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. 

Do Androids Dream of the Saturday Market?

Eugene Saturday Market, May 24, 2025 (photos by me)

      

      In an earlier post titled The Human Touch in a High-Tech Future, I explored how architects might collaborate with artificial intelligence (AI) and quantum computing to enhance design. That piece focused on the promise of human–machine partnerships. It leads me now to ponder a fundamental question: what remains uniquely human in the act of architectural authorship? Similar concerns have already surfaced many times across disciplines, from design to ethics to neuroscience, but they feel newly urgent in the context of architecture’s future.

 
My current thoughts on this unfold within the framework of “Construction 4.0,” the building industry’s version of “Industry 4.0”—a term describing the rapid technological transformation of the 21st century.(1) Automation, drones, prefabrication, and machine learning increasingly drive this evolution. McKinsey estimates these tools could boost productivity by 14% and reduce costs by 4–6% across the industry. These numbers are persuasive and help explain the growing momentum behind AI adoption.
 
Still, for those of us who see architecture as a vessel for cultural expression—and closer to home, Eugene’s identity—questions of authorship arise. Can AI craft spaces that carry our community’s emotional and cultural weight? AI can crunch data, but it risks flattening our town’s quirky spirit—its tie-dye heart, its river-shaped essence—into sterile buildings that prioritize efficiency over meaning.

 
I’m intrigued by how others have addressed the question. Architect John Marx wrote about the absence of empathy and visceral engagement in AI-generated work. Tim Fu, a designer who integrates AI into his process, acknowledged that while AI can serve as a powerful creative partner, it lacks the ethical intuition and emotional nuance that we bring to the table. And an ArchDaily piece I read recently asked if AI can truly grasp the local character embedded in traditional forms. These voices contribute to a growing conversation that I follow with keen interest.
 
Consider a hypothetical: the design of a new public school in Eugene. An advanced AI system, trained on local data—the Whiteaker murals, University of Oregon’s historic campus, Kalapuya oral histories, and more—and acting autonomously, proposes a structure featuring cedar beams carved with tribal-inspired patterns and a courtyard echoing the Willamette River’s gentle curve. It simulates emotional responses to spatial arrangements and materials, optimizing the space to maximize perceived warmth and familiarity—without ever feeling them. Robots then fabricate and assemble the structure with flawless precision.
 
If the result looks indistinguishable from one conceived by local creators, why isn’t that enough? Because architecture’s significance lies in its making—the messy, human process of dialogue, iteration, and compromise. A building’s soul emerges not only in how it looks, but in how it’s conceived, inhabited and remembered. This is something AI cannot genuinely experience or interpret.

 

AI hasn’t soaked in the sun at the Saturday Market, savored the mouthwatering aromas of the International Food Court, or heard the off-tempo rhythm of a busker’s guitar beneath the canopy of the Park Blocks. It doesn’t intuit the tensions Eugene’s residents voice in town halls or coffee shops—between preserving what’s beloved and accommodating what’s needed. Without that lived sensitivity, AI risks churning out buildings that may look right but feel wrong. Architects develop this attunement over time, through immersion, observation, and imperfect but essential dialogue.
 
Philosopher Michael Polanyi called this tacit knowledge—the kind of understanding we acquire through experience, not instruction. “We know more than we can tell,” he wrote. Local place-makers carry this kind of knowledge into their work: the feel of a neighborhood, the values Eugene’s residents hold dear (whether whispered at the Farmers Market or shouted at city council meetings), the subtle cues that shape how individuals move through space. No matter how advanced, AI cannot easily replicate this kind of embodied knowing.
 
I’ve seen what happens when projects lack this grounding. In another recent post, I critiqued the vertical growth along Franklin Boulevard—new buildings that, while efficient and contemporary, feel anomalous within our city’s texture. They reflect real estate speculation, not the layered identity of a place shaped by counterculture, craft, and ecological consciousness. These misalignments arise when design prioritizes optimization over story.
 
Architects are not merely builders of forms or organizers of functions. At their best, they perform as translators and storytellers. They interpret and arrange a community's narratives, shaping them into a coherent vision that resonates within a specific context. They guide ethical decisions where no clear rules apply—choices that require judgment, compromise, and a sensitivity that machines cannot mirror.
 
Some argue that AI, trained on local data and refined through feedback, could eventually match or even surpass human sensitivity to place. Others point to its capacity for generating novel forms or convincingly simulating empathy and intuition. These are not trivial claims—and they deserve serious consideration. Maybe AI will one day mimic the outputs of human intuition with remarkable fidelity. But even then, it’s hard to imagine it navigating the moral complexities we face—such as balancing Eugene’s green ethos with the pressures of growth. And even if AI closes that gap, would we want to cede our role in tailoring the environments we inhabit to machines that cannot care in the way we do? Architecture is not only about what is built, but how and why. And those questions—of meaning, memory, and moral judgment—remain deeply human.

 

Perhaps other domains raise similar questions. Can AI replace a great teacher, not merely in conveying facts, but in inspiring a reluctant student? Can it replace a therapist, not just in offering advice, but in bearing witness to someone’s pain? The answer may not be a definitive “never”—history teaches caution with absolutes—but it is surely “not yet,” and maybe “not fully.”
 
So long as architecture seeks to embody values and tell stories, human architects will remain essential—not just as designers, but as custodians of meaning and advocates for community. Androids don’t dream of the Saturday Market’s vibrant chaos. Architects can. And that, I believe, still makes all the difference.

 
(1) “Construction 4.0” is the construction industry’s version of Industry 4.0, which is known as the current, Fourth Industrial Revolution. The First Industrial Revolution mechanized production by means of water and steam power. The Second Industrial Revolution introduced electrification, mass production, and the assembly line. The Third Industrial Revolution involved automation through computers, robotics, and programmable logic controllers. The Fourth (current) Industrial Revolution integrates cyber-physical systems, the Internet of Things, cloud computing, and artificial intelligence, taking automation and connectivity to a new level.

Hope Abbey Mausoleum

 

Hope Abbey Mausoleum (all photos by me)

A recent walk with my friend J.F. Alberson, principal of TBG Architects + Planners, prompted this exploration of the Hope Abbey Mausoleum. With the Eugene Masonic Cemetery as the chosen destination for our weekly stroll, we set out from my home, meandering through south Eugene to the cemetery at 26th & University. Upon arriving, we were fortunate to meet Sara Besch, the cemetery’s business manager, who graciously opened the mausoleum for us to explore its interior. It was my first time stepping inside Hope Abbey. Sara’s insights into its history and the challenges it has faced—ranging from vandalism to unsanctioned fraternity parties on the roof—brought the building’s story to life. Our visit inspired a deeper appreciation for this architectural gem and its enduring legacy.
 
I’ve previously featured landmark buildings in Eugene as part of a series titled Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet. Hope Abbey was a strong contender for the “H” entry, given its architectural and historical significance. However, I chose the Hult Center for the Performing Arts for that slot, so this post stands alone as a reflection on a structure no less deserving of recognition.
 
The word “mausoleum” derives from King Mausolus of Halicarnassus, whose grand tomb, built in 353 BC, was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. By the late 19th century, Americans embraced mausoleums, driven by a fascination with antiquity and a desire for dignified, above-ground burials. In 1912, the Portland Mausoleum Company persuaded Eugene Masonic Lodge #11 to commission a modern 250-crypt mausoleum for $40,000—a substantial sum at the time. Workers earning thirty-five cents an hour completed the building in less than a year.(1)
 
Ellis F. Lawrence, who would later be the founding dean of the University of Oregon’s School of Architecture and Allied Arts, designed Hope Abbey in the rare (for Oregon) Egyptian Revival style. Its massive entrance—adorned with papyrus bundles, lotus blossom urns, and symbols like the sun disc, twin cobras, and vulture wings—evokes death, protection, and eternity. Constructed with reinforced concrete, bronze doors, marble, terrazzo, and eighty golden glass clerestory windows, the mausoleum stood apart from the Classical designs prevalent at the time. Dr. H.S. Wilkinson led its dedication ceremony on June 4, 1914, during which a time capsule—containing newspapers, photographs, and documents, not to be opened until 2914—was sealed. The building earned a place on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980.

 
Beyond its architectural splendor, Hope Abbey mirrored broader shifts in American attitudes toward death and memorialization. During the Progressive Era (1890–1920), mausoleums emerged as modern alternatives to traditional graves, aligning with an embrace of science, technology, and monumental architecture. Their popularity, evident in Hope Abbey’s rapid crypt sales and families reinterring relatives, signaled the shift toward more permanent and elevated interment options. However, by the 1930s, economic hardship and evolving preferences for cremation and simpler graves led to neglect. Hope Abbey’s inadequate endowment, coupled with the Portland Mausoleum Company’s 1929 bankruptcy, left the Masons with scant resources. By the 1960s, the building suffered from a leaking roof, vandalism, and bricked-up windows. Its restoration reflects a contemporary trend: preserving such structures not merely as burial sites, but as vital links to our cultural past.

 
The Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association, a nonprofit, assumed ownership of the cemetery and Hope Abbey in 1994. Through fundraising, grants, donations, and volunteers, they launched a comprehensive restoration: replacing the roof, installing drainage, removing lead-based paint, repainting, landscaping, and replicating the original golden clerestory windows. The $150,000-$200,000 restoration (roughly $250,000-$300,000 in 2025 dollars) transformed the building. Today, it operates again, offering crypts, niches, and window memorials.
 
Hope Abbey’s Egyptian Revival design and connection to Ellis Lawrence underscore its architectural significance. Thanks to Sara Besch’s hospitality and the Association’s efforts, J.F. and I glimpsed a piece of Eugene’s architectural and civic heritage—one that perseveres through the commitment of its community.
 
For more information about Hope Abbey, contact the Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association at (541) 684-0949.
 
(1)  Much of the information in this post is courtesy of the Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association, whose dedication to preserving Hope Abbey ensures its story endures.

The Architecture of Ritual

 

Sistine Chapel (Photo by Snowdog at Italian Wikipedia., CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Last week, as 133 cardinals gathered in the Sistine Chapel to elect Pope Leo XIV—the first American pontiff—the architecture of the space served as much a part of the ritual as the centuries-old traditions themselves. Steeped in custom, the Conclave offered a compelling example of how formalized sequences—actions, settings, and objects—can embody enduring meaning. It demonstrated the deep intersection of architecture and ritual.
 
That intersection came into sharper focus following the recent release of Conclave, the 2024 film adaptation of Robert Harris’s novel. The film, which I greatly admired, portrayed the mechanisms of the papal election with attention to mood and space. Its quiet pacing and the solemnity of the setting—particularly the Sistine Chapel—conveyed how the ritual gained force not just from faith but from repetition, setting, and symbolism. This framework shaped how the real Conclave unfolded, and how it was perceived.
 
The process followed established procedure. The cardinal electors gathered in the Sistine Chapel on May 7. They stayed sequestered through the voting process, which culminated in a successful ballot the next day. Ballots were burned, as tradition prescribes, and white smoke signaled a decision. After accepting his election, the new pope spent time in the Room of Tears before emerging in papal vestments. His appearance on the loggia of St. Peter’s Basilica formally introduced him to the world as Pope Leo XIV.
 
Each step followed a fixed sequence, refined since the 13th century. These weren’t empty gestures. The acts of seclusion, voting, waiting, and revealing each served a purpose. Together they structured the transfer of authority and made it legible. The built environment of the Vatican shaped and amplified the process. The architecture didn't merely house the ritual; it framed it and gave it weight.
 
The Sistine Chapel played a leading role. Michelangelo’s frescoes, including The Last Judgment, surrounded the cardinals with images of divine judgment and salvation. The space, enclosed and richly symbolic, emphasized solemnity and introspection. It fostered deliberation by design, its scale and intimacy reinforcing the gravity of the decision.
 

St. Peter's Square (my photo)

In contrast, St. Peter’s Square staged the event’s public dimension. The crowd gathered there understood the signals. Dark smoke meant inconclusive voting. White smoke confirmed a result. The central balcony of the basilica offered a platform from which the new pope could be revealed, framed by the architecture as both figurehead and shepherd. The spatial sequence—from private deliberation to public appearance—mirrored the transition from selection to leadership.
 
Even the pope’s clothing choices communicated intent. Pope Leo XIV wore the red mozzetta—a shoulder cape that had fallen out of use under his predecessor, Pope Francis. That decision sparked interest because it suggested a return to visible expressions of papal tradition. Francis, in 2013, had declined the mozzetta to emphasize humility and discontinuity with a more monarchical style of papacy. By choosing to wear it, Leo XIV aligned himself with earlier precedent, not necessarily rejecting simplicity but reasserting the symbolic aspects of the office. Vesture, like ritual and architecture, helps define the papal role—not only for the faithful, but for the watching world.
 
Architecture outside religious contexts can function in similar ways. A courthouse, for example, may guide participants through security checkpoints, long corridors, and formal chambers, reinforcing the seriousness of the proceedings. A university campus might use a progression of quads, arcades, and lecture halls to communicate hierarchy, purpose, and community. These sequences don’t rely on belief; they rely on structure. When people move through spaces designed to mark transition, the experience becomes comprehensible.
 

"Habemus Papam"

Ritual and architecture also share a reliance on symbolism. In the Conclave, the white smoke became a decisive symbol, understood across languages and cultures. It gained this power through repetition and context. Likewise, in architecture, repeated formal cues—such as a threshold, a dome, or a columned portico—signal importance or transition. These cues don't need to be literal to be effective. They work because people have learned to recognize and interpret them.
 
Tradition persists not simply because of reverence for the past, but because it serves a practical function, reflecting patterns that have held meaning over time. When a procession follows a defined route, it creates order. When a ceremony unfolds in a particular place, it draws strength from continuity. These enduring forms—examples include the circular layouts of ancient gathering spaces or the thresholds marking transitions—demonstrate how physical design can give shape to shared experience. Architects who understand this can design spaces that support shared purposes, even in secular contexts. A civic plaza can invite assembly. A memorial can promote reflection. A council chamber can foster deliberation. The forms vary, but the intent remains: to shape human behavior and understanding through spatial design.
 
The Vatican illustrates how physical settings can support both timeless ritual and subtle change. The buildings remain constant even as each pope brings a different tone to the office. Leo XIV’s decision to embrace certain visual traditions doesn’t indicate a return to old hierarchies, but it does suggest an interest in reaffirming the symbolic weight of the role. Within the architectural and procedural framework of the Vatican, that kind of gesture has room to resonate.
 
The 2025 Conclave demonstrated how space, sequence, and symbolism work together to create meaning, even where disagreement exists. The Catholic Church includes a wide spectrum of views, yet the Conclave’s shared structure produced a clear, public outcome, offering a framework for moving forward despite differences. Though I am not religious, nor particularly spiritual, the event presented me with insights of broad relevance. In a time when many institutions face fragmentation, the deliberate use of ritual and architecture to foster clarity, continuity, and collective focus remains a powerful tool.

The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook

In an era when cities face compounding pressures—climate disruption, housing scarcity, and the need for more inclusive public spaces—guidance grounded in both vision and practicality is rare. That is what makes The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook stand out. Coauthored by Nico Larco, AIA and Kaarin Knudson, AIA, it offers cities like Eugene the tools to design a more resilient, equitable future.

Published last year, the 438-page volume reflects the authors’ deep understanding of urban form and environmental systems. I’ve followed its release with interest, not only because of Nico and Kaarin’s professional credentials—Nico as a professor of architecture at the University of Oregon, and Kaarin as an architect, educator, and now mayor of Eugene—but because of my own belief in the need for such a comprehensive approach to urban design, and also because I’ve had the opportunity to discuss Eugene’s design challenges with Kaarin firsthand on multiple occasions. In a city wrestling with affordability, climate adaptation, and livability, this book feels both timely and necessary. 

The Handbook’s structure is elegant and intuitive. It organizes over 50 urban design elements into five core topic areas: Energy Use & Greenhouse Gas, Water, Ecology & Habitat, Energy Use & Production, and Equity & Health. Nico and Kaarin examine these topics across four spatial scales—Region & City, District & Neighborhood, Block & Street, and Project & Parcel—which together reveal how decisions at every level influence one another. A parcel-level bioswale, for example, supports district-wide stormwater strategies and contributes to regional watershed health. Transit-oriented neighborhoods at the district scale can dramatically reduce emissions city-wide. In Eugene, these principles are visible in efforts such as riverfront revitalization and the EmX bus rapid transit system. The Handbook offers not just ideals, but implementation strategies that resonate with our local context. 

Crucially, the book’s impact goes beyond sustainability metrics. It is also about good urban form—designing places that function well, feel good, and invite people. The Handbook includes guidance for creating walkable streets, robust stormwater networks, infill development, and affordable housing strategies—each reinforcing not only environmental performance but also quality of life. In this way, its utility transcends its title: it is as much about building desirable, livable communities as it is about reducing emissions. 

One of the most compelling aspects of the Handbook is how it balances high-level theory with on-the-ground practicality. Each design element is accompanied by clear descriptions, case studies, diagrams, and cost/difficulty ratings. For example, Nico and Kaarin note multimodal streets as cost-effective in new developments but more complex in existing urban settings—a valuable nuance for planners, designers, and decision-makers. In Eugene, the Handbook’s ideas apply directly to projects like the Franklin Boulevard redesign, where walkability and transit align with equity goals, or to affordable housing initiatives that integrate green spaces to enhance community health. These examples, blending global insight with local relevance, transform abstract concepts into tangible solutions for professionals and advocates here and beyond. 

Visually, the book’s meticulous design shines. Its diagrams translate complex ideas—of walkable streets and cross-scale stormwater management—into accessible images. These graphics facilitate collaboration, making them useful tools for workshops, design charrettes, and public engagement efforts. 

An introductory page explaining the book's chapter structure.

The Handbook is earning attention nationally. Nico recently shared that it topped Amazon’s bestseller list for Planning and Landscape Architecture, ahead of such enduring titles as The Death and Life of Great American Cities and A Pattern Language. The Handbook’s place alongside A Pattern Language on the bestseller list highlights a deeper parallel. Like Christopher Alexander’s 1977 classic, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook presents its content through modular, interconnected parts. Alexander’s 253 patterns outline a vocabulary for shaping human environments of all scales—from regions to window seats—distilling complex design problems into practical, re-usable solutions. Similarly, Nico and Kaarin’s elements address urban challenges—heat islands, stormwater runoff, walkability—across scales and contexts. Their elements, like Alexander’s patterns, combine flexibly to yield diverse, cohesive outcomes. Both frameworks champion adaptive, systems-based thinking and an iterative approach to design. If Alexander wrote for a world seeking beauty and coherence, Nico and Kaarin write for one confronting climate breakdown and inequality—anchoring their approach in today’s most pressing challenges while echoing a time-tested methodology. 

No book is without its blind spots. While Equity & Health is a foundational topic in the Handbook, it just barely touches on the risk of displacement and gentrification—issues increasingly relevant in neighborhoods like Eugene’s culturally vibrant Whiteaker, where citywide development pressures risk undermining affordability and community cohesion. Likewise, the Handbook acknowledges implementation barriers but could do more to explore how cities build support for infrastructure investments like transit hubs or affordable housing. These gaps are worth noting, especially in a book that aims to balance ambition with feasibility. Still, they don’t diminish the Handbook’s overall value. 

This is a book for a wide audience. Professionals in architecture, planning, engineering, and landscape architecture will appreciate its technical depth. Policymakers and advocates will find clear explanations and actionable strategies. And students will encounter a richly structured resource that bridges theory and practice. In Eugene, where climate and housing challenges are front and center, the book’s ideas—cool or green roofs, transit corridors that prioritize pedestrians, ecological restoration in urban districts—offer a way forward. 

With Kaarin as Mayor, Eugene benefits uniquely from this work. Her combined experience as a designer, teacher, and civic leader positions her to help translate the Handbook’s principles into built outcomes—community spaces, transportation systems, and housing that meet environmental goals without sacrificing human needs. Her presence in local government is more than symbolic; it’s a catalyst for design-led change. 

In all, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook is a triumph. It bridges disciplines, scales, and aspirations with clarity and conviction. While deeper attention to the social dynamics of urban change would strengthen it, its synthesis of form, function, and equity is exceptional. For Eugene—and for any city striving to do better by people, by place, and by planet—it’s not just a guidebook. It’s a blueprint.

Franklin Boulevard’s Vertical Growth and the Policy Void Beneath It

A trio of Eugene's recently built luxury student apartment buildings: "The Standard" on the left, "The Rive" in the distance, and "Union on Broadway" on the right (my photo).
 

A Houston, Texas developer (The Dinerstein Companies) proposes an eleven-story apartment tower (dubbed The Aspire) containing 210 units at the site of the now-shuttered 66 Motel on East Broadway/Franklin Boulevard at Hilyard Street.(1) This project joins the surge of mid- and high-rise residential buildings here in Eugene targeting students, particularly near the University of Oregon, Bushnell University, and in the West University neighborhood. The most recent of these projects are proceeding despite signs of market saturation and the growing gap between this specific housing supply and the city’s urgent need for affordable options.
 
This pattern of growth is unsurprising when viewed through the lens of private development economics. Student-focused apartment towers generate reliable profits, especially those leased by the bedroom. As I wrote back in 2021, these luxury student projects command high rents, benefit from strong and predictable occupancy, and pose relatively low risk for developers as long as university enrollment remains steady. The University of Oregon alone draws approximately 23,000 students (undergraduate and graduate) each year, many from out of state and able to afford rents well above the citywide average. These conditions position student housing as an attractive investment vehicle, even as the broader housing market continues to underserve workers, families, and non-student residents.
 
Eugene’s land use policy framework exacerbates the issue. Along East Broadway and Franklin Boulevard, and at other sites near campus, zoning encourages high-density, multi-story construction. The City also designates major corridors like Franklin and parts of 13th Avenue for urban-style development to promote density and transit access. These policies advance sustainability goals, but they do not necessarily prioritize diverse housing types. The Eugene Code generally addresses luxury student towers and mixed-income housing as if they are similar, despite their vastly different constituencies.
 
State-level constraints further limit Eugene’s options. Oregon law prohibits traditional rent control and, more importantly, bars mandatory inclusionary zoning for rental properties—meaning the city cannot require developers to include affordable units in new apartment buildings unless those units are for sale. While voluntary inclusionary housing programs exist, they rely on incentive structures—typically in the form of density bonuses or fee waivers—that developers may simply ignore when the market renders their projects feasible without them.

"The Aspire," which will be built on the site of the old 66 Motel.

 
The result is a housing pipeline heavily weighted toward student-oriented rentals, with little regard for affordability or long-term community needs. These buildings often feature private bedrooms and bathrooms, rooftop decks, gyms, and leasing models geared toward high turnover and premium rent. While they absorb some of the student population, they do little to alleviate the broader housing shortage and can worsen it by driving up land values, displacing long-term renters, and consuming development capacity that could otherwise foster more inclusive housing.
 
Other university cities have taken stronger action to correct this imbalance. In Boulder, Colorado, the city imposes linkage fees on new residential development, directing those funds toward affordable housing. Berkeley, California, enforces a well-established inclusionary zoning program requiring a percentage of units in new buildings to be priced below market. Chapel Hill, North Carolina, requires that 15 percent of housing in most new developments be affordable, and enforces this requirement with regular audits. Though these measures have not solved their housing crises outright, they reflect a recognition that the market alone will not deliver the diversity of housing necessary to support equitable communities.
 
Eugene could pursue several similar measures within its current legal constraints. The city can strengthen and expand its use of voluntary inclusionary housing tools by offering more meaningful incentives to developers who include below-market-rate units. It could impose higher construction excise taxes and direct those additional funds toward the acquisition of land for affordable housing. It can support nonprofit housing developers with access to publicly owned land and expedited permitting processes. Importantly, Eugene could work more closely with the University of Oregon to address the demand side of the equation—by encouraging the university to invest more directly in student housing, either through new on-campus residence halls or by partnering with mission-driven housing providers to build mixed-income housing specifically for students with modest financial resources.
 
Protecting neighborhoods most vulnerable to displacement is also crucial. The city can adopt anti-demolition measures for older (yet sound) naturally affordable housing stock; create zoning overlays that prioritize family-sized and affordable units; and direct tax increment financing from urban renewal districts into housing stabilization funds. Furthermore, Eugene could expand its engagement with community land trusts and housing cooperatives, which offer long-term affordability through models that remove land from speculative markets.

The Aspire. 

The continued march of luxury student towers along Franklin Boulevard and beyond is not inevitable. It reflects a policy environment that allows the logic of private finance to dominate the planning and development process. This is why I believe the City must adopt a more deliberate and proactive stance toward addressing its housing shortage in a way that serves the full breadth of its population. That means acknowledging the limits of current zoning policy, reevaluating the assumptions behind development incentives, and using every available tool—financial, regulatory, and collaborative—to rebalance the housing ecosystem.
 
The cranes may keep rising, but unless Eugene redirects the framework shaping what gets built, the result will be a city increasingly defined by what is easiest to finance, not by what is most urgently needed. 

(1)    The Aspire project was subject to an Adjustment Review, which the City of Eugene Planning Director approved. You can find documents associated with the Adjustment Review application here. The proposed building totals approximately 420,000 square feet, while the site is 71,170 square feet in area (the floor area ratio is thus 5.9:1). The architect for the project is TCA Architects of Los Angeles. John Hyland Construction will be the general contractor. Hyland built several of the recent student housing towers along East Broadway and Franklin Boulevard, including The Hub, The Rive, 959 Franklin, and Union on Broadway.

Flight Plans and Fiscal Fog

Eugene Airport (my photo)

Back in 2021, I wrote about the Eugene Airport’s ambitious plans to accommodate future growth, improve operations, and enhance the passenger experience. At the time, the COVID-19 pandemic had only recently upended global travel, delaying—but not derailing—EUG’s long-range vision. I’m revisiting the topic, prompted by recent news reports about the airport, as well as the EUG Advanced Terminal Planning Study (which I hadn't been aware of until now) completed by RS&H in December 2022. That 2022 study builds upon RS&H’s 2018 Airport Master Plan and makes clear that the Eugene Airport still sees itself as a regional hub poised for major transformation. Today’s planning optimism does come with an important caveat: funding uncertainties at the federal level could place key elements of the master plan at risk. 

The centerpiece of the airport’s next phase of terminal expansion is Concourse C—a new double-loaded, eight-gate pier that would dramatically increase aircraft and passenger capacity. The preferred design concept strikes a balance between spatial efficiency and passenger convenience. A central concessions hub anchors the concourse, giving vendors shared visibility across all holdrooms. While the connecting walkway is relatively long, it clears apron space for aircraft maneuvering and creates opportunities along the procession for features like a club lounge and changeable art installations and displays tied to the identity of Eugene and the surrounding region. 

Notably, the proposal for Concourse C includes a swing gate system that can be closed off for charter use, providing complete separation from regular terminal operations. Charter travelers—especially university athletic teams—would enter through a self-contained lower-level terminal that includes its own ticketing, screening, baggage handling, and bus-accessible drop-off. The remaining space in the charter facility would be reserved for airline operations support. The images here (from the 2022 EUG Advanced Terminal Planning Study) describe how impactful the addition of the new concourse will be. 

Terminal site plan with expansions. The proposed new Concourse C is in green (source: EUG Advanced Terminal Planning Study)

The 2022 RS&H cost estimates for Concourse C varied between $124.5 million and $146.4 million, with the charter terminal adding another $8.6 million to $9.2 million. Combined with planned expansions to Concourse A, ticketing, baggage handling, parking, and airfield safety systems, the financial scope of the buildout is substantial—currently north of $270 million and rising quickly. 

Night rendering of Concourse C concept (source: EUG Advanced Terminal Planning Study)

The overall, long-term vision, first articulated in RS&H’s 2018 Master Plan and still very much alive as of their 2022 update, is audacious: a complete reorientation of the terminal complex to align with the airport’s parallel runways. Concourse C is the first tangible step in that direction. Ultimately, the goal is to entirely replace the existing terminal building to achieve this end and further increase the number of gates. 

While the concept plan is forward-thinking, the funding outlook is increasingly uncertain. 

Airport officials expected to tap a mix of FAA grants, airport revenues, passenger facility charges, municipal bonding, and private investment to fund the major capital projects. However, recent developments in Washington are casting a shadow over this strategy. The Trump administration’s Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE), spearheaded by Elon Musk, has placed a temporary freeze on federal funding streams—including FAA grants—pending comprehensive audits of federal spending. This sweeping review has delayed or jeopardized portions of nearly $3 trillion in grants, contracts, and loans. 

The FAA itself has come under strain. Hundreds of staff members, including many in key technical roles, have been dismissed as part of the administration’s “efficiency overhaul.” While there has been no direct indication that EUG’s funding is among the grants at risk, the broader implications are unavoidable. Any airport counting on federal support to move forward with major projects must now contend with the possibility of delays, reductions, or outright cancellations. 

That doesn’t mean the plans are doomed. Eugene Airport has a strong record of strategic planning and incremental growth. Its past projects have been phased smartly, triggered by actual passenger demand and guided by a sound development blueprint. With commercial activity rebounding and smaller hub airports enjoying renewed popularity for their ease and accessibility, EUG’s underlying growth projections remain solid. Nevertheless, the pathway to realizing those projections will depend not only on demand, but on stable, reliable funding—something that’s no longer a given in the current political climate. 

As a Eugene resident, I value our airport’s relative calm and convenience compared to the sprawl and congestion of larger terminals. I want to see the Eugene Airport thrive, grow, and adapt. I also recognize that ambitious plans—no matter how well conceived—are only as sound as the financial and political systems that support them.

The Strange Elasticity of Time

Photo by Theodor Vasile on Unsplash

A close friend of mine passed away last week. He was 66. The cause was complications from a massive stroke—unexpected and sudden, though in hindsight, perhaps not entirely surprising. He was not a model of health; regardless, his death unsettled me more than I expected.

Being recently retired—and like many who step away from a long career—I find myself looking backward almost as often as I look forward. When I do, I notice something odd: the past isn’t behaving the way it’s supposed to. It doesn't stretch out behind me like a long road I’ve walked. Instead, decades compress into single moments. I can still see myself in design studio at the University of Oregon, pushing lead across tracing paper, certain that everything lay ahead. I can just as easily recall the day I met my wife—forty-four years ago, though it feels as recent as last week. These memories haven’t faded; they’ve grown more vivid, even as time continues its slow erasure of detail.

There’s something deeply disorienting about that.

The death of a contemporary—a friend since we were in high school—brings this strange elasticity of time into sharper focus. We assume age brings perspective, and it does. But it also brings the realization that the boundaries between youth and old age, beginning and end, are not as firm as we imagined. It’s not that life is short, exactly. It’s that we’re not built to feel its length. Time, as we live it, is all compression and dilation.

I have no lesson to offer. No tidy maxim about seizing the day. Those may be true, but repetition dulls their edge. Here's what I can say: we’re often startled by how fast it all moves—not because we weren’t paying attention, but rather because we were.

Perhaps that’s the part I’m reckoning with. That attention is not a safeguard against impermanence. That no amount of care, love, effort, or presence will anchor a moment in place.

I will miss my friend. I’ll miss the shared shorthand of a friendship more than a half-century long. I’ll miss the fact that there will be no more conversations, no more updates, no more additions to the long story we’ve been telling one another since we were teenagers. 

Still, I carry that story with me. It’s part of the architecture of my life. Like many things I once drew by hand, it is indelible—even as the paper yellows and curls at the edges. And though time bends and stretches, that story holds its shape, a quiet defiance of transience.

Open Space and Civic Ambitions

The fallow North Butterfly Lot as seen from Oak Street (Google Street View).

It’s déjà vu all over again: the City of Eugene stands once more at a pivotal moment in defining its downtown identity. Two parcels—the undeveloped corner of the downtown Park Blocks (a.k.a. the “North Butterfly Lot”), once eyed for a new City Hall, and the former City Hall site, now a parking lot owned by Lane County—await direction. With City Hall now settled in the former EWEB headquarters, the roles of the two sites demand fresh consideration. Community voices, and practical matters, offer starting points, but their future hinges on pending decisions. 

The Park Blocks have long been a public anchor for downtown. Nevertheless, the City of Eugene is proceeding with plans to privatize the undeveloped North Butterfly parcel. The plans include a Zone change from PL Public Land to C-3 Major Commercial. City planners contend that the property’s current zoning limits redevelopment opportunities, favoring the C-3 Major Commercial zone change to enable more housing downtown. Toward achieving this goal, the City will issue a formal Request for Proposals to developers that will include the stipulation that all responses must include housing as a primary component. 

In a March 27 letter to the Eugene Weekly (as well as in his subsequent April 6 guest column in the Register-Guard), William Sullivan opposes this idea, agreeing with Mayor Kaarin Knudson that downtown needs housing but arguing that the Park Blocks site is too small for an apartment building and its parking needs. He calls for a park-focused design competition instead, suggesting features like a playground, a giant “EUGENE” sculpture, bigleaf maple trees, a Frog memorial bench, and a SLUG queen throne to reflect Eugene’s quirks. 

"OTTAWA" sign in Ottawa, Canada. William Sullivan proposes a similar "EUGENE" sign/sculpture for the Park Blocks (my photo).

I do not share Sullivan’s size concern; the parcel is no smaller than the site of the former Lane Community College Downtown Center/Montgomery Ward department store at 1055 Willamette Street. That property is earmarked for replacement with a new apartment complex, for which construction is on track to begin this year. Nor will any mandate to provide associated vehicle parking present an issue as the City of Eugene recently eliminated minimum parking requirements citywide; in any event, existing nearby parking facilities can absorb much of the demand generated by any new development. 

I do agree with William Sullivan that a multifamily housing project feels out of place here; importantly, city founder Eugene Skinner donated the land to the City for its express use as a civic square, not for its eventual sale or lease to a private developer. I believe a public use that activates and frames the northwest quadrant of the Park Blocks would better serve its role as the downtown’s most important open space. An apartment building risks feeling out of place unless its ground floor prioritizes active, public uses. While mixed-use buildings often shape successful squares, I believe this site needs an architectural punctuation mark, not just fabric. 

The Farmers Market Pavilion already provides indoor event space, so duplicating that function seems redundant. Instead, picture a stage framed by a sleek, modern arch for outdoor performances, paired with support facilities and a café—a lively, public-oriented backdrop—with commercial spaces behind facing 7th Avenue. This could buffer 7th Avenue noise, enclose the north end, and if scaled right, complement the park’s openness. This approach aligns with the Park Blocks’ legacy as a communal hub, enhancing rather than encroaching upon it. 

The Park Blocks (left) and the County-owned parking lot (right). The North Butterfly Lot parcel is outlined by the yellow dashed line.

A block away, the former City Hall site (bounded by Pearl Street on the west, 7th Avenue on the north, High Street on the east, and 8th Avenue on the south) presents a different challenge. Since Lane County took ownership in a 2018 land swap with the City of Eugene, the lot has served as a 285-space parking facility—a stopgap after plans for a new county courthouse faltered. The existing courthouse, built in 1954, struggles with accessibility, inadequate space, and outdated systems, handling 33,000 cases annually in cramped quarters. In 2018-2019, I contributed to the conceptual design of a proposed Lane County Justice Center, including a new courthouse, as part of a team led by Robertson/Sherwood/Architects with DLR Group’s Justice+Civic studio. Our vision underpinned a $252 million bond measure, but it failed with 58% of voters opposed, leaving the site’s future unclear. Today, it generates parking revenue—a practical use—but it falls short of its civic potential. Reserving the property for a justice center still makes sense—no viable alternative site has emerged, and the county’s long-term needs persist. 

In her April 3 letter to the Eugene Weekly in response to William Sullivan’s own the week before, Maureen McClain suggested the now County-owned block might host housing rather than a new courthouse, a nod to Eugene’s residential shortfall. Could Lane County pivot to private development? It’s plausible. The site’s value and the city’s housing crunch might entice a sale or lease for apartments or mixed-use projects, especially if courthouse funding remains elusive. However, the land swap’s public-use intent, zoning hurdles, and community attachment to civic spaces could complicate such a shift. And what other site exists downtown that could accommodate a future County courthouse? For now, the parking lot endures, its fate tied to fiscal realities and political will. 

Blocking diagram of one of the 2018 Lane County Justice Center development scenarios (Robertson/Sherwood/Architects w/DLR Group).

If neither the North Butterfly Lot nor the former City Hall site are appropriate for accommodating much needed housing, where do such properties exist? If I could wave a magic wand, and if I had the means to make it happen, my first target would be one of the several surface parking lots, such as the one at 10th and High (owned by Broadway Pearl Associates, LLC) or the lot at Broadway and Pearl (owned by Diamond parking). I imagine such centrally located opportunities as ideal sites, practical alternatives for mixed-use projects that include significant housing components. 

Together, the North Butterfly Lot and the former City Hall block raise a core question: how should Eugene balance utility, growth, and identity? The Park Blocks deserve a civic anchor that preserves their public role, while the former City Hall site holds potential for infrastructure that meets long-term needs.  Should housing override the North Butterfly Lot’s public legacy, or should the City secure it as a defining civic space for the Park Blocks? The answer will shape downtown’s future.