Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet: V

 

North-facing view of Villard Hall, University of Oregon. The current renovation project is due for completion by the end of this year. (all photos by me unless otherwise noted)

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.

1. The building must be extant so you or I can visit it in person.

1. 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 V, for which my choice is Villard Hall, the second oldest building on the campus of the University of Oregon. I gleaned much of the information that follows from the University of Oregon’s insightful Villard Hall Preliminary Historic Assessment.
 
Villard Hall
Villard Hall anchors the northwest corner of the University of Oregon’s Old Campus Quadrangle. Portland architect Warren H. Williams designed the building, and local designer–builder Lord Nelson Roney with contractor W. H. Abrams completed its construction in 1886. Railroad magnate Henry Villard provided funding, rescuing the university from financial ruin; unsurprisingly, his name came to grace the structure. Initially housing classrooms and offices, Villard Hall now serves Cinema Studies, Comparative Literature, and Theatre Arts.
 
Villard Hall is a rare example of the Second Empire style here in the Pacific Northwest, featuring a steep mansard roof, dormer windows, bracketed eaves, and iron cresting. Its stuccoed brick exterior, with quoins and pilasters, projects verticality and academic purpose. Large double-hung windows with wood frames flooded the original high-ceilinged interiors with light. Williams balanced ambition with practicality, adapting French-inspired elegance to Oregon’s limited 1880s resources. Compared to University Hall (formerly Deady Hall), Villard’s ornate cresting adds subtle distinction while preserving harmony. Its dignified restraint and functional interiors establish it as a regional architectural gem, anchoring the campus with timeless appeal. The National Register of Historic Places listed both buildings in 1972 (Reference nos. 72001083 and 72001082), and both attained National Historic Landmark status in 1977 for their architectural and historical value.
 
In 1949, the Portland firm of Annand & Kennedy added a 400-seat theater on the south side. The university initially dubbed the addition as University Theatre, later renaming it the Robinson Theatre in honor of Drama instructor Horace Robinson. James & Yost Contractors constructed the International-style wing, its flat roof and plain surfaces clashing with Villard’s ornate core—a jarring contrast that disrupted the building’s original unity. More recently, the Robinson Theatre became part of the 2008 Miller Theatre Complex (designed by Hacker Architects), which added the Hope Theatre and an expanded lobby.

Gutted top floor of Villard Hall (photo by Nic Walcott, University of Oregon Communications).

 
The current $93 million Heritage Renovation Project is transforming both Villard Hall and University Hall. Hennebery Eddy Architects leads the design effort, and Fortis Construction is overseeing the construction work. The project adheres to the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for Rehabilitation, preserving the historic stucco façade, windows, and iron cresting to meet National Historic Landmark criteria, while concealing the new seismic upgrades (concrete shear walls and steel bracing) within the unreinforced brick structures. New HVAC, plumbing, electrical, fire safety, elevators, and ADA-compliant features replace outdated systems.
 
The high cost of the Heritage Renovation Project is primarily attributable to the complexities associated with the seismic upgrades to the unreinforced brick structures, plus the restoration of the historic facades. Significant inflation has driven costs up since the 2021 estimate of $64.35 million; undoubtedly, the final sum will be no small amount of change.

Villard Hall, east facade.

Detail view.

When Villard Hall reopens in late 2025, it will offer a new screening lab, Pocket Playhouse acting lab, movement studio, modern offices, faculty commons, gathering spaces, and a new exterior courtyard, merging modern arts education with its historic shell.
 
I never entered Villard Hall while a UO student back in the early 1980s, nor have I crossed its threshold since. Lamentably, I missed an AIA Eugene tour last year of the Heritage Renovation Project that showcased the many improvements. That missed opportunity fuels my eagerness to explore Villard Hall’s finished interior when it reopens, keen to see how this historic building supports today’s Cinema Studies, Comparative Literature, and Theatre Arts programs.

What Makes Eugene, Eugene?

Hanging out in downtown Eugene's Park Blocks on a summer Saturday afternoon (all photos by me unless noted otherwise).

Eugene doesn’t fit easily into a mold. It’s not a showcase city, nor is it a cautionary tale. It’s modest in scale, a little scattered in form, and shaped by a history that’s both typical of American cities and distinctive. For those of us who’ve spent years observing its development, trying to answer what defines Eugene from an architectural and urban design perspective means looking at how its geography, planning choices, and cultural forces have defined its form and character. 

It’s easy to fall back on the familiar shorthand to describe our city: progressive politics and counterculture vibes, the University of Oregon’s outsized presence, the city’s reputation as “TrackTown USA.” But those feel more like branding. To understand Eugene’s underlying and fundamental attributes, I find it helpful to also consider its physical structure: how people move through it, what patterns they recognize, and how the city makes itself understood. 

A river runs through it: A place to watch the Willamette River roll by in Eugene's Riverfront Park.

Our rivers certainly matter. Eugene owes its location to them, not just as scenic amenities but as the original logic for settlement. The Willamette and McKenzie meet here, on a gentle plain at the south end of a fertile valley. Before roads or rail, these waterways carried movement, trade, and life. They sustained the Kalapuyan peoples who lived in the valley for generations, tending open landscapes through regular burning and a deep understanding of the land’s rhythms. The “park-like” setting early settlers described wasn’t untouched wilderness, but rather reflected long-standing stewardship. 

Topography shapes Eugene’s identity. The two buttes—Skinner to the north and Spencer to the south—are visible from much of the city. The line connecting them, Willamette Street, provides an axial thread that lends coherence to an otherwise irregular pattern of development. The orientation isn’t monumentalized, but it registers at the level of lived experience. Not so long ago it was “The Gut,” the street young people cruised along on weekend nights to see and be seen. Today, it still functions as a kind of internal compass. Willamette Street is not unlike the cardo of ancient Roman cities, anchoring the urban structure in a way that feels both intuitive and enduring. 

Google Earth view of Eugene, looking south from Skinner's Butte to Spencer Butte.

The city’s morphology moreover discloses its piecemeal history. The original downtown grid, imposed on a floodplain, proved difficult to extend. Development leapfrogged outward instead. Industry and the railroad drew activity to the west, while the University of Oregon pulled it eastward. Postwar growth followed a familiar pattern: low-density subdivisions, separated land uses, and automobile-oriented infrastructure. The resulting urban form lacks continuity but includes recognizable parts. Some (like the university district, riverfront paths, and older neighborhoods) possess a strong sense of place. Others are still marginal or undefined. 

Eugene isn’t especially dense. It is porous and accessible. The car is still king, but walking or biking are practical, often revealing ways to move through parts of the city. These parts may not always align, but they feel connected in a way that invites orientation and reflection. 

In The Image of the City, Kevin Lynch described how people construct mental maps of their surroundings: how cities are understood through paths, edges, landmarks, nodes, and districts. Eugene supports this kind of cognitive mapping more than many cities of comparable size. The Willamette River, the buttes, the street grid, and a few notable buildings all contribute to a cityscape that, while not especially legible or iconic, is knowable. For those who live here, the structure of the city is intuitively grasped, even if not formally articulated. 

Oak Street near 6th Avenue, looking north.

Eugene’s relationship with Springfield does complicate its spatial logic. The two cities form a continuous urban area, but their identities and planning approaches differ in visible ways. Glenwood, a liminal zone caught between them, remains unresolved—geographically, politically, and economically. This in-between condition has made coherent development difficult. While the metro area functions as a whole in some respects, its internal borders reveal themselves in policy priorities, infrastructure investments, and public perception. 

View of the University of Oregon's east campus area, looking north from the top of the Hayward Field Tower.

Eugene’s physical and civic character owes much to the presence of the University of Oregon, which has long served as both anchor and influence. The campus has expanded incrementally, the result of many decisions accreted over time. Notably, it was here that Christopher Alexander developed and applied many of his most influential ideas about pattern languages, organic order, and participatory design. The Oregon Experiment proposed a framework for campus development rooted in these principles: small-scale, distributed interventions guided by patterns of use and a respect for existing context. The results have been mixed, but the approach is still relevant—not only for the university, but as a broader model for how cities like Eugene might evolve. 

In many respects, Eugene seems well-suited to this kind of incremental, adaptive growth. It lacks the density and economic pressures that drive rapid redevelopment in larger cities, allowing space for more gradual change. That can be a strength. The city’s most successful projects tend to fit their surroundings rather than try to reinvent them. Its better moments, such as the new Riverfront Park now taking shape, emerge not from bold gestures but from steady, attentive work. 

That said, Eugene faces real challenges. Its development patterns have created gaps—spatial, economic, and social. The housing crisis is ongoing and visible. Some neighborhoods, particularly in west and north Eugene (parts of Bethel and River Road), have long contended with limited access to services and infrastructure. And while Glenwood technically falls within Springfield’s jurisdiction, its unresolved condition continues to reflect the difficulties of regional planning and uneven development at the city’s edge. Recent reforms to allow more flexible housing types and encourage compact growth are promising, but implementation remains inconsistent. As in many places, the intentions are sound; the follow-through is the hard part. 

Photo by City of Eugene (13th Avenue Protected Bikeway: 2020 | Eugene, OR Website)

It’s difficult to consider any city today without recognizing the broader pressures that bear down on all of them. Climate disruption, ecological loss, and political instability are not future risks; they’re present and intensifying. These forces will shape the future of cities more profoundly than any comprehensive plan. The question is whether a place like Eugene, with its modest scale, civic engagement, and physical setting, can adapt in ways that endure. Whether it will remain livable, not just in the aspirational sense but in practical and durable terms, is an open question. 

So, what makes Eugene, Eugene? Not a singular identity or defining image, but a set of conditions: geography, accumulated growth, and an unassuming character. A city that hasn’t foreclosed its future and still permits revision, care, and response. In the face of what’s coming, that may not be enough. But for someone who’s spent a working lifetime walking its streets, watching it evolve, and thinking about what makes a place matter, it still feels like a place to start.

Influences: Leon Krier (1946–2025)

 

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

I cannot say that Leon Krier was a formative influence on me during the early stages of my architectural education or career. I was aware of his work, as well as that of his brother Rob Krier, while in architecture school during the late 1970s and early 1980s. At that time, however, their impact seemed more theoretical than practical, and I gravitated more toward figures whose work felt grounded in built achievement. While the Krier brothers shared a critical stance toward modernist urbanism and both advocated for a return to traditional urban form, their approaches diverged in meaningful ways. Leon’s work was more ideologically rooted in classical and vernacular traditions, while Rob’s embraced a more eclectic, sometimes postmodern sensibility. Leon’s voice was distinctive and increasingly difficult to ignore as the years went on.
 
Leon, who died last month at the age of 79, was a Luxembourg-born architect and urban theorist best known for his principled critique of modernist planning and his sustained advocacy for traditional urban patterns. Through his writings and drawings, he consistently challenged the dominant paradigms of the 20th century—zoning, suburban sprawl, and architectural abstraction—arguing instead for compact, human-scaled neighborhoods rooted in local character and craft. He strongly influenced the emergence of New Urbanism and helped shape its intellectual foundation.

 

His 2009 book The Architecture of Community offered an accessible distillation of ideas he had refined over decades. By the time it appeared, my own thinking on urban design already aligned with many of the principles he championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a strong sense of place. What I appreciated most about the book was its clarity and its ability to communicate complex urban design concepts to both professionals and laypersons. It didn't change my thinking, but helped clarify convictions I already held.

Krier consistently advocated for a classical architectural vocabulary, emphasizing symmetry, hierarchy, and traditional proportions. This stance defined his work and drew ongoing criticism. His preference for European typologies and forms has struck some as culturally narrow, particularly within an increasingly pluralistic and global profession. While he defended classical architecture as expressing enduring and universal principles, his work seldom addressed non-Western traditions or alternative design languages. However principled, his vision was not without blind spots.

 

Queen Mother Square, Poundbury (photo by Léon Krier, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Among Krier’s most tangible contributions was the master plan for Poundbury, an urban extension of Dorchester in England commissioned by then-Prince Charles. Developed incrementally over several decades, Poundbury embodies many of Krier’s core ideas: compact form, walkable streets, integrated housing and employment, and architecture drawn from local precedent. 

Ciudad Cayalá (photo by Vicente Aguirre - https://estudiourbano.com.gt/urbanismo/paseo-cayala/, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=104322181

A lesser known but equally ambitious application of his principles can be found in Ciudad Cayalá, a large-scale urban district on the outskirts of Guatemala City, where Krier served as design consultant. Working with local firm Estudio Urbano, he helped shape a master plan based on traditional urbanism, resulting in a community praised for its livability and cohesion, though also criticized for its exclusivity and idealized aesthetics. 

Both Poundbury and Ciudad Cayalá stand as examples of traditionalist theory translated into contemporary communities.

 
The scale of contemporary urban development does raise important questions about the viability of Krier’s approach as a broadly applicable model. His ideal of human-scaled, incrementally built, traditionally styled neighborhoods, though conceptually appealing, can feel insufficient when confronting the urgency of housing shortages, rapid urban migration, and the need for climate-adaptive infrastructure. His principles emphasize long-term livability and coherence, but they have proven challenging to implement at scale, especially in fast-growing metropolitan contexts. To remain relevant, Krier’s ideas may need reinterpretation in hybrid forms that retain their humanist core while engaging with the economic and environmental realities of the 21st century.

Some of Vancouver's characteristic high-rise residential towers overlooking Coal Harbor. The narrow towers rise from pedestrian-scaled commercial podiums while heeding view corridors toward the North Shore mountains (my photo).

Other models do exist. Being from Vancouver, I’ve long regarded the urban planning phenomenon of Vancouverism as a compelling, if markedly different, response to many of the same challenges. Characterized by slender residential towers atop mixed-use podiums, Vancouverism achieves many of the goals Krier championed: walkability, integration of uses, and a coherent urban fabric. Yet it does so without reliance on traditional architectural precedent. Though Krier might have dismissed such an approach as lacking cultural continuity, I view it as a valid and adaptable urban paradigm, appropriate for a cultural context marked by notable heterogeneity. Vancouverism is not without its own limitations, particularly regarding housing affordability and the pressures of real estate speculation, but its success illustrates that multiple models can support livable, resilient cities—even if they diverge aesthetically or arise from different theoretical premises.

One of Leon Krier's polemical sketches.

Krier delivered his provocations through essays, diagrams, and sharply drawn caricatures, earning a reputation as both a dissenter and a polemicist. He rejected the notion that technological progress or avant-garde novelty should define architectural merit. Instead, he argued that a sense of permanence and proportion grounded in human-scale offered a more sustainable and civically oriented path forward. For much of his career, his views placed him outside the architectural mainstream. But over the years, growing concerns about climate resilience, social equity, and livability prompted many in the profession to revisit the values he long upheld.

Krier’s career was not without controversy. Among the more troubling aspects was his 1985 monograph on Albert Speer’s architecture, which some critics have interpreted as an endorsement of a deeply problematic legacy. Beyond this, Krier made statements that many found indefensible and reflective of Euro-centric elitism, if not worse. These views cast a shadow on his work and raise challenging questions about the intersection of architecture and ethics. While his influence on urban design remains significant, it is important to acknowledge these complexities honestly when considering his contributions.

History will not remember Leon Krier for prolific output or stylistic invention, but rather for challenging deeply held assumptions about how we build. What once sounded reactionary or nostalgic has, in many ways, caught up with the moment. As questions of livability and human scale have come to the fore, his work has taken on renewed relevance. His ideas found their way into my own thinking, through their clarity and refusal to fade. That’s how some influences take hold: not through persuasion, but persistence.