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.

Architecture is Awesome: #40 Light and Shadow

Photo by Mateusz Butkiewicz on Unsplash

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.
 
Light and shadow are essential elements in architecture, shaping space in ways that go beyond aesthetics to influence how we feel and what we understand. Architects have long worked with these elements to create buildings that feel alive—places that connect with us on an emotional and intellectual level. Through the interplay of light and shadow, architects bring stone, glass, and concrete to life, crafting spaces that engage our senses and emotions.
 
Light and shadow convey meaning in architecture by shaping how we experience space emotionally and symbolically. Light often represents clarity, hope, or the divine, while shadow can evoke mystery, introspection, or solemnity. Architects use light to highlight important features or guide movement, creating focal points that draw our attention and suggest significance. Shadows, by contrast, add depth and nuance, softening spaces or introducing contrast that influences mood. Changing patterns of light and shadow also connect us to time and place, marking the passage of day or seasons and telling stories through their rhythms. These shifts give architecture a living, dynamic quality—its character evolving as daylight moves, inviting us to experience the same space anew. Different cultures interpret and employ these effects in unique ways, reflecting their values and traditions.
 
At its most fundamental level, light is electromagnetic radiation—oscillating waves traveling at remarkable speed. The narrow band we perceive as visible light offers immense potential for variation and expression. When light strikes a surface, it can be absorbed, reflected, refracted, or transmitted, depending on the material’s properties. Factors like texture, opacity, and color influence how light behaves—and in turn, how a space feels.

A triangular prism dispersing a beam of white light (photo by By User:Kelvinsong - File:Prism flat rainbow.jpg, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=125361066).

 
Shadow is more than just the absence of light; it adds depth, contrast, and subtlety. Shadows shift with the angle and strength of light, sharpening or softening forms, suggesting movement, and marking time’s passage. Architects use shadow intentionally to shape atmosphere, highlight details, and influence a building’s perceived weight or lightness. The constantly shifting interplay of light and shadow brings movement and depth to static forms, engaging our senses and making spaces feel vibrant and alive.
 
This interplay also plays a role in guiding human movement and shaping how we physically experience space. Lighted paths invite us forward, pockets of shadow create moments for pause or reflection, and contrasts between light and dark draw our eyes and steps in particular directions. Light often marks thresholds—entrances, transitions, or places of change—heightening our awareness of passing from one space to another. Through these subtle cues, architects choreograph our journey through buildings, enriching our connection to place.
 
Moreover, light reveals the texture and tactility of materials. Rough stone, smooth glass, and polished concrete respond differently under varied lighting—casting complex shadows or glowing softly—inviting us to not only see but almost feel the surfaces. This sensory richness deepens our engagement, connecting us more intimately with the built environment.

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

 
Louis Kahn’s Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, demonstrates this balance beautifully. Kahn’s design incorporates vaulted ceilings with narrow skylights and aluminum reflectors that soften sunlight, spreading an even glow across the galleries. The effect is calm and inviting. Kahn’s well-known remark, “The sun never knew how great it was until it struck the side of a building,” reflects his belief that light reveals a building’s true character.
 
The success of the Kimbell lies in its use of diffuse light—light that bounces off curved surfaces in many directions, minimizing glare while revealing texture. This careful control of natural light creates spaces that feel balanced, contemplative, and welcoming.

Chapelle Notre-Dame-du-Haut de Ronchamp

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

 
Le Corbusier’s Chapel at Ronchamp (Notre-Dame du Haut) in France offers a contrasting use of light and shadow. Completed in 1955, this sculptural chapel features thick concrete walls, a sweeping roofline, and small, irregular windows. Light enters as narrow beams and dappled patches, creating shifting patterns that bring the interior to life. The chapel feels charged with energy, designed as a spiritual journey where light guides visitors. Shadows here are not emptiness but expressions of depth and feeling.

Louvre Abu Dhabi (photo by Boubloub, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

 
The Louvre Abu Dhabi, designed by Jean Nouvel, provides a modern interpretation of light and shadow. Its large dome is made of layered geometric patterns that filter sunlight into changing patterns below. Nouvel calls this a “rain of light.” The dome protects the museum from harsh desert sun while evoking the shaded streets of traditional Middle Eastern markets. This fusion of technology and tradition shows how light and shadow can serve both function and storytelling.

Basilica de Sacré-Cœur (photo by me)

 
The Basilica de Sacré-Cœur in Paris adds another dimension. Sitting atop Montmartre, its white travertine facade catches and reflects sunlight, glowing especially at dawn and dusk. Inside, light filters through the central dome onto a mosaic of Christ in Majesty, casting soft shadows that shift throughout the day. Built as a symbol of hope and resilience, Sacré-Cœur uses light and shadow to shape both the visual and spiritual experience.
 
Around the world, architects have explored these elements in diverse ways. In traditional Japanese architecture, for example, light often enters softly through shoji screens or beneath overhanging eaves, creating indirect illumination. Shadows are embraced, not erased, reflecting a cultural preference for subtlety and impermanence. As Jun’ichirō Tanizaki wrote in In Praise of Shadows, there is beauty not only in light but in the way it recedes.
 
Even technical aspects like color temperature—the warmth or coolness of light—affect how we perceive space. Natural light shifts from warm hues at sunrise and sunset to cooler tones at midday, influencing mood and atmosphere. Shadows also change length and sharpness throughout the day and with weather, providing architects with subtle tools to shape experience.
 

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao (photo by Tony Hisgett from Birmingham, UK, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

In addition to natural light, architects carefully design artificial illumination to shape atmosphere and highlight form—especially where daylight fades or cannot reach. Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals in Switzerland uses artificial light sparingly and with great intention. Soft pools of warm light enhance the stone’s texture and the spa’s intimate spaces, creating a quiet, almost meditative atmosphere that complements natural light and shadow. On the other hand, Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum Bilbao transforms dramatically at night through exterior lighting that accentuates its sweeping metallic curves. The play of light and shadow across its surfaces gives the building a new life after dark, reinforcing its sculptural presence in the cityscape.
 
Throughout history and across cultures, architects have used light and shadow not only to define form but to convey meaning and shape experience. From the colored light of stained glass in Gothic cathedrals to the subtle, shaded serenity of traditional Japanese interiors; from the filtered glow beneath Nouvel’s dome and the contemplative quiet of Zumthor’s Therme Vals to the shifting patterns in Ronchamp’s chapel and the calm galleries of the Kimbell; and from the glowing mosaics of Sacré-Cœur to the dramatic nighttime presence of Gehry’s Guggenheim Bilbao—these elements engage our senses, guide our emotions, and connect us to the spaces we inhabit. Light and shadow do more than shape architecture’s form—they give it presence, mark the passage of time, and infuse buildings with life. When used thoughtfully and intentionally, their interplay transforms architecture into something truly AWESOME.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome: #41 Ceilings Worth Looking Up To 

Compelling Perspectives on Eugene’s Housing Crisis

The Station House, by the Obie Companies

Like many others in our community, I’ve watched Eugene’s housing crisis unfold over the years with growing concern. Rising rents, dwindling vacancies, and the affordability challenges faced by working families are pressing issues that demand thoughtful action. I recently discovered two articles that address these challenges with impressive clarity and depth. My intent is not to restate their arguments but to endorse their insights and encourage you to dive into them via the links below.
 
The first, Treat Homebuilding as a Civic Good, penned by Joshua Purvis and published on the Lookout Eugene-Springfield website, offers a local perspective that resonates with my experience. Purvis, a writer and member of Eugene’s Multi-Unit Property Tax Exemption (MUPTE) Review Panel, highlights how obstructionist policies—such as councilors delaying projects over “vibes or views”—stall progress. He cites the Obie Companies Station House project, a 124-unit development in the Market District, which relied on MUPTE to overcome financial hurdles and will eventually generate over $1.1 million annually in taxes. Purvis urges us to view homebuilding—including market-rate development—as a civic duty, a stance I strongly support.
 
Purvis references the second article, Displacement by Design by Tobias Peter and Major Ethan Frizzell of the AEI Housing Center. In it, Peter and Frizzell take a broader view. They unpack how exclusionary zoning, discretionary permitting, and regulatory barriers create artificial housing scarcity, driving up costs and displacing residents. Their Good Neighbors Success Sequence (GNSS) proposes market-based solutions like zoning reform, smaller lot sizes, and rapid rehousing, pointing to Houston’s 30% housing stock growth since 2000 as a model for affordability and reduced homelessness. They frame the housing shortage as a systematic failure akin to a game of musical chairs, where too few "chairs" leave many without a place to sit.
 
These perspectives align with my belief that Eugene must prioritize housing abundance to remain a livable community. I’m an advocate for continuing programs like MUPTE, which make projects like Station House feasible in high-cost areas, delivering both homes and long-term public benefit. We need streamlined permitting, equitable tax policies, and a cultural shift that honors builders as essential to our civic fabric—echoing Purvis’s observation that we’ve become “digital warriors instead of down-to-earth doers.”
 
I’ve been impressed by the quality and breadth of reporting from Lookout Eugene-Springfield since the community-centric news outlet debuted earlier this year. I encourage you to read both articles, linked below, and join me in advocating for policies that treat housing as a public good. Let’s ensure Eugene builds enough “chairs” for all its residents.
 

• Treat Homebuilding as a Civic Good by Joshua Purvis (Lookout Eugene)

• Displacement by Design by Tobias Peter and Major Ethan Frizzell (Displacement by Design: How Bad Policy Made Housing Scarce, and How We Can Fix It | American Enterprise Institute - AEI)

On Architecture, Meaning, and the Responsibility of Creation

 

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

In my last post, I wrote about the perspective that comes with stepping away from daily practice and how retirement offers me a new vantage from which to view the profession. Freed from the urgency of deadlines and client meetings, I can return to some elemental questions—questions that reach beyond architecture’s role and into the speculative realm of what confers meaning at all. What makes a place feel as though it matters? Is meaning found in form, function, memory—or something else entirely? 

I don’t approach these questions seeking metaphysical certainty. Instead, I find myself aligned with strains of secular humanism and what some call engaged realism—worldviews that prioritize human agency and experience in the physical world, without relying on spiritual or supernatural assumptions. Secular humanism emphasizes purpose through human connection, creativity, and obligation, whereas engaged realism focuses on grounding meaning in tangible experience. 

I’m not advocating for a materialist outlook that is consumerist or reductionist, but rather one founded in the lived, physical world—one that sees meaning as something we construct through interaction, attention, and embodiment rather than something revealed from on high. These frameworks help me articulate a philosophy focused upon care, craft, and honest acknowledgement of impermanence. 

This view doesn’t diminish the value of our experiences; rather, it deepens them. It underscores how much our day-to-day actions matter and how architecture, as a public and persistent act, reflects our shared values. Of course, many find meaning through faith, tradition, or a synthesis of spiritual and secular sources. Some spiritual traditions, like Buddhism or Christian humanism, also emphasize human agency in creating meaning, sharing common ground with secular humanism. But for those of us who look to the material world for guidance, the absence of metaphysical guarantees does not render meaning arbitrary. It simply shifts the burden and the opportunity onto us. 

While some might question whether a secular foundation offers the same permanence or moral authority as traditional belief systems, I’d argue that meaning rooted in shared human experience—through memory, empathy, and collective effort—offers its own resilience, adaptable to diverse contexts and evolving over time. 

If anything, my materialist perspective has affirmed my belief in the role architects play. There may be no cosmic blueprint guiding them, but that doesn’t leave architects adrift. On the contrary, it places the creative and ethical burden squarely on their shoulders: to design environments that support dignity, foster connection, and elevate experience, not because they are pious, but because they are human. This responsibility is not universal in practice; architects often face constraints like budgets, client demands, or zoning laws that prioritize function or profit over meaning. Yet, when possible, prioritizing attentiveness and craftsmanship allows architecture to embody commonly shared values. These ideas resonate with architecture’s potential to shape spaces that nurture relationships and uphold dignity, even in a world without absolute guarantees. 

One of the most rewarding projects I worked on—the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit —embodied this duty. My colleagues at Robertson/Sherwood/Architects and I set out to design more than just a facility. We wanted to create a home for veterans living with dementia, one that honored their lives, their stories, and their continued presence in the world. Though we weren’t invoking religious symbolism per se, we turned to metaphor—the Tree of Life—as a unifying theme. 

The Tree of Life became a way to express continuity, memory, and vitality—concepts especially poignant for a population facing cognitive decline. The metaphor gave form to the building's central courtyard—where soft light and open pathways invite gathering—and to the flanking households. It offered staff, residents, and visitors a narrative structure—both physical and emotional—to orient by. 

While symbols like the Tree of Life may have origins in spiritual traditions, they are not proprietary. They belong to a shared cultural lexicon, shaped by archetypes that resonate across belief systems. We chose the Tree of Life for its broad resonance, but architects should choose metaphors that align with their community’s values and experiences to resonate inclusively. When interpreted thoughtfully, such symbols can bridge diverse worldviews—not to co-opt the sacred, but to affirm enduring principles like continuity, healing, and belonging. The symbolism required no belief in a higher power; its strength lay in its emotional clarity and its capacity to unify rather than divide. The VA project benefited from a supportive client and budget. But even prosaic projects—apartment buildings, for instance—can foster meaning when they reflect how people live, gather, and belong. 

Of course, even in societies where religious belief was widespread, not every structure was shaped by spiritual doctrine. Many buildings—then as now—were designed for utility. But in such contexts, symbolic meaning often permeated the built environment more broadly, even if unevenly. 

This, I think, illustrates something essential about the creative potential of secular worldviews: they need not be sterile. They can embrace myth, metaphor, and meaning, not as dogma, but as tools for evoking compassion and coherence in a fragmented world. A secular imagination can be rich in narrative and aspiration, even if it is grounded in the here and now. 

Architecture begins with function. The building must work. But I’ve always believed that beauty and coherence are not luxuries—they are also vital. In fact, I would argue that they are part of a building’s function. They support well-being, provide orientation, and invite emotional resonance. 

I’ve found guidance in Christopher Alexander’s writings on wholeness, which suggest that spaces balanced in proportion, light, and rhythm foster a harmony that feels both timeless and deeply personal. Alexander’s concept of wholeness refers to a quality of design—achieved through elements like natural light or intuitive spatial flow—that fosters calm and connection, outcomes supported by studies in environmental psychology. Alexander wanted us to think of wholeness as a secular analogue to the sacred—an emergent quality that evokes peace, rightness, and integrity through careful, responsive design. 

There is meaning in that, too. Not a capital-M “Meaning,” but the kind we make through attention and authentic craft. Architecture is one way we respond to the world, shape it, and leave traces of what we cared about, etched in built form. Not all architecture achieves this. Some is driven by expedience, profit, or neglect, which only heightens the importance of doing it well. That buildings age and eventually disappear doesn’t negate their importance. On the contrary, it makes our efforts more poignant—and even more worthwhile. While impermanence can seem like a loss, it reminds us to design spaces that resonate deeply in their time, leaving memories and influences that endure beyond the physical structure. If permanence is unavailable, presence becomes sacred. 

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

This secular, human-centered outlook roots architecture in care and purpose, though practical realities often challenge this ideal. Others arrive at quite different understandings of life’s mission, often through faith or tradition, and I respect that deeply. 

For my part, I’ve found quiet affinity in the writings of thinkers like Albert Camus, Richard Rorty, and Friedrich Nietzsche—not because they offer answers, but because they give voice to a way of being in the world that seems honest. Camus, in facing life’s absurdity, acknowledged the human longing for meaning in a universe that offers none, and yet urged us to act with clarity, empathy, and resolve. Rorty, with his pragmatic pluralism, proposed that in the absence of metaphysical foundations, we might still find solidarity, beauty, and purpose in what we do. And Nietzsche, who saw the absence of inherent meaning as a call to create, challenged us not to despair, but to treat it as an opportunity. We can create, affirm, and live with intention. 

I don’t claim to have lived up to these ideals, but they did influence how I approached my work as an architect and my life in retirement now: as chances to contribute, however modestly, to something that matters, even if only for a time, and only for a few. 

Architects cannot promise permanence, but they can design spaces that carry lasting impact. By drawing on Camus’s insight that we can create our own meaning, architects can design spaces that feel whole, invite connection, and enhance livability. And while wholeness may not explicitly appear on a set of plans or in a specification, it is no less real. To shape environments that honor human dignity is a responsibility—and a privilege—worth pursuing for all who hope to leave a trace of humanity in the world.

Practice to Perspective

A year can pass quickly when you step away from a profession that once shaped your daily life. After more than four decades in architecture—spanning time in Vancouver, B.C., Los Angeles, and the last 36 years in Eugene—my first year of retirement has brought a noticeable shift in pace and a new perspective. No longer immersed in the press of daily responsibilities, I view the built environment with fresh curiosity about its ongoing transformation. 

As time passes, I feel a natural loosening of ties to the habits and cycles of practice. I no longer attend client meetings, visit construction sites, or monitor the latest changes to codes or design tools. My understanding of advancements in building technology or digital workflows isn’t as sharp as it once was. That distance—expected, even healthy—marks the shift from practitioner to observer. While my experience remains a deep well to draw from, I recognize that I’m no longer on the front lines of an ever-evolving field. 

In place of that immediacy, I’ve gained a clearer view of the profession from the outside. Anymore, I don't face the pressures of production deadlines, fee proposals, or unexpected crises that are part of architectural practice. Today’s architects navigate a complex landscape: integrating AI-assisted design processes, addressing climate imperatives, and managing an increasingly intricate web of regulations. I’m glad to leave those challenges to the next generation. My career unfolded during a time when optimism often felt possible, and collaboration—whether in person or, later, virtual—frequently brought teams together on complex projects. That sense of teamwork was one of the most fulfilling parts of the profession. 

Stepping back has allowed me to notice how the built environment continues to change. I’ve been paying closer attention to how Eugene’s newest developments are shaping its identity, or how Springfield balances growth with preserving its character. I've written about the rise of large student housing projects along Franklin Boulevard—towering 11- or 12-story buildings with small, punched windows and a scale that departs significantly from past patterns. These structures represent a type of urban form I wouldn’t have predicted when I first arrived in Eugene. At the time, I hadn’t imagined this trajectory for the area. But now, observing as a resident rather than a practitioner, I see them as part of a broader progression that I continue to follow with interest. 

My curiosity about architecture remains strong in retirement. I find myself engaging more deeply with the discipline’s fundamental questions: What is architecture truly about? What should it aim to achieve? I don’t expect to uncover new answers or truths that others haven’t already explored. But I’m interested in better understanding what architecture means at its core, drawing on the insights of the many thinkers who have tackled these questions before me. Retirement has given me the time to read, reflect, and consider what matters most—the ideals that architecture should strive to uphold. 

This blog remains an outlet for those thoughts. I may no longer be part of the profession’s daily rhythm, but I continue to think about the forces that shape our communities, and the values architects ought to bring to that work. What role should architecture play in our collective future? I may not have the answer, but I know enough to ask. And I’m grateful for the freedom to do so from a place of perspective and quiet engagement.

Memory, Design, and Belonging

"Forced Journey" by sculptor David Clemons, at the Eugene Japanese American Memorial. (my photo)

Over Memorial Day weekend, members and friends of the Japanese American Association of Lane County came together at the Eugene Japanese American Memorial in downtown Eugene for what was officially a cleaning event. Most of the work involved sweeping fallen leaves and dirt from the bluestone paving and carefully brushing the stone pillars and sculpture. Yet the gathering was never simply about maintenance; it was a purposeful act of remembrance and community, a time to reflect quietly on the painful history of Japanese American incarceration during World War II, and to honor those who endured it. Many of the paving stones are engraved with the names of local internees, including then-University of Oregon students, as well as those whose efforts culminated in the memorial itself. The cleaning was a kind of ritual, one that spoke more to reverence than utility.
 
The memorial’s narrative is both local and national. After the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, wartime hysteria and long-standing anti-Asian prejudice converged to devastating effect. Executive Order 9066 authorized the forced removal and incarceration of more than 120,000 people of Japanese ancestry, most of them U.S. citizens, from the West Coast. Many from Lane County were among them. They lost homes, businesses, possessions, and years of their lives to unjust imprisonment in isolated camps across the interior West and South.(1)
 
A parallel injustice struck Canada, where my father’s family and other Japanese Canadian citizens were sent from Vancouver to remote locations such as New Denver and McGillivary Falls, British Columbia, their property confiscated without consent. My father, a teenager then, never spoke of those years. Whether his silence stemmed from pain, shame, or a desire to shield me and my brothers, I’ll never know. It left me with a fragmented sense of that history, a gap I’m only now beginning to bridge through my involvement with Eugene’s Japanese American community and a hoped-for pilgrimage to the site of my father’s internment. The Eugene Japanese American Memorial, with its quiet insistence upon remembrance, has become a touchstone in this journey, grounding my personal search in a shared history.

The Office of the Custodian, Japanese Section was the government body established during World War II as part of the Canadian government's seizure and sale of property that belonged to the Japanese Canadians. This is the "custodian case file," for my grandmother (my father's mother) dated April 30, 1942. Note her internment registration number.  The names and ages of my father (Shiro, 14) and his siblings are listed under "NAMES OF LIVING CHILDREN." Her home address is noted as "Marpole, B.C." Marpole was once an autonomous settlement but is now part of the City of Vancouver.  
 

The Eugene Japanese American Memorial is located on a modest plaza at the intersection of Willamette Street and 6th Avenue, tucked between the Hult Center for the Performing Arts and the Graduate Hotel. It occupies part of what in March of 1942 was the civil control station in Lane County where local Japanese Americans were ordered to report before their forced removal to internment camps. Though the setting of the memorial must contend with the steady din of 6th Avenue’s traffic, the space nonetheless invites quiet contemplation.
 
Planning for the memorial began in 2003, when the Eugene Japanese American Memorial Committee (EJAMC) formed with the goal of creating a permanent site of remembrance. A key turning point came when the Spirit Mountain Community Fund—administered by the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde—awarded a $50,000 challenge grant, spurring the grassroots campaign that ultimately raised the $100,000 needed to bring the project to life.
 
Completed in 2007, the 1,800-square-foot memorial takes the form of a small garden anchored by three engraved stone pillars and a central sculpture. The pillars bear original artwork and text by Kenge Kobayashi, himself incarcerated at Tule Lake as a teenager. Each stone presents a theme: “Justice,” with portraits of civil rights activists Fred Korematsu, Gordon Hirabayashi, and Min Yasui(2); “Perseverance,” depicting a Japanese American family behind barbed wire with a guard tower looming in the distance; and “Honor,” which pays tribute to the service of Nisei soldiers who fought for the United States while their families remained behind fences. The committee held a design competition for the central sculpture, ultimately selecting David Clemons’s evocative bronze piece, Forced Journey, which depicts a young girl seated atop a stack of suitcases and footlockers, her hand extended toward a butterfly. It’s a poignant reminder of lives upended, of innocence amid upheaval.

 

Two of the memorial's three stone pillars: "Justice" on the left, and Perseverance" on the right. (my photo)

The Eugene Japanese American Memorial (photo collage by Tomo Tsurumi).

I know how form and setting can shape memory and experience. The Eugene memorial is small, but it’s potent. It compresses complex truths into a spatial experience that is direct, human-scale, and quietly assertive. The engraved paving stones (by stone carver Lisa Ponder) underfoot connect the past to the present. The stone pillars and their interpretive plaques evoke the layers of injustice, resilience, and sacrifice. And Clemons’s sculpture centers the experience on a single figure, a child on the threshold between innocence and history. The Japanese American Association’s ongoing care ensures the memorial remains a living space of connection.

 

The lessons of 1942 feel increasingly relevant today. The political climate has again made visible the ease with which fear can become policy, and how quickly the rights of targeted groups can erode under pressure. There are those who see parallels between past and present, and who fear the repetition of mistakes we promised never to repeat. The Eugene Japanese American Memorial does not offer resolution, but it does insist on recognition. In this, it fulfills the basic charge of any public memorial: to mark a wound, to hold space for truth, and to refuse forgetting.

Footnotes:

(1)    These 10 sites were the primary facilities where Japanese Americans were held for extended periods, often under harsh conditions in remote locations:

• Manzanar War Relocation Center – California
• Tule Lake Segregation Center – California (initially a relocation center, later designated for those labeled "disloyal")
• Poston War Relocation Center (Colorado River) – Arizona
• Gila River War Relocation Center – Arizona
• Heart Mountain War Relocation Center – Wyoming
• Minidoka War Relocation Center – Idaho
• Topaz War Relocation Center (Central Utah) – Utah
• Granada War Relocation Center (Amache) – Colorado
• Jerome War Relocation Center – Arkansas
• Rohwer War Relocation Center – Arkansas

(2)    Korematsu, Hirabayashi, and Yasui—all American citizens—challenged the constitutionality of the forced removal and imprisonment of those of Japanese ancestry. Each would receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, posthumously in Yasui’s case. The University of Oregon recently named one of its new residence halls to honor Min Yasui.