On Architecture, Meaning, and the Responsibility of Creation

 

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit

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

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

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

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

Practice to Perspective

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memory, Design, and Belonging

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

Footnotes:

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

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

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