Architecture is Awesome #41: Ceilings Worth Looking Up To

A section of the Sistine Chapel ceiling (Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36772)

This is another in my series of posts inspired by 1000 Awesome Things, the Webby Award-winning blog written by Neil Pasricha. The series is my meditation on the awesome reasons why I was and continue to be attracted to the art of architecture. 

Certain ceilings compel us to lift our gaze. Not just to admire form or finish, but to engage with space in a way that shifts our perspective—sometimes literally, sometimes symbolically. Some ceilings astonish with scale or ornament. Others speak with mastery through restraint, light, or acoustic precision. All have the potential to shape how we experience architecture from the inside out. 

The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is one of the most famous in the world, and for good reason. Michelangelo’s frescoes stretch across the vault with narrative ambition and technical skill. It’s been many years since I visited the chapel, but I remember the intensity of the figures and the scale of the composition. Photography was prohibited (and still is), and no image I’ve seen since has quite matched the experience. The ceiling’s presence was undeniable. It wasn’t just decoration; the ceiling was a statement. 

Grand Central Terminal, New York (my photo)

Consider Grand Central Terminal in New York. The concourse isn’t quiet, but it does invite reflection; not in the meditative sense, but in the act of looking up. Suspended above the rush is a vaulted ceiling painted with a celestial mural, its turquoise expanse dotted with golden constellations drawn from Johann Bayer’s 1603 star atlas. The stars are reversed—east shown as west—a detail that has puzzled and intrigued generations of commuters. For those who pause, the mural offers a moment of orientation in a space defined by motion. It reframes the daily commute as part of a larger continuum, connecting the individual to something older and more enduring. In this way, the concourse becomes a place of reflection not because it’s still, but because it allows for a shift in perspective. 

Pantheon, Rome (my photo)

The Pantheon in Rome achieves something similar through scale and simplicity. Its coffered dome, still the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world, culminates in an oculus open to the sky. I visited the Pantheon on a day when a light mist was falling. I knew the oculus was open, but seeing rain drift gently through it was still surprising. Despite the number of tourists inside, the space was quiet. The ceiling became a compass and a connection to the heavens. It was symbolic as well as structural, linking earthbound visitors to something beyond. 

Silva Concert Hall, Hult Center for the Performing Arts, Eugene (my photo)

Closer to home, the Silva Concert Hall in Eugene’s Hult Center offers a ceiling that shocks and delights. Designed by Hardy Holzman Pfeiffer Associates, its giant basket-weave pattern is visually arresting. It’s an unexpected flourish that an audience first encounters with surprise and admiration. While it does serve acoustic functions, the ceiling’s greatest impact is visual. It doesn’t merely serve; it announces. It creates a sense of enclosure that is bold, intentional, and memorable. For many in Eugene, it’s a ceiling associated with memory, an integral part of every Silva Concert Hall event. 

Kimbell Art Museum (photo by Michael Barera, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Then there are ceilings that shape experience through light. Louis Kahn’s Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, which I’ve long admired and hope to visit one day, uses cycloidal vaults to diffuse natural light with precision. The ceiling becomes an instrument, modulating illumination to honor the art below. It’s a lesson in decorum and responsiveness, a reminder that architecture can be quiet and still carry meaning. 

Ceilings are often an essential aspect of how we remember places. Not just what we saw, but how we felt when we looked up. They frame our upward gaze—toward painted heavens, open skies, or engineered precision. Ceilings can represent both aspiration and/or containment. They can evoke transcendence, as in sacred spaces, or signal limits. In civic architecture, they may reflect collective values: openness, order, ambition, and moderation. 

Some ceilings astonish. Others comfort. All deserve a second look. A ceiling worth looking up to reminds us that architecture is not only about enclosure. It is also about elevation. 

Writing about architecture shifted how I engage with buildings. I found myself noticing ceilings more often. Not just the grand ones, but also the quiet, utilitarian ones that still manage to admirably shape experience. They’ve become part of how I remember spaces, and part of how I understand the values embedded in design. Looking up has become a habit—not of reverence, but of attention.

Next Architecture is Awesome: #42 Framing Long Views

2.MO

One of the latest renderings of "2.MO," the University of Oregon's future second indoor practice facility (all images here by the Oregon Athletic Department).

Drive past Autzen Stadium along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and you’ll find the flurry of nearby construction activity hard to miss. The University of Oregon’s new indoor football practice facility—dubbed “2.MO”—will soon be rising immediately to the west of the Hatfield-Dowlin Complex (HDC).(1) I first wrote about the project when the university announced its plans in 2021. Back then, I expressed ambivalence: admiration for the design and excitement as a fan, tempered by concern about priorities and sustainability. That ambivalence remains. 

As depicted in the latest project renderings, the current design of 2.MO is consistent with the initial 2021 concept. It will be massive, timber-clad, and unmistakably Oregon. ZGF Architects leads the design team, Hoffman Construction is building it, and Van Horne Brands—known for immersive sports branding—is shaping the facility’s identity. Based on available information (including from the GoDucks YouTube channel), the building will be much more than just another cavernous shed. It will be a narrative space, designed to communicate Oregon’s ethos through form, material, and immersive branding. 

The new facility will span 170,000 square feet, comprised of the 130,000-square-foot indoor practice field and a 40,000-square-foot connector to the adjacent HDC, with another 30,000 square feet of HDC renovations. It will be the largest indoor practice facility in the nation. The university touts green design features, such as energy-efficient systems, but the sheer scale of the project raises questions about resource allocation. The university hasn’t confirmed the total cost, but some estimates suggest the figure could exceed $100 million, funded entirely through private philanthropy. If the current timeline holds, 2.MO will be ready for use in 2027. 

A realignment of Leo Harris Parkway to accommodate reconfigured outdoor practice fields is already complete. Additionally, the broader project includes improved ADA access in Alton Baker Park, expanded parking, and enhancements to fish habitat and water quality in the nearby waterway. These changes reflect a civic dimension to the development, even if the primary driver is athletic performance. 

Now in its second season in the Big Ten, Oregon Football’s national profile continues to grow. NIL, conference realignment, and donor-funded megaprojects have reshaped the sport. 2.MO will serve as a recruiting tool (and it has been since its first unveiling), a training hub, and a statement of intent by Oregon Athletics and its philanthropic backers. But it also reveals something deeper about us and our priorities. 

I’ve described the college athletics arms race as unsustainable. That still holds true. But repeating the phrase risks dulling its edge. What strikes me now is not just the scale of investment, but the normalization of it. Oregon’s boosters (led by Phil Knight) aren’t just funding facilities; they are shaping the university’s identity. The question isn’t whether Oregon leads the arms race. It’s whether the race itself has become the institution’s defining narrative. 

That narrative is complicated. It reflects our willingness to invest in spectacle, to equate prestige with performance, and to prioritize competitive advantage. It also reflects a belief—shared by many in this community—that Oregon football is worth it. That it brings people together, energizes the city, and helps define Eugene. 

I for one, will keep showing up on Saturdays. I’ll keep thinking about what it all means. Come Oregon’s first game of the 2025 season versus Montana State, I’ll walk past the ongoing construction site, not to wonder what it will look like, but to consider what it says about us. If this facility is a mirror, it reflects ambition, spectacle, and a belief in sport’s power to shape identity. It also reflects our comfort with scale—how easily we accept the extraordinary as ordinary. Whether that’s cause for celebration or concern depends on where you stand. I’m still deciding.

(1) "2.MO" is a reference to Oregon's original indoor practice facility, the Moshofsky Center, which is thus "1.MO." I anticipate the new building will receive a more formal name before it opens.

The Architecture of a Print Legacy

Sitting in our garage, boxed and staged for delivery: an archive of architectural thought spanning five decades.

For nearly fifty years, I’ve lived alongside a growing collection of architectural periodicals. Architectural Record, Progressive Architecture, and others filled boxes and lined shelves, slowly expanding from a modest reference library into a quiet presence throughout our home. These magazines captured decades of design, critique, and innovation, not just as resources, but as companions, inspiration boards, and time capsules.(1) 

Since retiring, I’ve begun decluttering the house my wife and I share. Among the items leaving are the professional journals I’ve amassed over a lifetime in architecture. A broken office chair, an old lawnmower; those are easy enough to dispose of. But the archive? I haven’t read every issue from cover to cover, yet each one is meaningful to me because it marks a moment in contemporary architectural thought that evolved alongside my schooling and career. Letting them go isn’t just a logistical choice. It feels like letting go of something personal. 

I first subscribed to Architectural Record and Progressive Architecture while still in high school. I did so with the same eagerness I later brought to design challenges. I read closely, followed trends, and flagged issues with ideas relevant to my work. Before long, I had amassed hundreds and hundreds of volumes. The collection outgrew our bookshelves and began migrating into every available space: a closet here, a corner there, eventually the attic. The expansion was slow but steady. 

Many issues throughout the years stand out to me: my very first copy of Architectural Record, which featured the 1976 United Nations Conference on Human Settlements that Vancouver, B.C. hosted; the one with an early mention of “sustainable design” long before it became mainstream; others that featured buildings by architects I greatly admired. 

A recent visit to the Eugene Public Library brought my dilemma into sharper focus, reinforcing my decision to part ways with my collection. Wandering through what was once a robust architecture section, I was surprised to find how much had quietly disappeared. That moment left me wondering: If long-held books can vanish from institutions built to preserve knowledge, what does that mean for the legacies we hold at home? Stewardship, it seems, isn’t only about saving what’s old — it’s about recognizing when to pass things on and how to do so thoughtfully. In that light, letting go of my collection is not abandonment, but adaptation. 

My initial (and reluctant) thought was to simply consign the magazines to recycling. Selling individual issues seemed daunting, and I doubted any organization would take them in bulk. On a whim, I contacted the nascent Northwest Center for Architecture(2) here in Eugene to see if they might be interested. To my surprise, board president Abraham Kelso responded with an enthusiastic yes. Soon, the entire lot will be headed to the Center, where the magazines can be appreciated by others who value the profession’s history. 

I won’t be keeping a handful of favorites as I first thought I would. Instead, I take comfort in knowing the archive will remain intact, continuing to serve as a record of architecture’s evolution through nearly a half-century of innovation, crisis, and renewal. I release my collection with gratitude. 

Architecture is a practice of building, but also of remembering. These magazines chronicled a profession in flux. From a personal perspective, they mirrored my architectural journey. They may no longer line my home’s bookshelves (and occupy other nooks and crannies), but thanks to the Northwest Center for Architecture, they’ll continue to speak—in the conversations they spark, the insights they preserve, and the histories they keep alive.

(1)    I first wrote about my print archive in a 2011 blog post and again in a later update.

(2)    I’ll share more about the Northwest Center for Architecture — and its mission to preserve and celebrate the region’s architectural heritage — in a future post.

The Quiet Dispossession of Civic Space

The Standard, a student housing project by Landmark Properties (my photo). Note the absence of active storefronts fronting the street.

I first wrote about the potential redevelopment of the former PeaceHealth University District campus back in March. At the time, PeaceHealth had just listed the 12.5-acre property, and speculation about its future remained wide open. I allowed myself to imagine a scenario in which the site could evolve into a true civic asset: a place that stitched together the University of Oregon campus and the West University neighborhood with a mix of housing, public space, and services responsive to Eugene’s particular needs. That vision reflected cautious optimism, a recognition that the opportunity was rare and worth aspiring toward, even if the odds seemed long.

Now, just a few months later, we have breaking news. According to Eugene Weekly, PeaceHealth appears to have found a suitor. Landmark Properties, a national student housing developer based in Georgia, responded to the RFP and signaled its intent to move quickly. Landmark reportedly plans to secure demolition and construction permits as soon as February.(1) While the sale hasn’t closed, the courtship between PeaceHealth and Landmark looks serious. 

For those familiar with Landmark’s presence in Eugene, the news doesn’t come as a shock. The company recently completed The Standard, a massive luxury student housing complex on Broadway near the United States Courthouse. Like many of its peers across the country, Landmark focuses on high-end amenities, private leases, and sealed-off designs that prioritize interior lifestyle branding over meaningful engagement with the public realm. Retail spaces, welcoming sidewalks, or other contributions to the streetscape rarely figure into their formula. These are not buildings designed to support the long-term life of a city. They’re financial instruments, meant to be operated for profit, traded, and flipped. 

The arrival of luxury student housing brings short-term gains: an expanded tax base, temporary construction jobs, and more beds for students. But it also introduces long-term tensions. Wide, blank walls and missing storefronts dampen street activity. Affordability erodes as land values rise and buildings target premium rents. Architectural cohesion frays, with these newer developments often ignoring context or heritage. Most crucially, these buildings age poorly. 

The Hayward Student Living complex (aka 13th and Olive) as viewed along Willamette Street (Google Street view). Originally developed by Capstone Collegiate Communities and now owned by Timberline Real Estate Ventures, the roundly criticized development did not provide the initially promised street-level retail storefronts when completed in 2014. 

To be clear, more student housing isn’t inherently a bad thing. Adding to the housing stock—at any level—can help ease market pressures and create more breathing room overall. That said, what gets built matters. Buildings with rigid floor plans aimed at a narrow demographic can't easily evolve into more inclusive or diverse housing over time. The problem isn't that new high-end student housing projects are being built; it's that they're being built in a way that limits future use and contributes little to the larger civic ecosystem.

The PeaceHealth site deserves better. Its scale alone makes it consequential, but so does its location. Once a hub for community health services, the University District campus holds an institutional memory that still resonates with many residents. Redeveloping the land as another cloistered enclave of high-end student housing would erase that legacy and squander a rare chance to create something that serves broader community needs. 

The City of Eugene retains some, albeit limited, leverage. Projects of this scale must undergo Site Review, as laid out in Eugene Code sections 9.8430 through 9.8450. This process requires developers to demonstrate how their proposals address circulation, building orientation, landscaping, and compatibility with surrounding uses. While not a cure-all, Site Review creates a channel for public and staff scrutiny. These requirements don’t block development outright, but they do insert friction—opportunities for people to ask questions and raise concerns. 

Even so, the outcomes we’ve seen from recent luxury student housing projects raise valid doubts. Why hasn’t Site Review resulted in more pedestrian-friendly or contextually responsive buildings? Why does so much of it feel like a formality? In practice, Site Review often falls under the “clear and objective” track mandated for housing projects. If a developer checks the right boxes—height, setbacks, open space—the City has little discretion to say no or ask for something better. Unless a developer requests an adjustment or variance, public hearings typically don’t happen. Staff, constrained by deadlines and legal obligations, rarely have room to push back. The process becomes paper-driven, not vision-driven. Fundamentally, the City of Eugene’s current planning tools aren’t built to navigate this scale of development. 

The Standard effectively presents its backside across 8th Avenue to the Wayne L. Morse United States Courthouse. (2)

Meanwhile, Eugene continues to absorb wave after wave of high-end student housing. New projects keep entering the pipeline, even as recently completed buildings each add hundreds of new beds. With Landmark now looking to redevelop one of the city’s most significant properties, it’s worth asking how long this model can persist. The market for luxury student apartments isn’t infinite. At some point, supply will outpace demand in this very specific market niche. When that happens, vacancies will rise, rents will stagnate, and investor interest will cool. Maintenance slips, services get cut, and ownership turns over. The downward spiral is easy to recognize and hard to reverse. 

Buildings designed to turn a quick profit rarely transition well to long-term community assets. And as I mentioned above, there are challenges converting projects optimized for the premium student housing market into typologies better suited to meeting Eugene's more pressing needs. 

PeaceHealth could still alter course, but I see little reason to believe it will. As a private seller, it holds the right to choose whichever buyer meets its institutional goals. City officials might consider tightening design standards, but introducing new regulations now would likely provoke legal challenges. And the University of Oregon, a natural partner in shaping the site’s future, has already made clear that it intends to stay out of the discussion. 

So here we are. A major civic parcel, once dedicated to care and community health, now appears destined for yet another branded student lifestyle compound. It may not count as a scandal, but it’s certainly a loss. Not just of a building, or a set of services, but of a chance to do something better. Something that Eugene, with all its promise and challenges, could genuinely use. I return to this subject not to repeat myself but because the stakes are high. What happens here will shape the city’s trajectory for decades. The die may not be fully cast, but the mold is setting fast. 

(1)    Initiating demolition and construction on the site as soon as next February seems entirely unrealistic to me. 

(2)    Aside from its main entrance, The Standard is entirely lacking active storefronts that would enliven its street frontage. Granted, that frontage, particularly along the heavily trafficked Mill Street approach north toward the viaduct, is a less-than-accommodating pedestrian realm. Regardless, the building turns inward rather than engaging the city it sits within. The Standard also squats on E. 8th Avenue opposite the United States Courthouse as a less than fitting foil for the design by Pritzker-prize winning architect Thom Mayne. Imagine if a portion of that site had instead been reserved for a public gathering space, a plaza of a scale commensurate with the importance of the courthouse.

Crafting Community Through Art: A Murals Update

Detail view, north mural of the Lane Community College Health Professions Building by Jessilyn Brinkerhoff (photos by me unless otherwise noted).

Last year, I shared my experience serving on the jury tasked with selecting an artist to create murals for Lane Community College’s new Health Professions Building. I’m pleased to report that the project has come to life in vibrant and meaningful ways.

The jury selected LCC alumna Jessilyn Brinkerhoff, whose proposal (titled Networks of Knowledge) stood out for its thoughtful integration of natural forms, human connection, and educational themes.

Drawing inspiration from her studies in biology and art at LCC and the University of Oregon, Jessilyn’s work weaves together rivers, roots, wings, and fingerprints into a visual language that speaks to growth, movement, and community. 

Mural panels at the Northeast corner and entry portico.

West elevation.

Mural panels at south entry portico.

Now nearing completion, the murals span multiple walls, both interior and exterior, using a complementary palette that harmonizes with the building’s architecture. The result is a series of compositions that are both grounded in place and expansive in meaning.

In-progress view of one of the interior mural panels at the building's Main Stair (photo by Lane Community College). 

As I mentioned in my initial piece about the artist selection process, the architectural team (Robertson/Sherwood/Architects with Mahlum Architects) always envisioned the murals as conceived for, dependent upon, and inseparable from the building and its context. That context includes the Health Professions Building’s function as a campus “gateway.” The north-facing mural catches your attention as you drive along 30^th Avenue. As intended, it and the other panels further reward closer inspection, revealing increased levels of detail while drawing visitors and students toward and through the building. 

I took the opportunity this past week to photograph the nearly complete murals. The images here offer a glimpse into how public art can enrich a campus environment and reflect the values of the institution it serves. 

Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet: V

 

North-facing view of Villard Hall, University of Oregon. The current renovation project is due for completion by the end of this year. (all photos by me unless otherwise noted)

This is the next in my Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet series of blog posts, the focus of each being a landmark building here in Eugene. Many of these will be familiar to most who live here but there are likely to be a few buildings that are less so. My selection criteria for each will be threefold:
 

1. The building must be of architectural interest, local importance, or historically significant.

1. The building must be extant so you or I can visit it in person.

1. Each building’s name will begin with a particular letter of the alphabet, and I must select one (and only one) for each of the twenty-six letters. This is easier said than done for some letters, whereas for other characters there is a surfeit of worthy candidates (so I’ll be discriminating and explain my choice in those instances).

This entry’s selection begins with the letter V, for which my choice is Villard Hall, the second oldest building on the campus of the University of Oregon. I gleaned much of the information that follows from the University of Oregon’s insightful Villard Hall Preliminary Historic Assessment.
 
Villard Hall
Villard Hall anchors the northwest corner of the University of Oregon’s Old Campus Quadrangle. Portland architect Warren H. Williams designed the building, and local designer–builder Lord Nelson Roney with contractor W. H. Abrams completed its construction in 1886. Railroad magnate Henry Villard provided funding, rescuing the university from financial ruin; unsurprisingly, his name came to grace the structure. Initially housing classrooms and offices, Villard Hall now serves Cinema Studies, Comparative Literature, and Theatre Arts.
 
Villard Hall is a rare example of the Second Empire style here in the Pacific Northwest, featuring a steep mansard roof, dormer windows, bracketed eaves, and iron cresting. Its stuccoed brick exterior, with quoins and pilasters, projects verticality and academic purpose. Large double-hung windows with wood frames flooded the original high-ceilinged interiors with light. Williams balanced ambition with practicality, adapting French-inspired elegance to Oregon’s limited 1880s resources. Compared to University Hall (formerly Deady Hall), Villard’s ornate cresting adds subtle distinction while preserving harmony. Its dignified restraint and functional interiors establish it as a regional architectural gem, anchoring the campus with timeless appeal. The National Register of Historic Places listed both buildings in 1972 (Reference nos. 72001083 and 72001082), and both attained National Historic Landmark status in 1977 for their architectural and historical value.
 
In 1949, the Portland firm of Annand & Kennedy added a 400-seat theater on the south side. The university initially dubbed the addition as University Theatre, later renaming it the Robinson Theatre in honor of Drama instructor Horace Robinson. James & Yost Contractors constructed the International-style wing, its flat roof and plain surfaces clashing with Villard’s ornate core—a jarring contrast that disrupted the building’s original unity. More recently, the Robinson Theatre became part of the 2008 Miller Theatre Complex (designed by Hacker Architects), which added the Hope Theatre and an expanded lobby.

Gutted top floor of Villard Hall (photo by Nic Walcott, University of Oregon Communications).

 
The current $93 million Heritage Renovation Project is transforming both Villard Hall and University Hall. Hennebery Eddy Architects leads the design effort, and Fortis Construction is overseeing the construction work. The project adheres to the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for Rehabilitation, preserving the historic stucco façade, windows, and iron cresting to meet National Historic Landmark criteria, while concealing the new seismic upgrades (concrete shear walls and steel bracing) within the unreinforced brick structures. New HVAC, plumbing, electrical, fire safety, elevators, and ADA-compliant features replace outdated systems.
 
The high cost of the Heritage Renovation Project is primarily attributable to the complexities associated with the seismic upgrades to the unreinforced brick structures, plus the restoration of the historic facades. Significant inflation has driven costs up since the 2021 estimate of $64.35 million; undoubtedly, the final sum will be no small amount of change.

Villard Hall, east facade.

Detail view.

When Villard Hall reopens in late 2025, it will offer a new screening lab, Pocket Playhouse acting lab, movement studio, modern offices, faculty commons, gathering spaces, and a new exterior courtyard, merging modern arts education with its historic shell.
 
I never entered Villard Hall while a UO student back in the early 1980s, nor have I crossed its threshold since. Lamentably, I missed an AIA Eugene tour last year of the Heritage Renovation Project that showcased the many improvements. That missed opportunity fuels my eagerness to explore Villard Hall’s finished interior when it reopens, keen to see how this historic building supports today’s Cinema Studies, Comparative Literature, and Theatre Arts programs.

What Makes Eugene, Eugene?

Hanging out in downtown Eugene's Park Blocks on a summer Saturday afternoon (all photos by me unless noted otherwise).

Eugene doesn’t fit easily into a mold. It’s not a showcase city, nor is it a cautionary tale. It’s modest in scale, a little scattered in form, and shaped by a history that’s both typical of American cities and distinctive. For those of us who’ve spent years observing its development, trying to answer what defines Eugene from an architectural and urban design perspective means looking at how its geography, planning choices, and cultural forces have defined its form and character. 

It’s easy to fall back on the familiar shorthand to describe our city: progressive politics and counterculture vibes, the University of Oregon’s outsized presence, the city’s reputation as “TrackTown USA.” But those feel more like branding. To understand Eugene’s underlying and fundamental attributes, I find it helpful to also consider its physical structure: how people move through it, what patterns they recognize, and how the city makes itself understood. 

A river runs through it: A place to watch the Willamette River roll by in Eugene's Riverfront Park.

Our rivers certainly matter. Eugene owes its location to them, not just as scenic amenities but as the original logic for settlement. The Willamette and McKenzie meet here, on a gentle plain at the south end of a fertile valley. Before roads or rail, these waterways carried movement, trade, and life. They sustained the Kalapuyan peoples who lived in the valley for generations, tending open landscapes through regular burning and a deep understanding of the land’s rhythms. The “park-like” setting early settlers described wasn’t untouched wilderness, but rather reflected long-standing stewardship. 

Topography shapes Eugene’s identity. The two buttes—Skinner to the north and Spencer to the south—are visible from much of the city. The line connecting them, Willamette Street, provides an axial thread that lends coherence to an otherwise irregular pattern of development. The orientation isn’t monumentalized, but it registers at the level of lived experience. Not so long ago it was “The Gut,” the street young people cruised along on weekend nights to see and be seen. Today, it still functions as a kind of internal compass. Willamette Street is not unlike the cardo of ancient Roman cities, anchoring the urban structure in a way that feels both intuitive and enduring. 

Google Earth view of Eugene, looking south from Skinner's Butte to Spencer Butte.

The city’s morphology moreover discloses its piecemeal history. The original downtown grid, imposed on a floodplain, proved difficult to extend. Development leapfrogged outward instead. Industry and the railroad drew activity to the west, while the University of Oregon pulled it eastward. Postwar growth followed a familiar pattern: low-density subdivisions, separated land uses, and automobile-oriented infrastructure. The resulting urban form lacks continuity but includes recognizable parts. Some (like the university district, riverfront paths, and older neighborhoods) possess a strong sense of place. Others are still marginal or undefined. 

Eugene isn’t especially dense. It is porous and accessible. The car is still king, but walking or biking are practical, often revealing ways to move through parts of the city. These parts may not always align, but they feel connected in a way that invites orientation and reflection. 

In The Image of the City, Kevin Lynch described how people construct mental maps of their surroundings: how cities are understood through paths, edges, landmarks, nodes, and districts. Eugene supports this kind of cognitive mapping more than many cities of comparable size. The Willamette River, the buttes, the street grid, and a few notable buildings all contribute to a cityscape that, while not especially legible or iconic, is knowable. For those who live here, the structure of the city is intuitively grasped, even if not formally articulated. 

Oak Street near 6th Avenue, looking north.

Eugene’s relationship with Springfield does complicate its spatial logic. The two cities form a continuous urban area, but their identities and planning approaches differ in visible ways. Glenwood, a liminal zone caught between them, remains unresolved—geographically, politically, and economically. This in-between condition has made coherent development difficult. While the metro area functions as a whole in some respects, its internal borders reveal themselves in policy priorities, infrastructure investments, and public perception. 

View of the University of Oregon's east campus area, looking north from the top of the Hayward Field Tower.

Eugene’s physical and civic character owes much to the presence of the University of Oregon, which has long served as both anchor and influence. The campus has expanded incrementally, the result of many decisions accreted over time. Notably, it was here that Christopher Alexander developed and applied many of his most influential ideas about pattern languages, organic order, and participatory design. The Oregon Experiment proposed a framework for campus development rooted in these principles: small-scale, distributed interventions guided by patterns of use and a respect for existing context. The results have been mixed, but the approach is still relevant—not only for the university, but as a broader model for how cities like Eugene might evolve. 

In many respects, Eugene seems well-suited to this kind of incremental, adaptive growth. It lacks the density and economic pressures that drive rapid redevelopment in larger cities, allowing space for more gradual change. That can be a strength. The city’s most successful projects tend to fit their surroundings rather than try to reinvent them. Its better moments, such as the new Riverfront Park now taking shape, emerge not from bold gestures but from steady, attentive work. 

That said, Eugene faces real challenges. Its development patterns have created gaps—spatial, economic, and social. The housing crisis is ongoing and visible. Some neighborhoods, particularly in west and north Eugene (parts of Bethel and River Road), have long contended with limited access to services and infrastructure. And while Glenwood technically falls within Springfield’s jurisdiction, its unresolved condition continues to reflect the difficulties of regional planning and uneven development at the city’s edge. Recent reforms to allow more flexible housing types and encourage compact growth are promising, but implementation remains inconsistent. As in many places, the intentions are sound; the follow-through is the hard part. 

Photo by City of Eugene (13th Avenue Protected Bikeway: 2020 | Eugene, OR Website)

It’s difficult to consider any city today without recognizing the broader pressures that bear down on all of them. Climate disruption, ecological loss, and political instability are not future risks; they’re present and intensifying. These forces will shape the future of cities more profoundly than any comprehensive plan. The question is whether a place like Eugene, with its modest scale, civic engagement, and physical setting, can adapt in ways that endure. Whether it will remain livable, not just in the aspirational sense but in practical and durable terms, is an open question. 

So, what makes Eugene, Eugene? Not a singular identity or defining image, but a set of conditions: geography, accumulated growth, and an unassuming character. A city that hasn’t foreclosed its future and still permits revision, care, and response. In the face of what’s coming, that may not be enough. But for someone who’s spent a working lifetime walking its streets, watching it evolve, and thinking about what makes a place matter, it still feels like a place to start.

Influences: Leon Krier (1946–2025)

 

Leon Krier (photo by Rggv, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

I cannot say that Leon Krier was a formative influence on me during the early stages of my architectural education or career. I was aware of his work, as well as that of his brother Rob Krier, while in architecture school during the late 1970s and early 1980s. At that time, however, their impact seemed more theoretical than practical, and I gravitated more toward figures whose work felt grounded in built achievement. While the Krier brothers shared a critical stance toward modernist urbanism and both advocated for a return to traditional urban form, their approaches diverged in meaningful ways. Leon’s work was more ideologically rooted in classical and vernacular traditions, while Rob’s embraced a more eclectic, sometimes postmodern sensibility. Leon’s voice was distinctive and increasingly difficult to ignore as the years went on.
 
Leon, who died last month at the age of 79, was a Luxembourg-born architect and urban theorist best known for his principled critique of modernist planning and his sustained advocacy for traditional urban patterns. Through his writings and drawings, he consistently challenged the dominant paradigms of the 20th century—zoning, suburban sprawl, and architectural abstraction—arguing instead for compact, human-scaled neighborhoods rooted in local character and craft. He strongly influenced the emergence of New Urbanism and helped shape its intellectual foundation.

 

His 2009 book The Architecture of Community offered an accessible distillation of ideas he had refined over decades. By the time it appeared, my own thinking on urban design already aligned with many of the principles he championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a strong sense of place. What I appreciated most about the book was its clarity and its ability to communicate complex urban design concepts to both professionals and laypersons. It didn't change my thinking, but helped clarify convictions I already held.

Krier consistently advocated for a classical architectural vocabulary, emphasizing symmetry, hierarchy, and traditional proportions. This stance defined his work and drew ongoing criticism. His preference for European typologies and forms has struck some as culturally narrow, particularly within an increasingly pluralistic and global profession. While he defended classical architecture as expressing enduring and universal principles, his work seldom addressed non-Western traditions or alternative design languages. However principled, his vision was not without blind spots.

 

Queen Mother Square, Poundbury (photo by Léon Krier, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Among Krier’s most tangible contributions was the master plan for Poundbury, an urban extension of Dorchester in England commissioned by then-Prince Charles. Developed incrementally over several decades, Poundbury embodies many of Krier’s core ideas: compact form, walkable streets, integrated housing and employment, and architecture drawn from local precedent. 

Ciudad Cayalá (photo by Vicente Aguirre - https://estudiourbano.com.gt/urbanismo/paseo-cayala/, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104322181

A lesser known but equally ambitious application of his principles can be found in Ciudad Cayalá, a large-scale urban district on the outskirts of Guatemala City, where Krier served as design consultant. Working with local firm Estudio Urbano, he helped shape a master plan based on traditional urbanism, resulting in a community praised for its livability and cohesion, though also criticized for its exclusivity and idealized aesthetics. 

Both Poundbury and Ciudad Cayalá stand as examples of traditionalist theory translated into contemporary communities.

 
The scale of contemporary urban development does raise important questions about the viability of Krier’s approach as a broadly applicable model. His ideal of human-scaled, incrementally built, traditionally styled neighborhoods, though conceptually appealing, can feel insufficient when confronting the urgency of housing shortages, rapid urban migration, and the need for climate-adaptive infrastructure. His principles emphasize long-term livability and coherence, but they have proven challenging to implement at scale, especially in fast-growing metropolitan contexts. To remain relevant, Krier’s ideas may need reinterpretation in hybrid forms that retain their humanist core while engaging with the economic and environmental realities of the 21st century.

Some of Vancouver's characteristic high-rise residential towers overlooking Coal Harbor. The narrow towers rise from pedestrian-scaled commercial podiums while heeding view corridors toward the North Shore mountains (my photo).

Other models do exist. Being from Vancouver, I’ve long regarded the urban planning phenomenon of Vancouverism as a compelling, if markedly different, response to many of the same challenges. Characterized by slender residential towers atop mixed-use podiums, Vancouverism achieves many of the goals Krier championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a coherent urban fabric. Yet it does so without reliance on traditional architectural precedent. Though Krier might have dismissed such an approach as lacking cultural continuity, I view it as a valid and adaptable urban paradigm, appropriate for a cultural context marked by notable heterogeneity. Vancouverism is not without its own limitations, particularly regarding housing affordability and the pressures of real estate speculation, but its success illustrates that multiple models can support livable, resilient cities—even if they diverge aesthetically or arise from different theoretical premises.

One of Leon Krier's polemical sketches.

Krier delivered his provocations through essays, diagrams, and sharply drawn caricatures, earning a reputation as both a dissenter and a polemicist. He rejected the notion that technological progress or avant-garde novelty should define architectural merit. Instead, he argued that a sense of permanence and proportion grounded in human-scale offered a more sustainable and civically oriented path forward. For much of his career, his views placed him outside the architectural mainstream. But over the years, growing concerns about climate resilience, social equity, and livability prompted many in the profession to revisit the values he long upheld.

Krier’s career was not without controversy. Among the more troubling aspects was his 1985 monograph on Albert Speer’s architecture, which some critics have interpreted as an endorsement of a deeply problematic legacy. Beyond this, Krier made statements that many found indefensible and reflective of Euro-centric elitism, if not worse. These views cast a shadow on his work and raise challenging questions about the intersection of architecture and ethics. While his influence on urban design remains significant, it is important to acknowledge these complexities honestly when considering his contributions.

History will not remember Leon Krier for prolific output or stylistic invention, but rather for challenging deeply held assumptions about how we build. What once sounded reactionary or nostalgic has, in many ways, caught up with the moment. As questions of livability and human scale have come to the fore, his work has taken on renewed relevance. His ideas found their way into my own thinking, through their clarity and refusal to fade. That’s how some influences take hold: not through persuasion, but persistence.