Architecture is Awesome: #39 The Comfort of a Corner

Photo by Annie Spratt 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. 
 
Corners are where architecture gathers itself, where walls meet in quiet agreement. They are the natural refuge of a room—a place to tuck oneself away, to observe without being observed. In a world that often pulls in all directions, corners provide a moment of stillness, a chance to pause, to belong.
 
I have long been fascinated by the role of corners in shaping how we experience space. They are both defining and defined, both boundary and shelter. A well-crafted corner can convey strength, elegance, or even mystery. Think of the hushed intimacy of a reading nook pressed into the junction of two walls, or the grandeur of a vaulted cathedral where corners dissolve into shadow and stone.
 

Photo by Alexander McFeron on Unsplash

 
Corners invite adaptation. In our homes, they become places of retreat—an armchair pulled close, a lamp casting a pool of light, a cat curled into the warm geometry of the space. In public architecture, corners can become anchors of human activity, where city blocks turn, where street musicians tuck themselves away, where friends gather for an impromptu conversation.
 

Photo by Partha Narasimhan on Unsplash

 
Some corners impose, while others embrace. The sharp, precise edges of a modernist masterpiece draw attention to the purity of form, while the softened, time-worn corners of an ancient stone wall suggest history and endurance.
 

Seagram Building, New York. Mies van der Rohe, architect (my photo)

 

Seagram Building - Corner construction detail

 
Even beyond the built environment, corners are woven into the way we think and feel. We speak of turning a corner when life takes a hopeful shift. We find comfort in the idea of a corner table, a corner office, a corner of the world to call our own. Corners offer both perspective and protection, a place to press one’s back and feel grounded.
 
In the end, architecture is about making space for life to unfold, and corners remind us that even in the most open plans, we sometimes seek enclosure. They give us pause, they hold us, and they remind us that finding a corner to call our own—whether for reflection, refuge, or simply a moment of stillness—is truly awesome.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome: #40 Light and Shadow

The Brutalist

My wife and I sought refuge from Friday afternoon’s rain by immersing ourselves within the imagined world of a great movie—The Brutalist. Directed by Brady Corbet, the film is hailed by many critics as a work of towering ambition, worthy of the highest industry awards. Indeed, some even deem it a masterpiece. Given its title, subject matter, and the hype surrounding it, I had to see it.

 
As someone who has lived the life of an architect, I brought high hopes that The Brutalist would provide the kind of cinematic experience I’ve long desired—one that fully embraces the transformative power of visionary design and conveys its profound impact on both creator and society. While The Brutalist is richly composed and thematically dense, it ultimately left me unfulfilled. It isn’t a film about architecture but rather one about the trauma and compromises of its protagonist, Hungarian émigré architect László Tóth.(1) At best, architecture functions as a metaphor rather than a subject. In doing so, I think Corbet missed an opportunity to explore why architecture—specifically Brutalism—matters.
 
The film charts the rise and fall of the fictional Tóth, a Holocaust survivor who immigrates to America and is commissioned by wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren to design a grand, imposing project. While The Brutalist touches on themes of artistic integrity, patronage, and the weight of history, it never truly explores why László is so devoted to Brutalism or what drives his stylistic choices beyond vague notions of resilience and monumentality. The film barely reveals the details of his designs, let alone the creative process behind them. There's little sense of how his ideas evolve, what his influences are, or how his work engages with the architectural discourse of the time. Corbet frames László’s work more as an externalization of his inner turmoil than as a deeply considered architectural philosophy. I do suppose we can see the raw, exposed concrete he designs with as a representation of his resilience and the weight of his past or as the emotional barrier he erects to protect himself from further pain.

 
While undoubtedly Oscar-worthy, Adrien Brody’s portrayal of László Tóth as a deeply principled but emotionally fractured and damaged man veers into the same tortured genius archetype he embodied in The Pianist. There, his character’s suffering was visceral, grounded in a historical reality that needed no embellishment. In The Brutalist, however, the film’s artistic affectations distanced me from Tóth’s pain rather than drawing me into it. Additionally, Felicity Jones, as László’s wife Erzsébet, provided an emotional anchor, but her character’s development was limited. Guy Pearce’s Van Buren, while compelling, remained enigmatic in ways that sometimes felt underwritten rather than deliberate.
 
For a film that spans decades and continents, The Brutalist struggles with pacing. Despite its three-and-a-half-hour runtime (including a 15-minute intermission), I found key transitions jarringly abrupt. László’s arrival in America and subsequent ascent in Van Buren’s orbit happen with little sense of progression—he goes from immigrant to major commission without much attention to his professional evolution. Later, the film’s climax feels similarly rushed, offering only a cryptic glimpse of his final project. Corbet’s decision to leave the exact nature of Tóth’s ultimate work open to interpretation might be an artistic choice, but it felt less like deliberate ambiguity and more like an avoidance of fully engaging with architecture as a discipline.
 
In this regard, The Brutalist reminds me of another film that ostensibly placed architecture at its thematic core—Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis. Both films are burdened by their own ambitions, using architecture as a narrative vessel rather than a fully realized subject. When I reviewed Megalopolis, I noted its thematic parallels to The Fountainhead: while Ayn Rand’s novel champions individualism and objectivism, Coppola’s film critiques the dangers of unchecked ambition and the ethical complexities of utopian idealism. With The Brutalist, the Fountainhead comparison also applies, but in a different way—Corbet’s film is less about ideology and more about the personal costs of creation.
 
Despite my reservations, I can't deny The Brutalist's craftsmanship. The production design is impressive in its attention to period details, such as the costuming and depictions of the society forces that shaped and constrained László’s life. The use of real locations, like the marble quarries in Carrara, Italy, adds authenticity. The cinematography, shot in VistaVision (a large format last used on a major motion picture in 1961) is likewise evocative, though at times its desaturated dreariness felt at odds with the grandeur the film seems to aspire to.
 
I left The Brutalist feeling much as I did after watching Megalopolis—impressed by its ambition but frustrated by its execution. I still long for a film that truly captures the power of architecture as an art form, one that illuminates why it matters, how it shapes us, and what drives those who dedicate their lives to it. The Brutalist acknowledges architecture’s emotional and symbolic weight, but it stops short of truly engaging with it. In the end, it is a film about an architect, not a film about architecture. And for a work that promised to be steeped in the language of design, that feels like a missed opportunity.
 
(1)  Some have suggested that Tóth is loosely inspired by Marcel Breuer, another Hungarian architect who immigrated to the U.S. and designed buildings that exemplify the Brutalist ethos. 

Architectural Freedom vs. Political Mandates

 

“Federal public buildings should be visually identifiable as civic buildings and respect regional, traditional, and classical architectural heritage in order to uplift and beautify public spaces and ennoble the United States and our system of self-government. Such recommendations shall consider appropriate revisions to the Guiding Principles for Federal Architecture and procedures for incorporating community input into Federal building design selections.”
Promoting Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture – Donald J. Trump, January 20, 2025
 
With President Trump’s reintroduction of the Promoting Beautiful Federal Civic Architecture directive, we find ourselves revisiting an issue I first addressed in 2020 and then again in 2023. As I argued in both of those instances, the mandate wasn’t then nor is it now solely about aesthetic preference; it's a continuation of a troubling trend wherein architecture becomes weaponized in the service of cultural and political warfare.
 
In those earlier posts, I discussed how idealogues outside the architectural profession are exploiting the traditional vs. modern binary. These forces cop-opt historicizing designs to fulfill agendas rooted in nativism and the preservation of a narrow cultural identity. I referenced Robert Bevan's Monumental Lies: Culture Wars and the Truth about the Past. In that book, Bevan highlighted the long-standing push for nativist traditionalism under the cloak of "beauty," a narrative the directive clearly calls to mind.

 
Trump’s reissuance of this directive underscores my concern about the political misappropriation of federal architecture. It's not just a matter of style imposition; it is also what the directive signifies to a small but significant base that ominously equates traditional architecture with cultural purity or heritage. Yet, as I said before, not every advocate for classical design aligns with far-right politics, nor does every modernist lean left. Perhaps naively, I prefer to regard beauty in architecture on the basis of its intrinsic qualities, freed from the political motivations that may have biased its shaping.
 
To underscore this point, I can readily cite widely admired federal projects that have embraced architectural diversity without resorting to traditional or classical expressions. For example, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, designed by Maya Lin, uses a modern, minimalist design to evoke profound emotion and remembrance. The National Museum of African American History and Culture by the team of David Adjaye, the Freelon Group (now Perkins & Will), Davis Brody Bond, and SmithGroup reflects its cultural narrative through innovative architecture, earning widespread acclaim. The public has likewise embraced the National September 11 Memorial, featuring a modern design by Michael Arad and Peter Walker, for its poignant and contemporary approach to memorialization.

Vietnam Veterans Memorial (photo courtesy National Park Service, CC BY 2.0 <photo by Oren Rozen, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimeia Commons)

 

National Museum of African American History and Culture (photo by Frank Schulenburg, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

 

National September 11 Memorial & Museum (photo by Paul Sableman, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

At the opposite end of the stylistic continuum, the new Federal Courthouse in Mobile, Alabama (designed by Hartman-Cox Architects and completed in 2018) is a neoclassical design, featuring grand columns and traditional detailing. Community leaders and citizens of Mobile praise the building for its aesthetic appeal, functionality, high energy efficiency (achieving LEED Gold certification), and sourcing of its limestone cladding from a nearby quarry.  

Federal Courthouse, Mobile, AB (photo by By Chris Pruitt - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=146867882)

 
These examples showcase the richness that comes from allowing architectural expression to be as diverse as the nation it serves. They also underscore the importance of context as a necessary yardstick for design, suggesting that federal architecture can and should reflect the unique circumstances and histories of each project’s specific physical and cultural settings. Architects should be able to view their work as a broad spectrum of possibilities and not exclusively through classical or traditional lenses prescribed by politicians.

Ideally, architects will resist the politicization of federal architecture by embracing professional autonomy, promoting inclusive design principles, and advocating for architectural freedom. Education, collaboration with diverse stakeholders, and a commitment to ethical practices are vital to ensuring that our buildings tell the story of a diverse, vibrant nation, and do not function as stand-ins for virulent political rhetoric. These are not “woke” concepts; rather, they are common-sense responses.(1)
 
The directive is a call to action. For my part, I will continue to champion an architecture that is genuinely of its place, time, and people, one that bridges divides as opposed to widening them. Everyone can endeavor to safeguard the pursuit of beauty and common-sense design from political weaponization, ensuring that federal architecture is a reflection of our collective identity and not a divisive nod to a bygone era.
 
As it did when Trump first rolled out this directive in 2020, the American Institute of Architects (AIA) has again voiced its strong opposition, reaffirming its stance that architecture should not be dictated by a uniform style but rather designed to reflect the diverse communities it serves. The AIA's concern is that mandating architectural styles limits innovation and could harm local communities by imposing a one-size-fits-all approach to design.
 
I do want to make it clear that my opposition is not to the use of traditional or classical architectural vocabularies. These styles can offer beauty, functionality, and a sense of continuity with history where appropriate. My concern lies with the extent to which the mandate strips away the possibility for design to evolve and respond innovatively to contemporary contexts.

(1) An article on DesignBoom points out how Trump's directive is in apparent contradiction with the goal of limiting government intervention often promoted by Trump and other conservatives. The article says that while Trump has consistently argued against bureaucratic red tape and advocated for reducing regulations, the directive does the opposite by creating a set of stylistic standards that architects of federal projects must follow.

The Architecture of Restraint

Salk Institute for Biological Studies – Louis Kahn, architect  (photo by Jason Taellious, CC BY-SA 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons) 

 

“Architecture, even at its most accomplished, will only ever constitute a small, and imperfect (expensive, prone to destruction, and morally unreliable), protest against the state of things. More awkwardly still, architecture asks us to imagine that happiness might often have an unostentatious, unheroic character to it, that it might be found in a run of old floorboards or in a wash of morning light over a plaster wall—in undramatic, frangible scenes of beauty that move us because we are aware of the darker backdrop against which they are set.”

― Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness 

In architecture, as in life, the allure of excess can be difficult to resist. Towering skyscrapers, opulent stadiums, and dazzling facades captivate our imaginations, yet they often come at a cost—both to the environment and to our connection with the spaces we inhabit. I started above with the quote from The Architecture of Happiness because, like Alain de Botton, I believe restraint, not extravagance, holds the key to creating architecture that is meaningful and enduring. 

Restraint requires courage given how much our culture has celebrated grandiosity. The path of restraint demands a deeper reflection on the purpose of design and its impact on society. Architects who walk this path face challenges—balancing sustainability, functionality, and aesthetics—while not succumbing to the need for gratuitous display. 

Restraint does not imply a lack of ambition. Rather, it embodies a thoughtful approach that prioritizes purpose over spectacle and seeks to anchor architecture in values that reflect what we most deeply respect. Meaningful design connects us to our surroundings and ourselves, shaping spaces that resonate with our aspirations and needs. Alain de Botton reminds us that our environments hold the power to reveal our better selves. Through design, we shape not only physical spaces but also the ideals we wish to uphold—a profound responsibility for any architect. 

Restraint, be damned: SoFi Stadium, which cost an estimated $6 billion to construct (photo by Troutfarm27 - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=130317008)

The seductiveness of "more, more, more" is easy to understand. Media coverage and design awards often extoll the extraordinary, the record-breaking, and the visually striking. Projects like SoFi Stadium in Los Angeles—undoubtedly a marvel of engineering—seize the spotlight, while more modest yet equally important works of architecture may go unnoticed. But as these structures push the boundaries of scale and spectacle, they often overshadow the essential qualities of human-centered design. 

Consider Louis Kahn’s Salk Institute in La Jolla, California. With its serene courtyards, disciplined material palette, and masterful use of natural light, the Salk embodies restraint in every detail. It is a place where function and beauty coalesce, where the simplicity of its design serves the purpose of advancing human knowledge. This is architecture that elevates and endures—not through wasteful excess but through clarity of intent. 

Restraint is also a practical imperative. As environmental concerns grow and resources dwindle, the costs of unchecked ambition in architecture are undeniable. Extravagant designs consume vast amounts of energy, materials, and labor, often with limited regard for their long-term impact. By contrast, architecture rooted in restraint aligns with the principles of sustainability and modesty, addressing the urgent need for designs that tread lightly on the planet. 

The appeal of restraint is gaining traction in response to affordability concerns and shifting cultural values. Today, more people recognize that excess can feel alienating and, paradoxically, hollow. The pursuit of grandeur for its own sake can result in spaces that prioritize show over substance, whereas architecture generated within a discipline of restraint feels more timeless and grounded. Such designs are more apt to foster a connection to place and a sense of permanence that extravagant projects often lack. 

This ethos extends beyond individual buildings to the broader urban environment. The cohesive streetscapes of cities like Paris and Barcelona are defined not by a cacophony of attention-seeking structures but by harmonious “background” buildings. These unassuming designs provide continuity, creating a canvas against which iconic landmarks can shine. Such urban restraint enhances the experience of place, offering spaces that invite interaction and reflect the collective values of the community. 

Thorncrown Chapel – E. Fay Jones, Architect (photo by EEJCC, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons) 

Museum of Roman Art - Rafael Moneo, Architect (photo by Tomás Fano - Flickr, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12757818)

Restraint does not stifle creativity; it channels it. By working within constraints, architects innovate in ways that honor both the practical and the poetic. An oft-cited example is E. Fay Jones’s Thorncrown Chapel in Arkansas, where the modest use of timber and glass harmonizes with the surrounding forest to create a spiritually resonant space. Similarly, Rafael Moneo’s National Museum of Roman Art in Spain achieves timeless elegance through understated materials and a deep respect for context. 

Our world has too often glorified excess, making restraint a powerful counterpoint and a virtuous prerequisite to architecture that endures and is deeply resonant. By exercising a culture of restraint, we are more likely to craft spaces that align with our better selves and remind us of the values we hold dear. We can resist the fleeting draw of extravagance and contribute to a built environment that is as meaningful as it is beautiful. In doing so, and as Alain de Botton so eloquently argues in The Architecture of Happiness, we reaffirm that great architecture is not necessarily defined by its scale or spectacle but by its ability to hold us in a vision of what we truly need. 

Wildfires, Climate Change, and the Architecture of Resilience

Los Angeles fire map, January 12, 2025 (Google Maps)

As I write this, firefighters are making determined progress toward containing the devastating wildfires that have ravaged large swaths across the Greater Los Angeles Area. The Palisades Fire is 11% contained, while the Eaton Fire is 15% contained. However, at least 153,000 residents are still under evacuation orders, and the situation remains precarious. Fires have raced through the landscape, reducing homes, businesses, and irreplaceable landmarks to ashes. Communities are devastated and in need of urgent help. My heart aches for those who have lost their homes and for the families of those mourning loved ones. 

My wife and I spent two formative years in Los Angeles during the mid-1980s, so the areas touched by the fires are familiar to us. The wildfires are decimating or threatening numerous communities throughout the metro region, including Pacific Palisades, Altadena, Pasadena, Brentwood, Encino, Hollywood Hills, Sylmar, Runyon Canyon, Mandeville Canyon, Bel-Air, and Westwood. We lived in an apartment building on S. Barrington Avenue in Brentwood, one of the areas now endangered by the expanding Palisades Fire. The conflagration is spreading eastward, causing extensive damage and leading to evacuation orders for Brentwood residents and the temporary cancellation of on-campus classes at nearby UCLA. The Palisades Fire alone has consumed over 23,000 acres, roughly equivalent to 36 square miles or about 17,400 football fields. 

Much of LA’s rich architectural heritage is at risk, including the historic Craftsman homes of Pasadena and mid-century Modern masterpieces in the Hollywood Hills. The wildfires have claimed the Andrew McNally House, the Zane Grey Estate, and the Will Rogers Estate. These losses represent not just buildings but pieces of the City of Angels’ historical fabric. Noteworthy structures under immediate threat include the Getty Center, the Hollywood Bowl, and the Eames House (among other important Case Study House Program examples). Culturally significant sites destroyed by the fires include the Bunny Museum in Altadena and the Reel Inn in Malibu, beloved by locals and visitors alike. These structures were iconic examples of Los Angeles' cultural legacy, and their destruction is a significant blow. 

Andrew McNally House, former home of the co-founder and president of the Rand McNally publishing company, listed on the National Register of Historic Places (photo by Einbierbitte, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Relief efforts are currently underway to help those whose lives have been turned upside down by the fires. Organizations like FEMA and the Red Cross are providing immediate aid, while companies such as Disney and Paramount are donating large sums to support response and rebuilding efforts. The federal government has also declared a major disaster, allowing for increased federal help and resources to aid in recovery.

Rebuilding after such widespread destruction will present enormous challenges, both practical and political. The sheer scale of the damage, with over 19,000 structures destroyed (so far), requires a coordinated effort from local, state, and federal authorities. Political obstacles include navigating bureaucratic red tape, securing funding, and ensuring equitable distribution of resources. There will be a need to reform and streamline the permitting processes to expedite rebuilding. Adding to the complexity, many homeowners in the affected areas recently lost their insurance coverage. State Farm, one of the largest insurers in California, canceled hundreds of homeowners' policies last summer in Pacific Palisades and other high-risk areas. This move left many residents scrambling for coverage through the California FAIR Plan, the state's insurer of last resort. The lack of adequate insurance coverage exacerbates the financial strain on homeowners, making the rebuilding process even more challenging.

All told, the scope of rebuilding in the aftermath of the Los Angeles fires will be vast. The long-term recovery process could span five years or more. During this time, affected residents will need ongoing support to cope with the challenges of displacement and rebuilding. Temporary housing, financial assistance, and mental health services will be crucial in helping them navigate this difficult period.

The Palisades Fire viewed from the roof of a high rise building in downtown Los Angeles (photo by Toastt21, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

We here in Oregon are not unfamiliar with the devastating impact of wildfires, which is why we watch what is tragically occurring in Los Angeles with recognition and empathy. Our wildfires likewise threatened homes (or destroyed them outright) and rendered familiar landscapes unrecognizable. Their increased frequency and severity in recent years is a wake-up call to anyone who is paying attention. Rising average temperatures, prolonged droughts, and changing weather patterns have created conditions that are more conducive to their occurrence. Case in point: The current water year is the driest ever on record for southern California. Vegetation is tinder dry. The intensity of the wildfires we are witnessing now in California should not come as a surprise.

Communities affected by the wildfires must consider the broader context of climate change and its impact as they rebuild. This means designing buildings and communities that are not only resilient to wildfires but also adaptable in other ways to the changing climate. Though I spent my working life as an architect, I do not consider myself an expert when it comes to resilient design. I do believe using fire-resistant materials, designing buildings with defensible space, and integrating advanced fire suppression systems are crucial. Architects and urban planners can prioritize these strategies to protect structures and their occupants from future wildfires. The wildfires also highlight the importance of urban planning in fire-prone areas. Zoning regulations should consider the natural landscape and the potential for wildfires. Creating buffer zones, maintaining vegetation, and ensuring adequate access for firefighting equipment are crucial steps in mitigating the impact of wildfires on urban areas.

New technologies present opportunities for enhancing the resilience of buildings. Smart home systems can monitor air quality and detect fires early, while drones and satellite imagery can provide real-time data to assist in firefighting efforts. Embracing these technologies can help us design safer and more resilient structures. Additionally, architecture can incorporate both active and passive measures to adjust to severe weather conditions. For example, passive measures, such as using higher insulation values and thermally resistant glazing, can help buildings withstand extreme temperatures. Active measures, such as automated shading systems, can adjust to changing weather conditions to protect buildings and their occupants. Community involvement in the rebuilding process can also help ensure new structures meet the needs of residents while being better prepared for future wildfires. This can include public meetings for input, collaborative design workshops, and volunteer programs to support rebuilding efforts. Such involvement fosters a sense of ownership and resilience within the community, helping it to recover, adapt, and succeed in the face of adversity. 

A Chase Bank branch on Sunset Boulevard burning on January 8 (photo by CAL FIRE_Official, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

I fear we've already passed the tipping point beyond which runaway warming and its inevitable impacts will be a fact of life. This prompts some critical questions: Besides designing for resilience, what other actions can we take to mitigate the consequences of climate change? How will we afford the costs of massive recovery efforts time and time again? The financial burden of rebuilding after each disaster is immense, and as these events become more common, the strain on resources will only grow. Addressing this challenge will require innovative funding solutions, increased investment in resilient infrastructure and, most importantly, a collective acknowledgment of the climate crisis and its implications. The scale of the necessary mitigation efforts will otherwise cripple the world’s economies.

Ultimately, the magnitude of the response will instigate a paradigm shift on a global scale. Acknowledging the role of climate change in the increased risk of wildfires is imperative. How future generations live on this planet will necessarily be different if they are to survive, let alone thrive. The wildfires in Los Angeles are a powerful reminder of the need for resilient architectural design and thoughtful urban planning. My thoughts are with everyone affected by these fires, and I hope we can all find ways to support those who are enduring this difficult time.

Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet: U

U.S. Post Office, Eugene (photo by Tamanoeconomico, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

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

1. The building must be of architectural interest, local importance, or historically significant.
2. The building must be extant so you or I can visit it in person.
3. Each building’s name will begin with a particular letter of the alphabet, and I must select one (and only one) for each of the twenty-six letters. This is easier said than done for some letters, whereas for other characters there is a surfeit of worthy candidates (so I’ll be discriminating and explain my choice in those instances).

This entry’s selection begins with the letter U, for which my choice is Eugene’s centrally located branch of the U.S. Post Office. As is the case now with several of my entries in the Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet series, I gleaned much of the information that follows from the building’s listing on the National Register of Historic Places.

U.S. Post Office

I was hardly familiar with Eugene prior to my studies in architecture at the University of Oregon. Upon arriving in September of 1980, I distinctly remember much of Eugene’s architecture underwhelming me, the university campus and a few pre-urban renewal examples downtown notwithstanding. Of the latter, the U.S. Post Office (built 1938-1939) stood out. An example of the classically inspired Federal Art Deco idiom (rare for Oregon and the only one of its kind in Lane County), the building is unique thanks to its symmetry, scale, polychrome terra cotta, and WPA murals. I immediately found the building appealing, and it continues to be among my favorite works of architecture here in my adopted hometown.

I like the fact that, architecturally speaking, the most prominent post office in Eugene is found on the north edge of downtown along Willamette Street. As a true community landmark, the building is sited fittingly on the city’s principal commercial and cultural axis. 

The architect Gilbert Stanley Underwood designed Eugene’s U.S. Post Office. Underwood is historically important for being responsible for the design of several of the great lodges of the National Parks and National Forests (including Timberline Lodge), stations for the Union Pacific Railroad, as well as more than 20 post offices, courthouses, and other major buildings commissioned under the auspices of the Federal Architects Project. His mastery of both the Rustic Style for the great lodges and the Art Deco style for his Union Pacific Railway stations and federal buildings speaks volumes about his design talent. 

Detail view of the polychromatic terracotta cladding on the Willamette Street façade (photo by Tamanoeconomico - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79242947) 

Art Deco architecture, especially in the context of the New Deal, is fascinating for its unique blend of modernism and classicism, embodying the fundamental optimism of the style. Like many other Art Deco projects, Eugene’s U.S. Post Office possesses flattened ornamentation and clean lines denoting modernity, combined with vaguely Egyptian and Cubist allusions. The building showcases blue and cream-colored terracotta, with black and buff-colored accents. Pilasters separate the multicolored window bays. Overall, the Willamette Street-facing main façade clearly signals its importance as a public institution by means of the scale and Classically symmetrical composition of its architectural features. 

Lobby (photo by Tamanoeconomico - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=79242948) 

Inside, the lobby is somewhat cramped with its public service counter, mailboxes, and intrusive vestibule, especially during busy times when many customers must queue up; the tightness is relieved somewhat by its tall ceiling. The oddly random and spare placement of marble wall panels is puzzling, and the overabundance of necessary signage is visually distracting. 

Serving to relieve the lobby’s banality are the two murals painted by Portland artist Carl Morris, one at each end of the space. The murals--titled Agriculture and Lumbering—are a legacy of the United States Department of the Treasury’sprogram to bring outstanding works of art within reach of as many American citizens as possible. The program set aside 1% of the cost of construction of new post office buildings expressly for this purpose. Morris’ murals for the Eugene Post Office are representative of these paintings in that they are “American scenes” depicting ordinary citizens at work. 

Agriculture (1943), mural by Carl Morris, north end of the lobby (photo: public domain) 

Lumbering (1943), mural by Carl Morris, south end of the lobby (photo: public domain) 

Beyond their visual appeal, I’ve always appreciated the cultural significance of New Deal and WPA buildings. They exist as symbols of resilience, reflecting the federal government’s efforts to provide jobs and stimulate the economy during the depths of the Great Depression. They were intended to be monumental and enduring, symbolic of the stability and permanence of important public institutions during an uncertain time. They stand today as exemplars of a distinct and widely admired style of architecture, and as a testament to the broad social and cultural impacts of the sweeping relief, recovery, and reform programs enacted by the administration of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. 

I’m hopeful Eugene’s one and only example of its architectural type will continue to serve for many years as the city’s downtown branch of the U.S. Post Office. I can’t imagine it assuming another, more suitable role befitting its architecture, one commensurate with its location, prominence, and place within Eugene’s architectural heritage.