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.