ACCORDING to the country’s National Bureau of Statistics, China’s urban population density almost tripled between 2005 and 2014. This rush to the cities has been made possible in part by the quick construction of concrete, uniform, faceless high-rise apartments. Architects wishing to make their mark have turned to designing luxury developments or new cultural and commercial centres. These dynamic creations break up the monotonous urban landscape, lending an identity to places which were villages only years before.

Extraordinary examples of architectural exuberance abound. The National Performing Arts Centre near Tiananmen Square in Beijing, Paul Andreu’s titanium ovoid (it is nicknamed the “Big Egg”), is arguably the most significant. Built on a historic—and sensitive—site near the symbolic heart of the modern Chinese state, it sanctioned the use of expressive modern architecture in the country. Stunning examples followed, notably the floral forms of Guangzhou Opera House, designed by Zaha Hadid Architects, and the brutal simplicity of the Shenzhen Stock Exchange.

Of course, there are also less compelling examples. Guotai Arts Centre in Chongqing resembles—apparently deliberately—a bundle of chopsticks falling out of a box. In Zhengzhou, the Henan Arts Centre is a series of squashed spheres which Carlo Ott, its Uruguayan architect, insists is a representation of Chinese musical instruments, including a nose flute.

But these buildings may be the last of their kind. In February 2016, China’s State Council announced that “weird architecture that is not economical, functional, aesthetically pleasing or environmentally friendly will be forbidden.” Many architects and members of the public understood the frustration and bewilderment, even if they questioned the subjective nature of the official instruction.

Planning permission for Chaoyang Park Plaza in Beijing (pictured, above) had been approved at the time of the announcement; the project was reassessed by officials before construction was allowed to continue. It, too, is weird, but also achieves a certain elegance. Two slender towers in dark glass, each around 120 metres high, stand out against the neighbouring white tower blocks like lines of ink on a page. They are immediately redolent of the mountains in Chinese landscape painting known as shan shui. Dark glass ripples between ribs of steel; the smaller structures on the site resemble hills in the peaks’ shade.

Ma Yansong, the founder of MAD architects, who designed the building, managed to meet the vague decrees of the authorities while keeping the sculptural sensibility of the mountain-towers. He acknowledges that the direction in which Chinese architecture was moving needed to be questioned. “Chinese people need to be aware of their present and ask: ‘What’s our culture? What can we bring to the world?’ I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that,” he says. “But ‘no weird architecture’ though? That’s… not clear.”

Far from being an aesthetic whim, it is clear that Xi Jinping seeks to change the direction of urban development in China. He has begun a process of suburbanising Beijing, particularly by announcing in 2015 that the municipal government of Beijing would be moved to the south-eastern district of Tongzhou. The creation of Xiong’an, a new city 100km south-west of Beijing, is designed to spur economic growth outside the capital. More controversial is a series of clearances of temporary structures in the capital. Ostensibly intended to make the streets clearer, it also encourages any temporary internal migrants to return to their home cities. It may be that it is not just “weird architecture” that Mr Xi wants to be curtailed, but the further expansion of the capital.

Mr Ma believes that 2017 will mark a fissure in China’s architectural history. Indeed, if one looks at the work of foreign architects still working in the country, it is clear that a change has occurred. Though still large in scale compared with Western standards, the work is more modest. Zaha Hadid Architects’ next project in Guangzhou sits over 100,000 square metres but is divided into two eight-storey structures and is nestled among parkland. Steven Holl’s suburban health centre in Shanghai (pictured) is some way off the architectural gymnastics of his Linked Hybrid project—a series of towers linked by bridges—completed in 2009.

Architects working in China will have to adapt, not only to their new brief but to the urbanism of smaller-scale cities, even suburbs. The designs for the new town centre of Tongzhou, for example, are reminiscent of Silicon Valley, with low-rise, open-plan offices sitting off roads that meander through a verdant landscape. Whoever wants to design the next big projects in China will have to adjust to taking on business parks and suburban housing rather than cities’ trophy buildings.