagine buildings that grow, breathe, and heal themselves—no concrete required. This isn’t science fiction; it’s the future scientists are crafting right now. But here’s where it gets controversial: what if the key to sustainable architecture lies not in lifeless materials, but in living organisms? Meet Picoplanktonics, a groundbreaking installation at the 2025 Venice Architecture Biennale, where the walls are alive—literally. For nine months, caretakers will nurture 3D-printed structures embedded with cyanobacteria, organisms that demand precise light, humidity, and temperature to thrive. If they perish, the entire installation fails. It’s a bold experiment in regenerative architecture, but it raises questions: Can we truly coexist with our buildings? And at what cost?
Several kilometers away, in a lab where time moves at a glacial pace, researchers have been observing similar cyanobacteria encased in hydrogel for over 400 days. A study published in Nature Communications reveals these tiny organisms aren’t just surviving—they’re actively capturing carbon dioxide and transforming their environment by precipitating calcium carbonate, potentially strengthening the material over time. And this is the part most people miss: these living materials aren’t just passive; they’re dual-purpose carbon sinks, sequestering CO₂ through both biomass accumulation and microbially induced carbonate precipitation.
Here’s how it works: The cyanobacteria, specifically Synechococcus sp. strain PCC 7002, fix atmospheric CO₂ into organic compounds through photosynthesis while simultaneously creating alkaline conditions that cause calcium and magnesium ions to form insoluble carbonates. Over 30 days, these living materials captured 2.2 ± 0.9 milligrams of CO₂ per gram of hydrogel. Extend that to 400 days, and the cumulative sequestration jumps to 26 ± 7 milligrams per gram. The hydrogel itself, crafted from Pluronic F-127 modified with urethane methacrylate groups, is a marvel of bioengineering—3D-printable, structurally stable, and light-transmissive, though this drops from 76% to 30% once the bacteria are encapsulated.
But here’s the catch: While these materials are passive and produce no toxic byproducts, their carbon capture rate is slower than energy-intensive industrial methods. Scaling them to combat climate change would require volumes of material far beyond current capabilities. Yet, their potential for self-strengthening construction and toxin-free production makes them a tantalizing alternative to traditional methods. For instance, ureolytic microbially induced carbonate precipitation, though faster, produces ammonia and requires constant urea supply—a trade-off these photosynthetic systems avoid.
The Picoplanktonics installation, developed by the Living Room Collective and showcased by the Canada Council for the Arts, is the largest architectural structure of its kind. It’s not just a display; it’s a test of endurance. Can living materials survive—and thrive—over months, not just days? Andrea Shin Ling, the biodesigner leading the project, frames it as a shift from extractive production models to designs rooted in natural systems. But the experiment leaves unanswered questions: How will these materials perform over decades? Can periodic harvesting or redesign extend their carbon-sequestering lifespan? And what does this mean for the future of architecture?
Here’s where you come in: Do living buildings represent the future of sustainable design, or are they a niche experiment with limited scalability? Could you see yourself living in a structure that requires as much care as a garden? Share your thoughts—let’s spark a conversation about where architecture and biology intersect.
