In 2016, Architectural
Record invited its readers to nominate the worst buildings constructed
since the magazine’s founding in 1891. I submitted a list. My wife questioned
the impulse. “Why tempt karma?” she asked. “If you can’t say something nice…”
Her words echoed Thumper’s admonition from Bambi, and they’ve stayed
with me. I understood her concern. To publicly disparage the work of fellow
architects, even those I’ve never met, felt unkind and perhaps unnecessary.
That hesitation
wasn’t new. Even during my years in practice, I rarely offered direct critique
of others’ designs. It wasn’t fear that held me back, but a belief in
professional courtesy and a reluctance to engage in comparative judgment.
Architecture is a collaborative endeavor, shaped by constraints often invisible
to outsiders. To assess a building without knowing its full context can lead to
misreading both intent and outcome. And doing so publicly can reduce complex
work to seemingly a matter of one individual's opinion.
I’ve written
regularly about architecture and urban design, particularly as they relate to
life in Eugene. My posts have occasionally been critical, though rarely
polemical. I’ve tended to observe rather than opine, and to reflect rather than
assert. That tendency has remained steady.
These patterns—of
restraint, of selective praise—raise questions I’ve never fully resolved. When
is critique justified? When is silence ethical? What does commentary owe to its
subject, and to its audience?
When a project has
struck me as particularly well-resolved, I’ve written about it with admiration.
I praised Tacoma’s Museum of Glass, designed by Arthur Erickson, as a
project that mediates its site with clarity and evokes regional history through
form and material. That post is one of my more direct endorsements of a civic
building that succeeds in both experience and context. If I’m cautious about
critique, I’ve been less so with commendation. That imbalance reflects my
inclination to recognize what works rather than dwelling on what doesn’t.
When I have found a
project or design ethos to be troubling, I’ve spoken plainly. I’ve written
critically about Zaha Hadid’s legacy, questioning the civic relevance of her
most celebrated work. I’ve challenged Bjarke Ingels’s Vancouver House and TELUS Sky as architectural spectacles disconnected from meaningful urban engagement.
These were reflections grounded in concern for context and public life.
My friend and
mentor, Otto Poticha, has always taken a different tack. Otto’s critiques are
famously blunt, and his voice has long been a fixture in Eugene’s architectural
discourse. He speaks with conviction, and his assessments, however pointed, stem
from a commitment to the city’s civic life. I admire his candor, even if I’ve
never shared his style. My own writing leans toward the interpretive, not the
declarative.
Now that I’m no longer
bound by firm politics or client diplomacy, I can speak more freely than before.
But just because I can comment, does it mean I should? The impulse to weigh in is
often there, but the sense of being situated—of having a defined part in the
conversation—has faded. I’m seeing symptoms of relevance deprivation syndrome
(RDS). I continue to write weekly, but I’m more aware now of the gap between
having something to say and knowing whether it’s backed by any authority I still command. RDS shapes not only how
I feel, but how I write, and what I choose to write about. It makes me question
if what I say serves the work or merely signals that I’m still here.
These questions
about relevance aren’t separate from the ethics of commentary; they shape how I
decide whether to speak at all.
I care about the decisions
designers make and the consequences those choices carry. I’m also aware now of
my distance from the processes that shape those choices. I no longer
participate in the conversations where decisions are made, and that absence
changes how I think about speaking up. I write not to reclaim a role but to
remain engaged and to test whether reflection still matters in the absence of
direct involvement.
At the end of the
day, I want to stay connected to the questions that once shaped my work, to
process the experiences I’ve accumulated over a long career, and to help
maintain cognitive health as I age. These are quiet motivators for writing, but
they feel essential.
Commentary may
affirm or diminish. It can clarify, or it can distort. I wrestle with whether discretion
is a virtue or a deflection. Silence is not neutral. It can be a form of
disengagement, or worse, complicity. If commentary is called for—if it might
illuminate, challenge, or protect—then withholding it may be a disservice to
the community. But not every silence is avoidance. In some cases, it reflects a
calculation that speaking might oversimplify what’s complex or impose judgment where humility is more appropriate.
Offering critique feels
justified when a project’s civic impact is at odds with its architectural
ambition—when the work risks undermining public trust, coherence, or care.
Silence feels ethical when speaking would misrepresent the complexity of a
project, or when my distance from its making limits my insight. As for what thoughtful
commentary owes, it owes attentiveness, context, and proportion. By attentiveness, I
mean a willingness to look closely; by context, an understanding of the
conditions that shape design; by proportion, a sense of what commentary
deserves in relation to the work itself.
I will write as I
always have: critically, when warranted, and with restraint where it feels more
honest. That balance has remained consistent. What has changed is the context
in which I write. I’m more peripheral now, less embedded in the rhythms of
practice. Perhaps that remove makes the stakes of offering critique different.
Still, the underlying awareness remains. And perhaps that awareness is a form
of stewardship, a way of remaining present without presuming relevance, and of
honoring the work, its makers, and the limits of my own vantage point.
