The City with the Most Homelessness in the U.S.

Simon Whistler is a prolific YouTube host whose many channels explore Cold War infrastructure, legal history, global engineering, urban analysis, and more. His newest channel, Places, focuses on cities and civic conditions, often highlighting issues that receive little national attention. Whistler, with over 8 million subscribers across his channels, goes beyond reporting by reframing familiar realities. 

To my surprise, Whistler featured Eugene in the latest segment of Places. I watched the episode—titled The City with the Most Homelessness in the US—with simultaneous interest and discomfort. The numbers and their proportional framing stood out. Homelessness is a daily presence here: encampments near storefronts, tents along the riverbank, and erratic behavior tied to untreated mental illness or addiction. And yet, many of us still choose to look away. Whistler’s video makes avoidance harder. Our city holds a dubious distinction that’s difficult to reconcile with its scale. That fact deserves acknowledgment, not evasion. 

Whistler built his account around comparative data. Lane County’s 2025 Point-in-Time count recorded 3,509 homeless individuals. With Eugene’s population just under 180,000, the rate reaches roughly 190 per 10,000 residents, significantly higher than in New York, Los Angeles, or Washington D.C. Even if the count is evenly distributed across all of Lane County, Eugene’s rate still ranks as the highest in the country. The video presents the numbers plainly. No embellishment is required. 

Some suggest that Eugene’s high per capita homelessness rate reflects regional migration. The city’s mild climate, visible tolerance, and history of social services have made it a known destination for unhoused individuals seeking relative safety. That dynamic doesn’t explain everything, but it contributes to the scale. 

Viewer comments on the video, many from fellow residents, reflect a range of reactions. Some describe homelessness as a visible, daily reality that reaches into neighborhoods, parks, and commercial areas. Others express frustration with city leadership and the lack of coordination across agencies. Several cite the decline of CAHOOTS, Eugene’s mobile crisis response program, as a moment when trust in coordinated care began to erode. Concerns about safety, sanitation, and limited shelter capacity appear frequently. One comment stood out for its clarity: “We don’t need more awareness. We need a system that works.” That sentiment, repeated in various forms, reflects a shared view: the problem is widely seen, but the response hasn’t matched its scale. 

Homeless encampment, Washington-Jefferson Park (photo by Tyrone Madera, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

The crisis has reshaped how public space functions. Parks, sidewalks, and greenways now serve as shelter zones, often by necessity rather than design. This shift raises questions about access, stewardship, and the civic role of shared space. The built environment, however well-intentioned, cannot remain neutral in the face of such visible displacement. 

Oregon’s housing crisis stems from decades of systemic shifts. Mid-century redevelopment erased low-cost boarding houses, Nixon’s 1973 housing moratorium shifted support to volatile private rentals, and the 1980s timber collapse destabilized Eugene’s economy, narrowing options for low-income residents. 

Deinstitutionalization, starting in the 1960s and accelerating under Reagan, closed psychiatric hospitals, redirecting patients to underfunded community care. Clinics like White Bird struggled to fill the gap, leaving many with severe mental illness cycling through shelters and jails, a process Whistler calls "transinstitutionalization." Similarly, Oregon’s 2020 Measure 110 aimed to decriminalize drug possession and fund treatment, but delayed funding and a fentanyl surge led to record overdoses, prompting its 2024 reversal via House Bill 4002. Both cases highlight a pattern: good intentions undone by uneven execution. 

Whistler presents the timeline without commentary. The sequence speaks for itself. 

Eugene has taken steps to address the crisis and increase housing stock. The city revised zoning codes to allow missing middle housing, supported infill development, and encouraged accessory dwelling units. These changes help, but they don’t go far enough. Without scale, speed, and coordination, architectural solutions remain aspirational. 

The city could revisit models once discarded, such as Single-Room Occupancy developments. This housing typology is no panacea, but it could serve as part of a broader system. Eugene never maintained a large, formal stock of SROs, but boarding houses and small hotels once served similar functions. Redevelopment and zoning shifts eliminated many of these options by discouraging shared facilities and high-density lodging. Reintroducing this typology, updated for dignity and paired with support services, could help fill a gap that newer strategies have failed to address. 

Unlike Eugene’s fragmented efforts, cities like Houston (prioritization of permanent housing), Austin (investments in supportive housing), and Indianapolis (eviction prevention) show that sustained coordination yields progress. Eugene can learn from these examples, not by replicating them, but by recognizing that fragmented efforts rarely produce structural change. 

Local governance must play a leading role. The city council, county agencies, and nonprofit providers operate within overlapping jurisdictions and mandates. Coordination remains uneven. Eugene has invested in outreach, shelter expansion, and transitional housing, but critics argue that the system lacks strategic guidance. Technical plans exist, but implementation lags. The result is a civic landscape shaped less by strategy than by reaction. 

This isn’t a policy critique, nor is it an attempt to crack an enormously complex problem. I’m not offering solutions. I am pointing to a framing, one that Simon Whistler presents clearly, and that many residents have echoed. The numbers are real, and the conditions are all too visible. The video doesn’t solve the dilemma, but it makes it more difficult to ignore. 

I write as a resident and former architect, someone trained to observe systems, interpret civic conditions, and document what persists despite intervention. I see the reality of Eugene’s homelessness crisis every day. To my discredit, I’ve too often chosen to look away. Whistler’s video makes that harder. Eugene isn’t just another city with a homelessness problem. By the numbers, it ranks as the worst. That fact doesn’t call for outrage. It calls for acknowledgment, for a record of how a city of this scale became a statistical outlier despite efforts from all quarters. For those of us familiar with the business of development, it is a reminder that we work within enormously complex systems whose problems resist easy resolution. 

Eugene’s crisis demands more than awareness—it requires us to see the systems at work and ask what role we can play in reshaping them. For architects, residents, and policymakers alike, the first step is refusing to look away. 

Why the North Butterfly Lot Defies Precedent

Bird's eye context image from the City of Eugene's North Butterfly Lot RFQ.

Back in April, I wrote about the North Butterfly Lot as a rare opportunity—a civic blank slate nestled between Eugene’s Park Blocks and the Farmers Market Pavilion. At the time, the City had yet to issue its formal RFQ. I questioned whether the site’s potential would inspire architectural ambition or simply get absorbed into the churn of economic expediency. 

Now, with four proposals submitted, the moment calls for renewed scrutiny. 

The City’s Urban Renewal Agency outlined four primary goals for the site:

1. High-density + Mixed-use Development
2. Active Ground Floor
3. Connectivity
4. Sense of Place + High-quality Architecture

Rather than request design concepts, the RFQ asked each proposer to submit a concise vision statement describing how they intend to address these goals. That approach makes sense for a qualification phase. Still, it places the burden of evaluation on the strength of each team’s stated intent—not on architectural merit, but on the credibility of their promise. 

This makes the next phase essential. Once the City selects a development team, it must ensure that the design process translates vision into built form with integrity. That will require clear expectations and consistent oversight. 

Below are architectural strategies that could help fulfill the site’s potential: 

1. High-Density + Mixed-Use Development

• Use vertical massing to support density but consider how the building’s proportions contribute to the surrounding urban fabric—not just its height.
• Combine housing with active ground-floor uses, offering a mix of unit types to support demographic diversity.
• Choose whether to articulate or unify the building’s form based on its role and context. A monolithic expression may be appropriate if it conveys clarity, civic presence, or material integrity. Conversely, articulation may help modulate scale or respond to adjacent conditions. Neither strategy is inherently better; each must be evaluated on its own merits. 

Note: Designers often use upper-level setbacks to mitigate shadow impacts or reduce perceived bulk. In this case, the building’s orientation and context suggest minimal shadowing relative to the adjacent public open spaces—the Farmers Market Plaza and Park Blocks. Shadows will fall primarily on the 7th Avenue sidewalk, which is less sensitive in terms of civic use. Therefore, setbacks should not be assumed. Their inclusion should respond to broader urban design goals—such as scale transition, visual relief, or usable outdoor terraces—not serve as a default gesture. 

2. Active Ground Floor

• Provide sidewalk setbacks and covered edges to support informal gathering and weather protection.
• Use transparent façades and operable glazing to soften the boundary between interior and exterior.
• Program ground-level uses that complement the Farmers Market Pavilion, such as food vendors, community retail, or flexible event space. 

Note: While activation matters, the site’s position at the head of the Park Blocks invites more than just activity; it calls for architectural punctuation. In my April post, I proposed a public-oriented backdrop: a stage framed by a sleek, modern arch for outdoor performances, paired with support facilities and a café, with commercial spaces behind facing 7th Avenue. That concept aimed to buffer traffic noise, enclose the north end, and complement the park’s openness—an approach aligned with the Park Blocks’ legacy as a communal hub. 

The current RFQ anticipates a predominantly multi-family development, and that reality must be acknowledged. Still, the question remains: how might a residential building express civic intent without relying on traditional institutional typologies? A library would be redundant; the Farmers Market Pavilion already provides indoor event space. Perhaps the answer lies not in program alone, but in architectural presence—a building that frames the Park Blocks with clarity, invites public life at its edges, and signals its role through proportion, material, and spatial generosity. That kind of presence need not be rare. It should be expected—especially in a setting as symbolically charged as this one. 

3. Connectivity

• Align pedestrian pathways with existing desire lines between downtown and the Riverfront.
• Introduce through-block passages or mid-block courtyards to encourage permeability.
• Incorporate wayfinding and lighting strategies that support safe, intuitive movement across the site. 

Note: The North Butterfly Lot fronts the Park Blocks and Farmers Market Pavilion to the south, while its northern edge faces 7th Avenue—a busy arterial with limited pedestrian appeal. A future development may understandably orient away from this edge. Still, some degree of engagement is warranted. Treating 7th Avenue as a service corridor risks reinforcing the disconnect between downtown and the Market District and Downtown Riverfront. Transparent façades, layered landscape buffers, secondary entries, and integrated lighting could soften the edge and contribute to urban legibility. Even modest gestures can signal that the building acknowledges its full urban context. 

4. Sense of Place + High-quality Architecture

• Frame the Park Blocks with massing that responds to their scale and rhythm. 
• Select materials that resonate with Eugene’s architectural and cultural context. When thoughtfully applied, building materials can reflect the region’s climate, craft traditions, and ecological sensibilities. 
• Design façades with depth—sunshades, balconies, and layered fenestration—to avoid flatness and promote visual interest. 
• Incorporate civic gestures that go beyond amenities. A monumentally scaled sculpture, clock tower, or interpretive installation could serve as a symbolic anchor—one that reflects Eugene’s identity, history, or aspirations. Whether freestanding or integrated with the building, such an element should be designed to invite reflection, engagement, and public ownership. Its placement and form should reinforce the spatial logic of the Park Blocks and contribute to the site’s civic presence. 

These strategies do not cover every possibility, but they offer a framework for translating vision into architecture. The City has outlined clear goals for the site: high-density mixed-use, an active ground floor, stronger connections to the Market District and Riverfront, and architecture that frames the Park Blocks. Those expectations should guide not only the choice of a development team, but also the oversight that follows. 

By Special Collections, University of Houston Libraries - http://digital.lib.uh.edu/u?/p15195coll18,33, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17311032

The architectural response will matter. This site deserves one that reflects its civic potential. It doesn’t fit neatly into familiar categories. The site is not a conventional development parcel. Its location, scale, and symbolic weight make it unusually complex. That complexity deserves attention, not simplification. The North Butterfly Lot may not have a perfect precedent, but that’s precisely what makes it valuable. It is a unicorn. It invites a response that feels specific, intentional, and worthy of its place in the city. 

As the City prepares to select a development team, it should also lay the groundwork for meaningful community involvement in shaping what comes next.

Edges, Episodes, and Expectations

Drone shot over the completed Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza (photo from the City of Eugene. All other photos by me unless noted otherwise).

This weekend marked the grand opening of Eugene’s Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza, a civic milestone years in the making. I attended the festivities on Saturday, eager to see how this new public space performs under the weight of real use.

The plaza is the latest installment in Eugene’s broader riverfront redevelopment—a transformation of the former EWEB utility yard into a three-acre park that reconnects the city with the Willamette River. Portland-based landscape architecture firm Walker Macy designed the project, which has earned multiple accolades: the 2022 Oregon ASLA Honor Award and People’s Choice Award, the 2023 ORPA Design & Construction Award, and recognition from AIA Eugene. Clearly, others saw promise in its layered narrative, sculptural landforms, and potential to serve as a civic anchor.

Walker Macy's rendering of the Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza in the context of the built-out neighborhood development. Only the Heartwood (top building in the image) is in place now; the other buildings are pending. 

My takeaway? It’s too early to assess the plaza’s success. Its ultimate character depends on the completion of the surrounding development. The planned restaurant pavilion and multi-family housing blocks (in addition to the already occupied Heartwood) are essential to framing the space and giving it definition. Without them, the plaza feels more like a clearing or pathway than a square.

The plaza doesn’t immediately read as a space intended for large public gatherings. Unlike traditional urban squares, which rely on clear geometries and proportional relationships to foster collective experience, this plaza feels episodic. The elements—adventure playground, splash pad, works of art—are engaging but discrete. The shiny metallic Riverfront Plaza Pavilion that terminates 5th Avenue stands apart compositionally and lacks integration with the nominal plaza. Likewise, the proposed Across the Bridge commemorative fountain, which will honor Eugene’s displaced Black community, is planned for a site north of City Hall along the riverfront path—far removed from the plaza. Its presence would have physically and symbolically bolstered the space’s significance as a civic marker of place and history.

The primary plaza area.

Interactive sprayground.

Adventure playground.

Integrated interpretive pavement display.

Untitled sculpture by Volkan Alkanoglu.

The bottom line: there’s no central focus, nor is the plaza configured to frame grand civic rituals or celebrations. I could ask people in the know whether the intent was for the space to serve in this capacity, but I haven’t yet. Perhaps I should.

If the City did envision this plaza as a major public assembly space, it’s worth examining how it compares to notable precedents. Robert F. Gatje’s book Great Public Squares offers a useful lens. Consider Venice’s Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo, which Gatje includes for its compelling spatial dynamics. One end of the square opens directly onto the Rio dei Mendicanti, yet the space maintains a strong sense of enclosure thanks to the surrounding architecture—the basilica, the Scuola Grande di San Marco, and the Colleoni statue. It accommodates both movement and gathering, with a clear civic identity.

Campo dei Santi Giovanni e Paolo, Venice (photo by Abxbay - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27901807)

Closer to home, Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square provides a contemporary counterpoint. Designed in the early 1980s by Willard Martin and his team, the square occupies a full city block and is framed by transit corridors, retail, and civic buildings. Its open-air design and amphitheater-like steps invite both casual use and large-scale events, earning it the nickname “Portland’s living room.” It’s a space that gathers, not just entertains.

Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland (photo by Cacophony - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2335737)

These examples underscore the importance of proportion, edge definition, and narrative coherence in successful public squares. Eugene’s Downtown Riverfront Park Plaza, by contrast, feels more like a collage than a composition. That may reflect a different ethos—one rooted in play and informality—but if the goal is to create a civic heart, the design must do more than amuse. It must hold.

Of course, it’s possible that the City and Walker Macy intended the design’s episodic nature, that the plaza was never meant to function as a traditional civic square. In contemporary landscape architecture, fragmentation and informality often reflect a desire to accommodate diverse uses and avoid prescriptive spatial narratives. If that’s the case, then comparing the plaza to historic European squares or even Portland’s Pioneer Courthouse Square may not be entirely fair. Still, if the term “plaza” carries civic expectations, it’s worth asking if the design fulfills them.

The City’s intent for the space is unclear. “Plaza” may simply be a convenient label for what is, in practice, a hardscape node within a larger park system. If so, I should adjust my expectations for its civic role accordingly. In time, the surrounding development may lend the space greater definition and purpose. For now, it remains an incomplete element—its long-term significance still to be determined.

Structure and Signification

I purchased a copy of Five Architects during my first year in architecture school, way back in 1977. The book, a slim but influential volume that crystallized a moment in American modernism, showcased early work by Peter Eisenman, Michael Graves, Richard Meier, Charles Gwathmey, and John Hejduk. I found it enthralling, and I quickly read it from cover to cover. What struck me wasn’t just the buildings these five architects designed, it was the idea that architecture could be grounded in intellectual inquiry. Various critics, including Charles Jencks, later framed the contrast between Eisenman's form rigor and Graves' symbolic gestures in linguistic terms, interpreting their work as exemplifying architectural syntax and semantics, respectively. That framing resonated with me then, and it still does today.

Syntax, in this context, refers to the internal logic of architectural form: the rules, structures, and generative systems that guide composition. Semantics concerns meaning: how buildings signify, reference, or evoke cultural and historical associations. These terms offer a way to examine architectural intention—not as style, but as structure and signification. My aim here is to reflect on this framework’s enduring value, not to advocate its revival, but to explore how it prompts us to question how buildings speak and what they say in today’s context.

House II, by Peter Eisenman, Architect (photo source: House II 1970 - EISENMAN ARCHITECTS)

Eisenman’s House II and House III illustrated a syntactic approach. In House II, he manipulated a grid recursively to produce spatial conditions that resist conventional function. The house didn’t accommodate domestic life intuitively; instead, it foregrounded architectural autonomy. House III fragmented and reassembled spatial elements, prioritizing formal operations over lived experience. These projects resembled architectural sentences composed without narrative—grammar without story. Eisenman's work of this period was "syntactic" in that it prioritized generative structure over narrative, capturing his commitment to internal logic over external reference.

Hanselmann House, Michael Graves, Architect (photo source: Hanselmann House – Michael Graves)

Graves’ contributions to Five Architects—the Hanselmann House and the Benacerraf Addition—reflected a different sensibility. Graves (1934–2015) later embraced overt historical references and postmodern ornamentation, but his work during the 1960s and early 1970s drew more from Cubist composition than a classical vocabulary. The Hanselmann House, with its cube-like geometry and layered volumes, evoked spatial fragmentation and visual tension. The Benacerraf Addition, often described as a “Cubist kitchen,” explored figure-ground relationships and compositional ambiguity. Graves’ approach was conceptually semantic, emphasizing symbolic reference and cultural resonance over formal autonomy. Graves invited interpretation, but not through a language of signs. His architecture gestured toward meaning through spatial collage and formal resonance.

Villa Savoye, Le Corbusier, Architect (my photo)

Both Eisenman and Graves produced work in this period that resembled Le Corbusier’s 1920s villas. For example, their white surfaces, planar compositions, and minimal ornamentation recalled Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye and Villa Stein. Yet the resemblance was fundamentally superficial. Eisenman stripped away Corbusier’s functional logic in favor of syntactic recursion. Graves reinterpreted Le Corbusier's vocabulary from the perspective of a Cubist, seeking symbolic depth rather than formal purity.

Revisiting this analogy today may seem out of step with current priorities, not to mention referencing the work of architects whose heydays and influence have long passed. Architecture now contends with such imperatives as climate resilience, social equity, and adaptive reuse. My fascination with viewing architecture as a form of language, structured around linguistic parallels, might appear dated, even indulgent. Still, I believe the analogies remain useful, not as doctrine, but as a way to unpack how architecture balances structure and story. While postmodernism’s pluralism challenged this binary’s rigidity, it remains a lens for balancing form and function in sustainable design. It invites us to ask how form and meaning intersect, even in projects driven by pragmatic demands.

Daxing International Airport, Zaha Hadid Architects (photo by Siyuwj, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Contemporary architects navigate these poles in varied ways. Zaha Hadid Architects (ZHA), for instance, often pursue a syntactic approach, using parametric tools to generate fluid forms, as seen in projects like the Beijing Daxing International Airport, where functional logic governs circulation, daylighting, and structural rhythm. Herzog & de Meuron, by contrast, lean semantic, as in the de Young Museum in San Francisco, where a perforated copper skin evokes cultural memory and environmental dialogue. These practices don’t replicate the Eisenman–Graves divide but engage similar tensions: autonomy versus context, system versus story.

de Young Museum, Herzog & de Meuron, Architects (my photo)

Beyond aesthetics, syntax now often arises directly from materials and performance. Building systems and environmental concerns shape how architects compose space. Mass timber construction, for example, demands a specific logic. Cross-laminated timber (CLT) panels require predictable spans, coordinated joints, and careful attention to fire resistance and acoustic performance. These constraints don’t limit design but rather define it. The discipline embedded in mass timber systems produces a syntax rooted in fabrication, sustainability, and structural clarity. Architects working in this medium don’t just follow rules; they compose with them.

During my professional career, I approached these questions from a different angle, one that paralleled the semantic intent discerned in Graves’ early projects. In a recent post, On Architecture, Meaning, and the Responsibility of Creation, I described the design of the VA Roseburg Protective Care Unit. That project aimed to convey meaning not through a language of signs, but through symbolic resonance. My colleagues and I used the metaphor of the “Tree of Life” to express continuity, memory, and vitality for veterans living with dementia. The symbolism didn’t serve as ornament; it shaped the spatial experience and material choices. It offered a narrative framework without prescribing interpretation.

That experience affirmed for me that meaning in architecture need not follow Graves’ semantic model. It can emerge from attentiveness, metaphor, and coherence. It can root itself in experience rather than reference. At the same time, syntax remains essential. Whether shaped by conceptual rigor or material discipline, the structural logic of a project—its internal order, its spatial grammar—still carries weight. Syntax and semantics need not be opposing camps. They’re tools. And in today’s context, they require careful use.

I don’t propose reviving linguistic metaphors as architectural principles, but I do believe they offer a way to reflect on what architecture communicates. Buildings speak, though not always clearly. Revisiting syntax and semantics helps us ask what we’re trying to say, and whether we’re saying it well. These questions remain vital as we shape spaces to meet today’s challenges.