For nearly fifty
years, I’ve lived alongside a growing collection of architectural periodicals. Architectural
Record, Progressive Architecture, and others filled boxes and lined
shelves, slowly expanding from a modest reference library into a quiet presence
throughout our home. These magazines captured decades of design, critique, and
innovation, not just as resources, but as companions, inspiration boards, and
time capsules.(1)
Since retiring, I’ve
begun decluttering the house my wife and I share. Among the items leaving are
the professional journals I’ve amassed over a lifetime in architecture. A
broken office chair, an old lawnmower; those are easy enough to dispose of. But the
archive? I haven’t read every issue from cover to cover, yet each one is
meaningful to me because it marks a moment in contemporary architectural
thought that evolved alongside my schooling and career. Letting them go isn’t
just a logistical choice. It feels like letting go of something personal.
I first subscribed
to Architectural Record and Progressive Architecture while still
in high school. I did so with the same eagerness I later brought to design
challenges. I read closely, followed trends, and flagged issues with ideas
relevant to my work. Before long, I had amassed hundreds and hundreds of
volumes. The collection outgrew our bookshelves and began migrating into every
available space: a closet here, a corner there, eventually the attic. The
expansion was slow but steady.
Many issues
throughout the years stand out to me: my very first copy of Architectural Record,
which featured the 1976 United Nations Conference on Human Settlements that Vancouver, B.C. hosted; the one with an early mention of “sustainable design” long before it
became mainstream; others that featured buildings by architects I greatly
admired.
A recent visit to
the Eugene Public Library brought my dilemma into sharper focus, reinforcing my
decision to part ways with my collection. Wandering through what was once a
robust architecture section, I was surprised to find how much had quietly
disappeared. That moment left me wondering: If long-held books can vanish from
institutions built to preserve knowledge, what does that mean for the legacies
we hold at home? Stewardship, it seems, isn’t only about saving what’s old —
it’s about recognizing when to pass things on and how to do so thoughtfully. In
that light, letting go of my collection is not abandonment, but adaptation.
My initial (and reluctant)
thought was to simply consign the magazines to recycling. Selling individual
issues seemed daunting, and I doubted any organization would take them in bulk.
On a whim, I contacted the nascent Northwest Center for Architecture(2) here in Eugene to
see if they might be interested. To my surprise, board president Abraham
Kelso responded with an enthusiastic yes. Soon, the entire lot will be
headed to the Center, where the magazines can be appreciated by others who
value the profession’s history.
I won’t be keeping a
handful of favorites as I first thought I would. Instead, I take comfort in knowing
the archive will remain intact, continuing to serve as a record of
architecture’s evolution through nearly a half-century of innovation, crisis,
and renewal. I release my collection with gratitude.
Architecture is a
practice of building, but also of remembering. These magazines chronicled a
profession in flux. From a personal perspective, they mirrored my architectural
journey. They may no longer line my home’s bookshelves (and occupy other nooks and crannies),
but thanks to the Northwest Center for Architecture, they’ll continue to speak—in
the conversations they spark, the insights they preserve, and the histories
they keep alive.
(1) I first wrote about my print archive in a 2011 blog post and again in a later update.
(2) I’ll share more about the Northwest Center for Architecture — and its mission to preserve and celebrate the region’s architectural heritage — in a future post.
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