Looking Beyond 2019 (Way, Way Beyond)

Earthrise, by NASA/Bill Anders

A problem with New Year resolutions is their typically limited outlook. On a personal level, annual self-reflection and recalibration can be helpful but what we all need is an appreciation for the long view, one measured well beyond the bounds of a single circuit about the sun. Human shortsightedness is at the root of many of our woes, so expanding our panorama to encompass a vastly broader horizon should be an essential part of our yearly resolve to make changes for the better. 

Speaking of a broad horizon, this past Christmas Eve marked the 50^th anniversary of the iconic photograph of a distant Earth taken from lunar orbit by Apollo 8 astronaut Bill Anders. I’m old enough to remember the Apollo 8 mission well and how monumentally significant that single photo would prove to be.(1) The Earthrise image spurred the environmental movement by vividly depicting how tiny and fragile our planet is against the backdrop of an infinitely vast and dark universe. Everybody immediately realized one and all share the same “little boat floating in space” and that humanity’s fate is hitched to that lonely boat. 

Author and architect Lance Hosey wrote a piece for Treehugger.com acknowledging the anniversary of Bill Anders’ Earthrise photo but also suggesting its outsized impact upon our attitudes toward our planet has actually undermined the very movement it launched. In his view, Earth is now too often perceived as an object, every place on it a mere point on a globe, each one like the other. Consequently, he asserts, we speak of the “environment” in the singular rather than as an endlessly diverse variety of extant landscapes and ecologies. 

I agree with Lance but also disagree at the same time. I believe the value of the Earthrise photo is unassailable and essential to comprehending how tenuous the dynamical system that sustains the planet’s biosphere is. 

As Lance contends, while a planetary perspective does serve a purpose, we must reestablish our loyalty to the land and not lose our appreciation for the diversity of cultures, the individuality of place, and the singularity of settings. Architects excel when this appreciation is applied to their work. Enhancing a sense of place—imparting a physical, emotional, and spiritual connectedness to specific settings—is vital to celebrating the infinite diversity of immersive experiences possible and the multiplicity of world views that uniquely exist on our small, blue planet. 

But that serves my point: To the best of our current knowledge, the entirety of Earth is implausibly unique. Life elsewhere in the universe may be exceedingly rare, the varying and dynamic conditions required to support it requiring circumstances balanced precipitously between order and chaos. Earth may be more special than a strictly Copernican view of our universe would hold. Count me among those who are proponents of an anthropic principle that suggests we exist in an extremely privileged position—one humanity must acknowledge if there is any hope of preserving it. An ability to appreciate our cosmic context is crucial to understanding the specifics of any earthbound place and time. 

Some long for humankind to become an interplanetary species. To me that dream has always been tinged with a shade of resignation regarding Earth’s destiny. Elon Musk’s justification for pursuing a goal of building civilizations in space is his belief in the need to “preserve the light of consciousness” because “it is unknown whether we are the only civilization alive in the observable universe, but any chance that we are is added impetus for extending life beyond Earth.” Such reasoning betrays a fatalistic attitude—a certainty about the inevitability of a tragic fate for our planet. Among other things, we would lose a fundamental aspect of our identity should we abandon our planet for another home. It’s precisely because we and Earth are so unique that fighting for our preservation and the “singularity of settings” here is so important. 

My wife and I recently engaged in a debate about this topic. Why expend precious “treasure and oil” on space exploration, she argued, when those same resources might be applied to solving earthly problems? Shouldn’t Elon Musk (SpaceX), Jeff Bezos (Blue Origin), Richard Branson (Virgin Galactic), and the others direct more of their wealth toward combating climate change, hunger, disease, homelessness, species loss, and despair? Of course, these concerns deserve everyone’s attention and substantial investment. As I wrote previously, there will always exist needs that trump others. Money isn’t the point. What should be important is our innate desire to invest energy and potential in the exploration of the unknown, in pursuits that enlist the power of our imaginations. Our sense of awe, wonder, and curiosity are central to who we are as human beings. 

If architects are to remain relevant in the decades to come, they’ll need to think big, look over the immediate horizon, and consider what it means fundamentally to dwell upon the earth. It will be their responsibility to wonder and explore, if not the larger universe, the nearer spaces closer to home they can control. Like space scientists, they will need to enlist and exercise human curiosity for the sake of a future that can be better for theirs and future generations. 

Each of us may resolve to exercise more, eat healthily, or spend more time with family and friends in the new year. For 2019, I encourage all of you to also look beyond your immediate concerns and take the long view. If we all do this, the odds of safeguarding livability aboard the third rock from the sun will be improved by many orders of magnitude.  

(1)  Like many young people during the 1960s, I was enthralled by the race to space between the Soviet Union and the U.S. and idolized the courageous cosmonauts and astronauts. I dreamed of becoming an astronaut myself, settling instead upon a decidedly terrestrial career as an architect. Even today, I can name the crew members for nearly every one of NASA’s Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo missions without having to rely upon Google. 

Have you Signed Up for the 2019 CSI Certification Classes Yet?

The 2019 editions of the Construction Specifications Institute-Willamette Valley Chapter certification classes are rapidly approaching. As I described previously, while the principal purpose of the courses is to assist those planning to take one or more of the CSI-sponsored certification examinations(1), they’re also beneficial to anyone in the AEC industry seeking foundational training in the preparation and use of construction documents.

As the saying goes, knowledge is power. Knowledge provides a competitive edge. Architecture and construction are increasingly dependent upon the effective conveyance of design intent. They are likewise dependent upon the clear definition of project responsibilities and roles detailed by the forms of agreement most widely used in construction projects. It’s important and necessary for everyone—owners, architects, engineers, specifiers, general contractors, subcontractors, construction materials suppliers, and others—to understand project delivery options, standard forms of agreement, means for organizing drawings and specifications, etc. 

Knowledgeable employers highly value those who understand the language of construction, its underlying principles and terminology, and the critical relationships between all the participants in any design and construction undertaking. Employees who thoroughly understand this language not only survive but are more likely to thrive. They are the winners in today’s challenging and constantly changing environment. 

So, if you haven’t already done so, sign up now for either the Construction Documents or the Construction Contract Administration series of classes, both of which start in January. The early bird rates for the registration fees may no longer be available but the classes are truly a bargain at any price.

Construction Contract Documents (CDT) Classes:

https://app.box.com/s/qbyum0t8qhr4nilb7bpwsscr2bvuquv4

Construction Contract Administration (CCA) Classes: https://app.box.com/s/xf9sa4zrzgopmses7xgev3qeunx4uwkj

If you have any questions, please call me at 541-342-8077 or send me an email at rnishimura@robertsonsherwood.com.  

(1) The CDT will be offered at testing sites in the United States and Canada for Spring 2019.

CCCA, CCS, and CCPR will take a hiatus to undergo critical program research and exam review.  Plan now to sit for the Certified Construction Contract Administrator (CCCA), Certified Construction Specifier (CCS) and Certified Construction Product Representative (CCPR) with revised exams during the Fall 2019 testing cycle. For more info and testing dates, see https://www.csiresources.org/certification/csi-certification.

Beautiful Sound

The Cascade Chorus

A December tradition for me and my wife is to attend the Cascade Chorus’ annual Holiday Concert. The Cascade Chorus is a performing group based in Eugene specializing in the a cappella barbershop sound. We never fail to enjoy the concert as it reliably transports us on a nostalgic trip back to the simpler times of our youth, providing a soul-satisfying dose of seasonal cheer and reverence as each choral group offers their take on a variety of old holiday standards. 

A definite highlight of the 2+ hour concert was a performance by the Oregon Young Men’s Ensemble. The group is comprised of talented high-schoolers who clearly love and appreciate the rich history of choral music. Their renditions of a traditional Hebraic chant and Ave Maria (in Latin) were inspiringly beautiful and otherworldly, so much so that my wife was moved to tears. No doubt, the sympathetic acoustic properties of space in which the concert occurred contributed immeasurably toward its unqualified success. Unquestionably, the architecture mattered to the performances. 

This year’s edition of the Holiday Concert took place at the Eugene Church of Christ, within the church’s roomy sanctuary. I am not a member of the congregation, so I wasn’t previously familiar with the facility. Charitably speaking, the sanctuary is nondescript, not unlike several others I have been in of similar vintage (my guess is the building dates from the 1960s or 70s). These spaces often feature rectangular plans, with a simple, gabled volume oriented lengthwise, framed by glued-laminated arches. The interior surfaces of the sanctuary at the Eugene Church of Christ are mostly reflective: painted gypsum board or plaster, brick, or wood. What surprised me was how, despite the relative absence of acoustically absorbent materials (other than the members of the audience and the upholstered chairs they sat on), the choral performances were clear and warm, with just the right balance of direct and reflected sound. The venue proved ideal for both the ethereal voices of the Oregon Young Men’s Ensemble and the barbershop stylings of the Cascade Chorus and the other groups. 

The behavior of sound in architectural spaces should be predictable, and yet some of the most extravagant performance venues in recent memory have been notorious for their poor acoustical performance, among them the opera hall at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C. and the Sydney Opera House’s Concert Hall. With the enlistment of the best experts and the lavish expenditure of capital construction funds, how does this happen? Contrast the performance of those venues with as humble a facility as the sanctuary of the Eugene Church of Christ and you’re left to ask whether the field of architectural acoustics may be more akin to alchemy than science. 

Perhaps there is no categorical means to declare one space as truly superior to another when it comes to what performers and audience members consider to be the best acoustics. Simply put, people are not all the same. Human preferences differ. That said, it may be no coincidence that many of the concert halls considered to be the best in the world are of the “shoebox” configuration that is shared by the Eugene Church of Christ sanctuary. There’s something about their basic shape and proportions that must be consistent with the pleasant rendering of instruments’ sounds and voices and how we hear them. 

What I don’t understand is why many consider loud noise and excessive reverberance somehow desirable for some interiors, particularly popular restaurants and public houses. The aural assault these spaces unleash on my ears is often unbearable. Speech is frequently unintelligible, so I often feign listening during conversations. Open kitchens are the worst, with all their clanging and banging of pots and utensils. Why did this ever become a thing? Give me quiet serenity over a raucous din any day. 

As an architect, particularly one who has been in the profession for so many years and who has worked on a variety of project types, I should possess a more solid grasp of the fundamental principles of architectural acoustics. The truth is I don’t. In practice, my office relies upon the services of architectural acoustics consultants (such as Creative Acoustics Northwest, Inc.) to ensure our designs perform as intended. The field of architectural acoustics is well established, but for every nine parts of it that are grounded in science, it’s clear one significant part derives from inspired artistry. It is in the application of this artistry that the best consultants earn their keep. 

A cappella singing may not be your cup of tea, but if it is, I highly recommend you attend an event featuring the Cascade Chorus or the Oregon Young Men’s Ensemble. They truly make music for your ears.

45 Years of Patterns at the University of Oregon

Volcanology Building (left) and Willamette Hall (right), University of Oregon (my photo)

I attended a talk last Friday by Chris Ramey, AIA on the subject of The Oregon Experiment and the University of Oregon’s integration of its lessons and principles into the university’s Campus Plan. His presentation was an abbreviated version of the one he gave this past October at the Portland Urban Architecture Research Lab (PUARL) 10-Year Anniversary Conference, at which scholars and practitioners from around the world convened to discuss the future of pattern languages and their application to architecture, urban design, and other fields. 

Chris was formerly the university’s Associate Vice President for Campus Planning / Design & Construction and held the title of University Architect. During his 28 years at Oregon, he guided the university through its largest-ever building boom—more than $1 billion of construction projects representing nearly 4 million square feet of space. As a consequence, he is perhaps the one person most qualified to comment on the successes and shortcomings of the user-centric, process-based design approach described by The Oregon Experiment and pioneered by Christopher Alexander and his colleagues at the Center for Environmental Structure (CES). 

I previously described the significance and influence of The Oregon Experiment so I won’t recount it extensively here. Chris likewise limited his accounting of how CES intended it to be a means to democratize the design process and challenge the entrenched paradigm of centralized, top-down planning. What Chris did do was to place The Oregon Experiment in the university’s historical context. 

Before its advent, the university had developed a series of campus master plans, each of which belied the supposed benefits of “fixed image” plans. Rather than enduring, each in turn would quickly become obsolete as the university’s needs and circumstances changed. The 1962 plan even proposed constructing new buildings on the site of the Pioneer Cemetery, which prompted swift opposition. By 1970, the university decided it needed to change its management of campus planning processes and retained CES with the goal of democratizing the design process. The Oregon Experiment was the revolutionary outcome of that decision. 

A fundamental principle of The Oregon Experiment is that a whole emerges gradually from separate actions and that the joining of these actions into a cohesive design comes not from a predetermined map, but from the application of a process. In other words, there is no dominating fixed image for the campus of the kind that preceded the adoption of The Oregon Experiment. This concept acknowledges the fact that although change will occur, the exact nature and magnitude of that change cannot be predicted with any degree of certainty. Planning at the University of Oregon was thus intended to be a continual process and not based on a static document that is dusted off periodically only to become obsolete soon after it is updated. 

Looking back, Chris noted the dearth of construction activity on the UO campus following the 1975 publication of The Oregon Experiment. The first real products of the approach espoused by The Oregon Experiment would be the College of Education additions (designed by Will Martin) and the School of Music's additions (by BOORA) in the late 1970s. As the Eighties dawned the country, and particularly Oregon, was mired in a deep recession so very little work occurred. Things picked up again in the 1990s with the renovation and expansion of the Knight Library (designed by TBG with Shepley Bulfinch) and the development of the Science complex by Charles W. Moore and Ratcliff Associates. For all of these projects, users developed their own unique patterns modeled after those found in the 1977 classic volume A Pattern Language. 

The users for the College of Education project believed their south campus location marginalized the college such that it did not feel like an integral part of the university, so they developed a pattern intended to rectify that condition. The Knight Library stakeholders found the facility’s numerous renovations and additions had resulted in an accretion of confusing spaces and circulation paths. They developed the “one building” and “no maps needed” patterns in response. 

In 1995, the university codified the integration of users into the design process for building projects, providing a framework within which user-directed planning could take place. The university’s current Campus Plan (adopted in 2005) incorporates the usage of patterns to articulate commonly held values to achieve effective and meaningful dialog about important campus design issues. Consistent with the precepts of The Oregon Experiment, the Campus Plan favors process over image, honors the university’s tradition of meaningful consultation with students, faculty, and staff, and provides for continuous adjustment of campus facilities in response to changing educational policies and programs. 

As mentioned above, Chris oversaw an unprecedented construction boom during his tenure at the helm of Campus Planning/Design & Construction. On balance, he believes the products of the process-oriented approach are uniformly superior to the 1950s-1970s generation of projects that preceded them. Of the many projects he was involved with, Chris singled out the HEDCO Building by Hacker Architects in 2009 as being particularly successful. Hacker’s design executed the “hearth” pattern quite literally, incorporating a residential-style fireplace in a generously proportioned lounge space. The fireplace has become an immensely popular spot, so much so that it is sought-after by Education majors and non-majors alike as a site for quiet study and conversations. 

On the flip side, Chris did acknowledge the user-centric approach to campus planning and building design has its limits and suffered its share of critics. A proverbial “fight over the steering wheel” exists if design professionals fail to embrace dialogue with and participation by the end users. There are those who insist the process-heavy approach discourages bold, award-winning designs, while others decry it as inefficient and time-consuming. 

The university does have special interests that must be accounted for, and coordination of separate development activities is essential if they are to result in a cohesive campus. To the detriment of its Campus Plan, the institution acknowledges it must maintain a “balanced” perspective when it comes to the physical development of the campus. The University is often compelled to respond quickly and unquestioningly to opportunities for facilities improvements as they emerge. For example, the university did not anticipate the Knight Campus for Accelerating Scientific Impact until Phil and Penny Knight announced their generous support for the project. Funding approvals from the Oregon State Legislature tend to favor larger building projects even though smaller projects might be more desirable. Small projects are still accomplished, but not to the extent originally envisioned by the principle of incremental, piecemeal growth in The Oregon Experiment. 

So, what will the future be for the application of patterns à la The Oregon Experiment? The university is already shifting toward a paradigm that melds conventional campus planning with dispersed decision-making. This paradigm embraces what is historically significant about the UO campus, including the established open space framework (which The Oregon Experiment and its patterns did not expressly do). It retains The Oregon Experiment’s emphasis upon process, but also embodies the distinctive, utopian social visions, and visionary planning characteristic of the most memorable university campuses. 

Besides me and David Edrington (who served as a research assistant in the Office of Campus Planning during the mid-seventies implementation of The Oregon Experiment), Chris’ audience was comprised exclusively of staff from the university’s office of Campus Planning & Facilities Management. I certainly felt privileged to be there. Chris said he invited me because he believed I would find his topic interesting, and he was right. Thanks for thinking of me Chris!

Getting my Hygge On

Photo by John-Mark Smith on Unsplash

I learned a new word this past week—hygge—which is the Danish term for coziness and comfortable conviviality. Apparently, an appreciation for the hygge things in life and applying a stylish flair to the pursuit of everyday happiness is characteristically Danish. Many here in the U.S. would do well to likewise learn how to recognize warmth and comfort in simple things and activities. Living in and acknowledging the moment is something too few of us do well. Those who have taken notice are promoting hygge as a lifestyle trend.

The fact I hadn’t heard of hygge until just now isn’t particularly surprising: Most fads are past their “best by” date by the time I discover them. Case in point: The New York Times pronounced 2016 as “The Year of Hygge,” so here I am a full two years behind the curve. How does this happen? Numerous books, blogs, magazines, TV networks, and more have all extolled the virtues of hygge style, without my notice(1).  
While the popularity of the concept in this country may be fleeting as fashion-mavens look for the next craze, hygge has long been engrained in the Danish way of life and isn’t likely to ever disappear. Hygge places a high value on the sharing of life together, on rituals, and humility. Nordic cultures undoubtedly cultivated hygge because their cold and dark winters brought people close together, so shared experiences were necessarily a part of their lives. The fact the citizens of Denmark are said to be the happiest in the world is in part because hygge is central to their sense of well-being. 

The places we live, work, and play in can foster hygge, which is why the concept intrigues the architect in me. Is there a reason why any of our architecture shouldn’t be hyggelig? Why shouldn’t we strive to design places that are unapologetically pleasant and welcoming, places that make people feel sheltered, safe, and content? It’s human nature to seek comfort and protection, the togetherness of family and the company of good friends. We like snuggling up and getting cozy because it makes us feel good. Hyggelig buildings and places, which I imagine most everyone would instinctively recognize, are ones essentially attuned to human nature. 

The older I get, the more I am learning to appreciate the importance of happiness, living in the moment, and being at peace with my world even as the greater world around all of us becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Those who know me do know how much of a struggle it is for me to slow down and simply relax. I would be well-served to get my hygge on. 

If I can make hygge a part of my life, I will have metaphorically built myself a warm and cozy shelter because I will have learned to enjoy the present more simply and slowly. If I approach design with hygge in mind, I will contribute to architecture that equally helps others be centered, at-home, and comfortable in their surroundings.

(1)  Perhaps it’s because I’ve never been a trend-chaser. No one has ever accused me of being hip, stylish, or fashionable.