The Satisfaction of Enough

Our front yard's Norway Maple: A familiar presence that marks the years, and a reminder that change comes quietly, season by season.

When I was a youngster, I imagined a life shaped by achievement. I dreamed of becoming a prominent architect, someone whose work might appear on the cover of Architectural Record. I pictured proudly showing that issue to my parents as proof that I had arrived. My goal was to run my own firm by the time I turned thirty, and earning my license at twenty-five felt like the first step toward that objective. Yet even then, my temperament was steering the path ahead. I learned early on that much like a typical design process, ambition rarely unfolds exactly as imagined. 

The fact is I’ve never been inclined toward risk. While I always kept pace with the profession’s changes, I preferred steady progress over bold reinvention. I respected visionary thinking but favored reliable, competent solutions (such as those grounded in proven strategies and technologies) rather than novelty for its own sake. That preference came into clearer focus in my first job out of school with Bing Thom Architects in Vancouver.

Bing was a willing risk-taker, a gifted designer, and brought out the best in others. He fostered collaboration, always valuing contributions from employees and consultants. He was also a skilled statesman and raconteur, traits that served him well in professional and civic settings. 

I took note of Bing’s polish and presence and aimed to carry myself with similar poise. But public fluency wasn’t part of my makeup. As a project manager, I led meetings, gave presentations, and represented the firm to clients when needed. I handled those responsibilities with professionalism but felt more comfortable guiding teams, solving problems, and supporting the work itself. 

I eventually became a principal and shareholder with Robertson/Sherwood/ Architects. Jim Robertson and Carl Sherwood believed I had earned that role, and I accepted it with appreciation. While the title reflected the trust we had built over time more than any real change in how I approached the work, I remained cautious, still deferring to Jim and Carl on major decisions.

Risk-aversion shaped more than my career. It influenced how I live. I’ve tended to favor the known over the speculative, and the modest over the grand. In a culture that celebrates boldness, this can seem like a limitation. I’ve come to see it instead as a guide, one that has helped me build a life that feels stable and well-suited to who I am. 

My wife and I live modestly. We recently completed a renovation of our home—not a showcase project, but a long-overdue effort to address deferred maintenance. The project reflects the values we’ve come to prioritize. 

Me sitting in the tail gunner position of a WWII-era North American Aviation B-25J Mitchell bomber, high over the Willamette Valley countryside.

I still keep my bucket list and have checked off a few long-standing items: in addition to our home renovation, I've visited the Chrysler Building, the Robie House, and several National Park lodges. Fallingwater and Fonthill are coming up next. I’ve taken a ride in a WWII-era B-25 bomber and started learning Japanese. These are things I long hoped to do and now have had the time to pursue. 

In a post I wrote not long ago titled A Golden Age, I reflected on the good fortune of having practiced architecture during a halcyon time. The profession today faces challenges more significant than ever before, including climate change, economic uncertainty, cultural fragmentation, and the advent of AI. Because of these challenges, I respect and wish the best for those entering the field now, while also being thankful that my own career concluded when it did. 

At each major fork in the road, I made deliberate choices, guided more by my disposition than by external pressures. I opted for stability over striking out on my own, incremental responsibility over dramatic reinvention, and roles that kept me close to the work rather than bets that veered my career in uncharted directions.

Life now moves at a slower pace. Without deadlines or client demands, I focus on what matters: time with my wife, caring for our home, and pursuing interests I had put off for far too long. I make a deliberate effort to keep political noise at a distance. Retirement brings moments of disconnection—a recognition that professional relevance shifts once practice ends—but I continue to follow the steady approach that guided my career, shaping this phase of my life with intention and contentment in its rhythm and the satisfaction of enough.

On Writing, Relevance, and Reflection

Piazzetta di San Marco, Venice (my photo)

In 2016, Architectural Record invited its readers to nominate the worst buildings constructed since the magazine’s founding in 1891. I submitted a list. My wife questioned the impulse. “Why tempt karma?” she asked. “If you can’t say something nice…” Her words echoed Thumper’s admonition from Bambi, and they’ve stayed with me. I understood her concern. To publicly disparage the work of fellow architects, even those I’ve never met, felt unkind and perhaps unnecessary. 

That hesitation wasn’t new. Even during my years in practice, I rarely offered direct critique of others’ designs. It wasn’t fear that held me back, but a belief in professional courtesy and a reluctance to engage in comparative judgment. Architecture is a collaborative endeavor, shaped by constraints often invisible to outsiders. To assess a building without knowing its full context can lead to misreading both intent and outcome. And doing so publicly can reduce complex work to seemingly a matter of one individual's opinion. 

I’ve written regularly about architecture and urban design, particularly as they relate to life in Eugene. My posts have occasionally been critical, though rarely polemical. I’ve tended to observe rather than opine, and to reflect rather than assert. That tendency has remained steady. 

These patterns—of restraint, of selective praise—raise questions I’ve never fully resolved. When is critique justified? When is silence ethical? What does commentary owe to its subject, and to its audience? 

When a project has struck me as particularly well-resolved, I’ve written about it with admiration. I praised Tacoma’s Museum of Glass, designed by Arthur Erickson, as a project that mediates its site with clarity and evokes regional history through form and material. That post is one of my more direct endorsements of a civic building that succeeds in both experience and context. If I’m cautious about critique, I’ve been less so with commendation. That imbalance reflects my inclination to recognize what works rather than dwelling on what doesn’t. 

When I have found a project or design ethos to be troubling, I’ve spoken plainly. I’ve written critically about Zaha Hadid’s legacy, questioning the civic relevance of her most celebrated work. I’ve challenged Bjarke Ingels’s Vancouver House and TELUS Sky as architectural spectacles disconnected from meaningful urban engagement. These were reflections grounded in concern for context and public life. 

My friend and mentor, Otto Poticha, has always taken a different tack. Otto’s critiques are famously blunt, and his voice has long been a fixture in Eugene’s architectural discourse. He speaks with conviction, and his assessments, however pointed, stem from a commitment to the city’s civic life. I admire his candor, even if I’ve never shared his style. My own writing leans toward the interpretive, not the declarative. 

Now that I’m no longer bound by firm politics or client diplomacy, I can speak more freely than before. But just because I can comment, does it mean I should? The impulse to weigh in is often there, but the sense of being situated—of having a defined part in the conversation—has faded. I’m seeing symptoms of relevance deprivation syndrome (RDS). I continue to write weekly, but I’m more aware now of the gap between having something to say and knowing whether it’s backed by any authority I still command. RDS shapes not only how I feel, but how I write, and what I choose to write about. It makes me question if what I say serves the work or merely signals that I’m still here. 

These questions about relevance aren’t separate from the ethics of commentary; they shape how I decide whether to speak at all. 

I care about the decisions designers make and the consequences those choices carry. I’m also aware now of my distance from the processes that shape those choices. I no longer participate in the conversations where decisions are made, and that absence changes how I think about speaking up. I write not to reclaim a role but to remain engaged and to test whether reflection still matters in the absence of direct involvement. 

At the end of the day, I want to stay connected to the questions that once shaped my work, to process the experiences I’ve accumulated over a long career, and to help maintain cognitive health as I age. These are quiet motivators for writing, but they feel essential. 

Commentary may affirm or diminish. It can clarify, or it can distort. I wrestle with whether discretion is a virtue or a deflection. Silence is not neutral. It can be a form of disengagement, or worse, complicity. If commentary is called for—if it might illuminate, challenge, or protect—then withholding it may be a disservice to the community. But not every silence is avoidance. In some cases, it reflects a calculation that speaking might oversimplify what’s complex or impose judgment where humility is more appropriate. 

Offering critique feels justified when a project’s civic impact is at odds with its architectural ambition—when the work risks undermining public trust, coherence, or care. Silence feels ethical when speaking would misrepresent the complexity of a project, or when my distance from its making limits my insight. As for what thoughtful commentary owes, it owes attentiveness, context, and proportion. By attentiveness, I mean a willingness to look closely; by context, an understanding of the conditions that shape design; by proportion, a sense of what commentary deserves in relation to the work itself. 

I will write as I always have: critically, when warranted, and with restraint where it feels more honest. That balance has remained consistent. What has changed is the context in which I write. I’m more peripheral now, less embedded in the rhythms of practice. Perhaps that remove makes the stakes of offering critique different. Still, the underlying awareness remains. And perhaps that awareness is a form of stewardship, a way of remaining present without presuming relevance, and of honoring the work, its makers, and the limits of my own vantage point.

The City with the Most Homelessness in the U.S.

Simon Whistler is a prolific YouTube host whose many channels explore Cold War infrastructure, legal history, global engineering, urban analysis, and more. His newest channel, Places, focuses on cities and civic conditions, often highlighting issues that receive little national attention. Whistler, with over 8 million subscribers across his channels, goes beyond reporting by reframing familiar realities. 

To my surprise, Whistler featured Eugene in the latest segment of Places. I watched the episode—titled The City with the Most Homelessness in the US—with simultaneous interest and discomfort. The numbers and their proportional framing stood out. Homelessness is a daily presence here: encampments near storefronts, tents along the riverbank, and erratic behavior tied to untreated mental illness or addiction. And yet, many of us still choose to look away. Whistler’s video makes avoidance harder. Our city holds a dubious distinction that’s difficult to reconcile with its scale. That fact deserves acknowledgment, not evasion. 

Whistler built his account around comparative data. Lane County’s 2025 Point-in-Time count recorded 3,509 homeless individuals. With Eugene’s population just under 180,000, the rate reaches roughly 190 per 10,000 residents, significantly higher than in New York, Los Angeles, or Washington D.C. Even if the count is evenly distributed across all of Lane County, Eugene’s rate still ranks as the highest in the country. The video presents the numbers plainly. No embellishment is required. 

Some suggest that Eugene’s high per capita homelessness rate reflects regional migration. The city’s mild climate, visible tolerance, and history of social services have made it a known destination for unhoused individuals seeking relative safety. That dynamic doesn’t explain everything, but it contributes to the scale. 

Viewer comments on the video, many from fellow residents, reflect a range of reactions. Some describe homelessness as a visible, daily reality that reaches into neighborhoods, parks, and commercial areas. Others express frustration with city leadership and the lack of coordination across agencies. Several cite the decline of CAHOOTS, Eugene’s mobile crisis response program, as a moment when trust in coordinated care began to erode. Concerns about safety, sanitation, and limited shelter capacity appear frequently. One comment stood out for its clarity: “We don’t need more awareness. We need a system that works.” That sentiment, repeated in various forms, reflects a shared view: the problem is widely seen, but the response hasn’t matched its scale. 

Homeless encampment, Washington-Jefferson Park (photo by Tyrone Madera, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

The crisis has reshaped how public space functions. Parks, sidewalks, and greenways now serve as shelter zones, often by necessity rather than design. This shift raises questions about access, stewardship, and the civic role of shared space. The built environment, however well-intentioned, cannot remain neutral in the face of such visible displacement. 

Oregon’s housing crisis stems from decades of systemic shifts. Mid-century redevelopment erased low-cost boarding houses, Nixon’s 1973 housing moratorium shifted support to volatile private rentals, and the 1980s timber collapse destabilized Eugene’s economy, narrowing options for low-income residents. 

Deinstitutionalization, starting in the 1960s and accelerating under Reagan, closed psychiatric hospitals, redirecting patients to underfunded community care. Clinics like White Bird struggled to fill the gap, leaving many with severe mental illness cycling through shelters and jails, a process Whistler calls "transinstitutionalization." Similarly, Oregon’s 2020 Measure 110 aimed to decriminalize drug possession and fund treatment, but delayed funding and a fentanyl surge led to record overdoses, prompting its 2024 reversal via House Bill 4002. Both cases highlight a pattern: good intentions undone by uneven execution. 

Whistler presents the timeline without commentary. The sequence speaks for itself. 

Eugene has taken steps to address the crisis and increase housing stock. The city revised zoning codes to allow missing middle housing, supported infill development, and encouraged accessory dwelling units. These changes help, but they don’t go far enough. Without scale, speed, and coordination, architectural solutions remain aspirational. 

The city could revisit models once discarded, such as Single-Room Occupancy developments. This housing typology is no panacea, but it could serve as part of a broader system. Eugene never maintained a large, formal stock of SROs, but boarding houses and small hotels once served similar functions. Redevelopment and zoning shifts eliminated many of these options by discouraging shared facilities and high-density lodging. Reintroducing this typology, updated for dignity and paired with support services, could help fill a gap that newer strategies have failed to address. 

Unlike Eugene’s fragmented efforts, cities like Houston (prioritization of permanent housing), Austin (investments in supportive housing), and Indianapolis (eviction prevention) show that sustained coordination yields progress. Eugene can learn from these examples, not by replicating them, but by recognizing that fragmented efforts rarely produce structural change. 

Local governance must play a leading role. The city council, county agencies, and nonprofit providers operate within overlapping jurisdictions and mandates. Coordination remains uneven. Eugene has invested in outreach, shelter expansion, and transitional housing, but critics argue that the system lacks strategic guidance. Technical plans exist, but implementation lags. The result is a civic landscape shaped less by strategy than by reaction. 

This isn’t a policy critique, nor is it an attempt to crack an enormously complex problem. I’m not offering solutions. I am pointing to a framing, one that Simon Whistler presents clearly, and that many residents have echoed. The numbers are real, and the conditions are all too visible. The video doesn’t solve the dilemma, but it makes it more difficult to ignore. 

I write as a resident and former architect, someone trained to observe systems, interpret civic conditions, and document what persists despite intervention. I see the reality of Eugene’s homelessness crisis every day. To my discredit, I’ve too often chosen to look away. Whistler’s video makes that harder. Eugene isn’t just another city with a homelessness problem. By the numbers, it ranks as the worst. That fact doesn’t call for outrage. It calls for acknowledgment, for a record of how a city of this scale became a statistical outlier despite efforts from all quarters. For those of us familiar with the business of development, it is a reminder that we work within enormously complex systems whose problems resist easy resolution. 

Eugene’s crisis demands more than awareness—it requires us to see the systems at work and ask what role we can play in reshaping them. For architects, residents, and policymakers alike, the first step is refusing to look away. 

Why the North Butterfly Lot Defies Precedent

Bird's eye context image from the City of Eugene's North Butterfly Lot RFQ.

Back in April, I wrote about the North Butterfly Lot as a rare opportunity—a civic blank slate nestled between Eugene’s Park Blocks and the Farmers Market Pavilion. At the time, the City had yet to issue its formal RFQ. I questioned whether the site’s potential would inspire architectural ambition or simply get absorbed into the churn of economic expediency. 

Now, with four proposals submitted, the moment calls for renewed scrutiny. 

The City’s Urban Renewal Agency outlined four primary goals for the site:

1. High-density + Mixed-use Development
2. Active Ground Floor
3. Connectivity
4. Sense of Place + High-quality Architecture

Rather than request design concepts, the RFQ asked each proposer to submit a concise vision statement describing how they intend to address these goals. That approach makes sense for a qualification phase. Still, it places the burden of evaluation on the strength of each team’s stated intent—not on architectural merit, but on the credibility of their promise. 

This makes the next phase essential. Once the City selects a development team, it must ensure that the design process translates vision into built form with integrity. That will require clear expectations and consistent oversight. 

Below are architectural strategies that could help fulfill the site’s potential: 

1. High-Density + Mixed-Use Development

• Use vertical massing to support density but consider how the building’s proportions contribute to the surrounding urban fabric—not just its height.
• Combine housing with active ground-floor uses, offering a mix of unit types to support demographic diversity.
• Choose whether to articulate or unify the building’s form based on its role and context. A monolithic expression may be appropriate if it conveys clarity, civic presence, or material integrity. Conversely, articulation may help modulate scale or respond to adjacent conditions. Neither strategy is inherently better; each must be evaluated on its own merits. 

Note: Designers often use upper-level setbacks to mitigate shadow impacts or reduce perceived bulk. In this case, the building’s orientation and context suggest minimal shadowing relative to the adjacent public open spaces—the Farmers Market Plaza and Park Blocks. Shadows will fall primarily on the 7th Avenue sidewalk, which is less sensitive in terms of civic use. Therefore, setbacks should not be assumed. Their inclusion should respond to broader urban design goals—such as scale transition, visual relief, or usable outdoor terraces—not serve as a default gesture. 

2. Active Ground Floor

• Provide sidewalk setbacks and covered edges to support informal gathering and weather protection.
• Use transparent façades and operable glazing to soften the boundary between interior and exterior.
• Program ground-level uses that complement the Farmers Market Pavilion, such as food vendors, community retail, or flexible event space. 

Note: While activation matters, the site’s position at the head of the Park Blocks invites more than just activity; it calls for architectural punctuation. In my April post, I proposed a public-oriented backdrop: a stage framed by a sleek, modern arch for outdoor performances, paired with support facilities and a café, with commercial spaces behind facing 7th Avenue. That concept aimed to buffer traffic noise, enclose the north end, and complement the park’s openness—an approach aligned with the Park Blocks’ legacy as a communal hub. 

The current RFQ anticipates a predominantly multi-family development, and that reality must be acknowledged. Still, the question remains: how might a residential building express civic intent without relying on traditional institutional typologies? A library would be redundant; the Farmers Market Pavilion already provides indoor event space. Perhaps the answer lies not in program alone, but in architectural presence—a building that frames the Park Blocks with clarity, invites public life at its edges, and signals its role through proportion, material, and spatial generosity. That kind of presence need not be rare. It should be expected—especially in a setting as symbolically charged as this one. 

3. Connectivity

• Align pedestrian pathways with existing desire lines between downtown and the Riverfront.
• Introduce through-block passages or mid-block courtyards to encourage permeability.
• Incorporate wayfinding and lighting strategies that support safe, intuitive movement across the site. 

Note: The North Butterfly Lot fronts the Park Blocks and Farmers Market Pavilion to the south, while its northern edge faces 7th Avenue—a busy arterial with limited pedestrian appeal. A future development may understandably orient away from this edge. Still, some degree of engagement is warranted. Treating 7th Avenue as a service corridor risks reinforcing the disconnect between downtown and the Market District and Downtown Riverfront. Transparent façades, layered landscape buffers, secondary entries, and integrated lighting could soften the edge and contribute to urban legibility. Even modest gestures can signal that the building acknowledges its full urban context. 

4. Sense of Place + High-quality Architecture

• Frame the Park Blocks with massing that responds to their scale and rhythm. 
• Select materials that resonate with Eugene’s architectural and cultural context. When thoughtfully applied, building materials can reflect the region’s climate, craft traditions, and ecological sensibilities. 
• Design façades with depth—sunshades, balconies, and layered fenestration—to avoid flatness and promote visual interest. 
• Incorporate civic gestures that go beyond amenities. A monumentally scaled sculpture, clock tower, or interpretive installation could serve as a symbolic anchor—one that reflects Eugene’s identity, history, or aspirations. Whether freestanding or integrated with the building, such an element should be designed to invite reflection, engagement, and public ownership. Its placement and form should reinforce the spatial logic of the Park Blocks and contribute to the site’s civic presence. 

These strategies do not cover every possibility, but they offer a framework for translating vision into architecture. The City has outlined clear goals for the site: high-density mixed-use, an active ground floor, stronger connections to the Market District and Riverfront, and architecture that frames the Park Blocks. Those expectations should guide not only the choice of a development team, but also the oversight that follows. 

By Special Collections, University of Houston Libraries - http://digital.lib.uh.edu/u?/p15195coll18,33, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17311032

The architectural response will matter. This site deserves one that reflects its civic potential. It doesn’t fit neatly into familiar categories. The site is not a conventional development parcel. Its location, scale, and symbolic weight make it unusually complex. That complexity deserves attention, not simplification. The North Butterfly Lot may not have a perfect precedent, but that’s precisely what makes it valuable. It is a unicorn. It invites a response that feels specific, intentional, and worthy of its place in the city. 

As the City prepares to select a development team, it should also lay the groundwork for meaningful community involvement in shaping what comes next.

Edges, Episodes, and Expectations

Drone shot over the completed Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza (photo from the City of Eugene. All other photos by me unless noted otherwise).

This weekend marked the grand opening of Eugene’s Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza, a civic milestone years in the making. I attended the festivities on Saturday, eager to see how this new public space performs under the weight of real use.

The plaza is the latest installment in Eugene’s broader riverfront redevelopment—a transformation of the former EWEB utility yard into a three-acre park that reconnects the city with the Willamette River. Portland-based landscape architecture firm Walker Macy designed the project, which has earned multiple accolades: the 2022 Oregon ASLA Honor Award and People’s Choice Award, the 2023 ORPA Design & Construction Award, and recognition from AIA Eugene. Clearly, others saw promise in its layered narrative, sculptural landforms, and potential to serve as a civic anchor.

Walker Macy's rendering of the Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza in the context of the built-out neighborhood development. Only the Heartwood (top building in the image) is in place now; the other buildings are pending. 

My takeaway? It’s too early to assess the plaza’s success. Its ultimate character depends on the completion of the surrounding development. The planned restaurant pavilion and multi-family housing blocks (in addition to the already occupied Heartwood) are essential to framing the space and giving it definition. Without them, the plaza feels more like a clearing or pathway than a square.

The plaza doesn’t immediately read as a space intended for large public gatherings. Unlike traditional urban squares, which rely on clear geometries and proportional relationships to foster collective experience, this plaza feels episodic. The elements—adventure playground, splash pad, works of art—are engaging but discrete. The shiny metallic Riverfront Plaza Pavilion that terminates 5th Avenue stands apart compositionally and lacks integration with the nominal plaza. Likewise, the proposed Across the Bridge commemorative fountain, which will honor Eugene’s displaced Black community, is planned for a site north of City Hall along the riverfront path—far removed from the plaza. Its presence would have physically and symbolically bolstered the space’s significance as a civic marker of place and history.

The primary plaza area.

Interactive sprayground.

Adventure playground.

Integrated interpretive pavement display.

Untitled sculpture by Volkan Alkanoglu.

The bottom line: there’s no central focus, nor is the plaza configured to frame grand civic rituals or celebrations. I could ask people in the know whether the intent was for the space to serve in this capacity, but I haven’t yet. Perhaps I should.

If the City did envision this plaza as a major public assembly space, it’s worth examining how it compares to notable precedents. Robert F. Gatje’s book Great Public Squares offers a useful lens. Consider Venice’s Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo, which Gatje includes for its compelling spatial dynamics. One end of the square opens directly onto the Rio dei Mendicanti, yet the space maintains a strong sense of enclosure thanks to the surrounding architecture—the basilica, the Scuola Grande di San Marco, and the Colleoni statue. It accommodates both movement and gathering, with a clear civic identity.

Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo, Venice (photo by Abxbay - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27901807)

Closer to home, Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square provides a contemporary counterpoint. Designed in the early 1980s by Willard Martin and his team, the square occupies a full city block and is framed by transit corridors, retail, and civic buildings. Its open-air design and amphitheater-like steps invite both casual use and large-scale events, earning it the nickname “Portland’s living room.” It’s a space that gathers, not just entertains.

Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland (photo by Cacophony - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2335737)

These examples underscore the importance of proportion, edge definition, and narrative coherence in successful public squares. Eugene’s Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza, by contrast, feels more like a collage than a composition. That may reflect a different ethos—one rooted in play and informality—but if the goal is to create a civic heart, the design must do more than amuse. It must hold.

Of course, it’s possible that the City and Walker Macy intended the design’s episodic nature, that the plaza was never meant to function as a traditional civic square. In contemporary landscape architecture, fragmentation and informality often reflect a desire to accommodate diverse uses and avoid prescriptive spatial narratives. If that’s the case, then comparing the plaza to historic European squares or even Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square may not be entirely fair. Still, if the term “plaza” carries civic expectations, it’s worth asking if the design fulfills them.

The City’s intent for the space is unclear. “Plaza” may simply be a convenient label for what is, in practice, a hardscape node within a larger park system. If so, I should adjust my expectations for its civic role accordingly. In time, the surrounding development may lend the space greater definition and purpose. For now, it remains an incomplete element—its long-term significance still to be determined.