Compelling Perspectives on Eugene’s Housing Crisis

The Station House, by the Obie Companies

Like many others in our community, I’ve watched Eugene’s housing crisis unfold over the years with growing concern. Rising rents, dwindling vacancies, and the affordability challenges faced by working families are pressing issues that demand thoughtful action. I recently discovered two articles that address these challenges with impressive clarity and depth. My intent is not to restate their arguments but to endorse their insights and encourage you to dive into them via the links below.
 
The first, Treat Homebuilding as a Civic Good, penned by Joshua Purvis and published on the Lookout Eugene-Springfield website, offers a local perspective that resonates with my experience. Purvis, a writer and member of Eugene’s Multi-Unit Property Tax Exemption (MUPTE) Review Panel, highlights how obstructionist policies—such as councilors delaying projects over “vibes or views”—stall progress. He cites the Obie Companies Station House project, a 124-unit development in the Market District, which relied on MUPTE to overcome financial hurdles and will eventually generate over $1.1 million annually in taxes. Purvis urges us to view homebuilding—including market-rate development—as a civic duty, a stance I strongly support.
 
Purvis references the second article, Displacement by Design by Tobias Peter and Major Ethan Frizzell of the AEI Housing Center. In it, Peter and Frizzell take a broader view. They unpack how exclusionary zoning, discretionary permitting, and regulatory barriers create artificial housing scarcity, driving up costs and displacing residents. Their Good Neighbors Success Sequence (GNSS) proposes market-based solutions like zoning reform, smaller lot sizes, and rapid rehousing, pointing to Houston’s 30% housing stock growth since 2000 as a model for affordability and reduced homelessness. They frame the housing shortage as a systematic failure akin to a game of musical chairs, where too few "chairs" leave many without a place to sit.
 
These perspectives align with my belief that Eugene must prioritize housing abundance to remain a livable community. I’m an advocate for continuing programs like MUPTE, which make projects like Station House feasible in high-cost areas, delivering both homes and long-term public benefit. We need streamlined permitting, equitable tax policies, and a cultural shift that honors builders as essential to our civic fabric—echoing Purvis’s observation that we’ve become “digital warriors instead of down-to-earth doers.”
 
I’ve been impressed by the quality and breadth of reporting from Lookout Eugene-Springfield since the community-centric news outlet debuted earlier this year. I encourage you to read both articles, linked below, and join me in advocating for policies that treat housing as a public good. Let’s ensure Eugene builds enough “chairs” for all its residents.
 

• Treat Homebuilding as a Civic Good by Joshua Purvis (Lookout Eugene)

• Displacement by Design by Tobias Peter and Major Ethan Frizzell (Displacement by Design: How Bad Policy Made Housing Scarce, and How We Can Fix It | American Enterprise Institute - AEI)

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. 

Do Androids Dream of the Saturday Market?

Eugene Saturday Market, May 24, 2025 (photos by me)

      

      In an earlier post titled The Human Touch in a High-Tech Future, I explored how architects might collaborate with artificial intelligence (AI) and quantum computing to enhance design. That piece focused on the promise of human–machine partnerships. It leads me now to ponder a fundamental question: what remains uniquely human in the act of architectural authorship? Similar concerns have already surfaced many times across disciplines, from design to ethics to neuroscience, but they feel newly urgent in the context of architecture’s future.

 
My current thoughts on this unfold within the framework of “Construction 4.0,” the building industry’s version of “Industry 4.0”—a term describing the rapid technological transformation of the 21st century.(1) Automation, drones, prefabrication, and machine learning increasingly drive this evolution. McKinsey estimates these tools could boost productivity by 14% and reduce costs by 4–6% across the industry. These numbers are persuasive and help explain the growing momentum behind AI adoption.
 
Still, for those of us who see architecture as a vessel for cultural expression—and closer to home, Eugene’s identity—questions of authorship arise. Can AI craft spaces that carry our community’s emotional and cultural weight? AI can crunch data, but it risks flattening our town’s quirky spirit—its tie-dye heart, its river-shaped essence—into sterile buildings that prioritize efficiency over meaning.

 
I’m intrigued by how others have addressed the question. Architect John Marx wrote about the absence of empathy and visceral engagement in AI-generated work. Tim Fu, a designer who integrates AI into his process, acknowledged that while AI can serve as a powerful creative partner, it lacks the ethical intuition and emotional nuance that we bring to the table. And an ArchDaily piece I read recently asked if AI can truly grasp the local character embedded in traditional forms. These voices contribute to a growing conversation that I follow with keen interest.
 
Consider a hypothetical: the design of a new public school in Eugene. An advanced AI system, trained on local data—the Whiteaker murals, University of Oregon’s historic campus, Kalapuya oral histories, and more—and acting autonomously, proposes a structure featuring cedar beams carved with tribal-inspired patterns and a courtyard echoing the Willamette River’s gentle curve. It simulates emotional responses to spatial arrangements and materials, optimizing the space to maximize perceived warmth and familiarity—without ever feeling them. Robots then fabricate and assemble the structure with flawless precision.
 
If the result looks indistinguishable from one conceived by local creators, why isn’t that enough? Because architecture’s significance lies in its making—the messy, human process of dialogue, iteration, and compromise. A building’s soul emerges not only in how it looks, but in how it’s conceived, inhabited and remembered. This is something AI cannot genuinely experience or interpret.

 

AI hasn’t soaked in the sun at the Saturday Market, savored the mouthwatering aromas of the International Food Court, or heard the off-tempo rhythm of a busker’s guitar beneath the canopy of the Park Blocks. It doesn’t intuit the tensions Eugene’s residents voice in town halls or coffee shops—between preserving what’s beloved and accommodating what’s needed. Without that lived sensitivity, AI risks churning out buildings that may look right but feel wrong. Architects develop this attunement over time, through immersion, observation, and imperfect but essential dialogue.
 
Philosopher Michael Polanyi called this tacit knowledge—the kind of understanding we acquire through experience, not instruction. “We know more than we can tell,” he wrote. Local place-makers carry this kind of knowledge into their work: the feel of a neighborhood, the values Eugene’s residents hold dear (whether whispered at the Farmers Market or shouted at city council meetings), the subtle cues that shape how individuals move through space. No matter how advanced, AI cannot easily replicate this kind of embodied knowing.
 
I’ve seen what happens when projects lack this grounding. In another recent post, I critiqued the vertical growth along Franklin Boulevard—new buildings that, while efficient and contemporary, feel anomalous within our city’s texture. They reflect real estate speculation, not the layered identity of a place shaped by counterculture, craft, and ecological consciousness. These misalignments arise when design prioritizes optimization over story.
 
Architects are not merely builders of forms or organizers of functions. At their best, they perform as translators and storytellers. They interpret and arrange a community's narratives, shaping them into a coherent vision that resonates within a specific context. They guide ethical decisions where no clear rules apply—choices that require judgment, compromise, and a sensitivity that machines cannot mirror.
 
Some argue that AI, trained on local data and refined through feedback, could eventually match or even surpass human sensitivity to place. Others point to its capacity for generating novel forms or convincingly simulating empathy and intuition. These are not trivial claims—and they deserve serious consideration. Maybe AI will one day mimic the outputs of human intuition with remarkable fidelity. But even then, it’s hard to imagine it navigating the moral complexities we face—such as balancing Eugene’s green ethos with the pressures of growth. And even if AI closes that gap, would we want to cede our role in tailoring the environments we inhabit to machines that cannot care in the way we do? Architecture is not only about what is built, but how and why. And those questions—of meaning, memory, and moral judgment—remain deeply human.

 

Perhaps other domains raise similar questions. Can AI replace a great teacher, not merely in conveying facts, but in inspiring a reluctant student? Can it replace a therapist, not just in offering advice, but in bearing witness to someone’s pain? The answer may not be a definitive “never”—history teaches caution with absolutes—but it is surely “not yet,” and maybe “not fully.”
 
So long as architecture seeks to embody values and tell stories, human architects will remain essential—not just as designers, but as custodians of meaning and advocates for community. Androids don’t dream of the Saturday Market’s vibrant chaos. Architects can. And that, I believe, still makes all the difference.

 
(1) “Construction 4.0” is the construction industry’s version of Industry 4.0, which is known as the current, Fourth Industrial Revolution. The First Industrial Revolution mechanized production by means of water and steam power. The Second Industrial Revolution introduced electrification, mass production, and the assembly line. The Third Industrial Revolution involved automation through computers, robotics, and programmable logic controllers. The Fourth (current) Industrial Revolution integrates cyber-physical systems, the Internet of Things, cloud computing, and artificial intelligence, taking automation and connectivity to a new level.

Hope Abbey Mausoleum

 

Hope Abbey Mausoleum (all photos by me)

A recent walk with my friend J.F. Alberson, principal of TBG Architects + Planners, prompted this exploration of the Hope Abbey Mausoleum. With the Eugene Masonic Cemetery as the chosen destination for our weekly stroll, we set out from my home, meandering through south Eugene to the cemetery at 26th & University. Upon arriving, we were fortunate to meet Sara Besch, the cemetery’s business manager, who graciously opened the mausoleum for us to explore its interior. It was my first time stepping inside Hope Abbey. Sara’s insights into its history and the challenges it has faced—ranging from vandalism to unsanctioned fraternity parties on the roof—brought the building’s story to life. Our visit inspired a deeper appreciation for this architectural gem and its enduring legacy.
 
I’ve previously featured landmark buildings in Eugene as part of a series titled Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet. Hope Abbey was a strong contender for the “H” entry, given its architectural and historical significance. However, I chose the Hult Center for the Performing Arts for that slot, so this post stands alone as a reflection on a structure no less deserving of recognition.
 
The word “mausoleum” derives from King Mausolus of Halicarnassus, whose grand tomb, built in 353 BC, was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. By the late 19th century, Americans embraced mausoleums, driven by a fascination with antiquity and a desire for dignified, above-ground burials. In 1912, the Portland Mausoleum Company persuaded Eugene Masonic Lodge #11 to commission a modern 250-crypt mausoleum for $40,000—a substantial sum at the time. Workers earning thirty-five cents an hour completed the building in less than a year.(1)
 
Ellis F. Lawrence, who would later be the founding dean of the University of Oregon’s School of Architecture and Allied Arts, designed Hope Abbey in the rare (for Oregon) Egyptian Revival style. Its massive entrance—adorned with papyrus bundles, lotus blossom urns, and symbols like the sun disc, twin cobras, and vulture wings—evokes death, protection, and eternity. Constructed with reinforced concrete, bronze doors, marble, terrazzo, and eighty golden glass clerestory windows, the mausoleum stood apart from the Classical designs prevalent at the time. Dr. H.S. Wilkinson led its dedication ceremony on June 4, 1914, during which a time capsule—containing newspapers, photographs, and documents, not to be opened until 2914—was sealed. The building earned a place on the National Register of Historic Places in 1980.

 
Beyond its architectural splendor, Hope Abbey mirrored broader shifts in American attitudes toward death and memorialization. During the Progressive Era (1890–1920), mausoleums emerged as modern alternatives to traditional graves, aligning with an embrace of science, technology, and monumental architecture. Their popularity, evident in Hope Abbey’s rapid crypt sales and families reinterring relatives, signaled the shift toward more permanent and elevated interment options. However, by the 1930s, economic hardship and evolving preferences for cremation and simpler graves led to neglect. Hope Abbey’s inadequate endowment, coupled with the Portland Mausoleum Company’s 1929 bankruptcy, left the Masons with scant resources. By the 1960s, the building suffered from a leaking roof, vandalism, and bricked-up windows. Its restoration reflects a contemporary trend: preserving such structures not merely as burial sites, but as vital links to our cultural past.

 
The Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association, a nonprofit, assumed ownership of the cemetery and Hope Abbey in 1994. Through fundraising, grants, donations, and volunteers, they launched a comprehensive restoration: replacing the roof, installing drainage, removing lead-based paint, repainting, landscaping, and replicating the original golden clerestory windows. The $150,000-$200,000 restoration (roughly $250,000-$300,000 in 2025 dollars) transformed the building. Today, it operates again, offering crypts, niches, and window memorials.
 
Hope Abbey’s Egyptian Revival design and connection to Ellis Lawrence underscore its architectural significance. Thanks to Sara Besch’s hospitality and the Association’s efforts, J.F. and I glimpsed a piece of Eugene’s architectural and civic heritage—one that perseveres through the commitment of its community.
 
For more information about Hope Abbey, contact the Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association at (541) 684-0949.
 
(1)  Much of the information in this post is courtesy of the Eugene Masonic Cemetery Association, whose dedication to preserving Hope Abbey ensures its story endures.

The Architecture of Ritual

 

Sistine Chapel (Photo by Snowdog at Italian Wikipedia., CC BY-SA 3.0 <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Last week, as 133 cardinals gathered in the Sistine Chapel to elect Pope Leo XIV—the first American pontiff—the architecture of the space served as much a part of the ritual as the centuries-old traditions themselves. Steeped in custom, the Conclave offered a compelling example of how formalized sequences—actions, settings, and objects—can embody enduring meaning. It demonstrated the deep intersection of architecture and ritual.
 
That intersection came into sharper focus following the recent release of Conclave, the 2024 film adaptation of Robert Harris’s novel. The film, which I greatly admired, portrayed the mechanisms of the papal election with attention to mood and space. Its quiet pacing and the solemnity of the setting—particularly the Sistine Chapel—conveyed how the ritual gained force not just from faith but from repetition, setting, and symbolism. This framework shaped how the real Conclave unfolded, and how it was perceived.
 
The process followed established procedure. The cardinal electors gathered in the Sistine Chapel on May 7. They stayed sequestered through the voting process, which culminated in a successful ballot the next day. Ballots were burned, as tradition prescribes, and white smoke signaled a decision. After accepting his election, the new pope spent time in the Room of Tears before emerging in papal vestments. His appearance on the loggia of St. Peter’s Basilica formally introduced him to the world as Pope Leo XIV.
 
Each step followed a fixed sequence, refined since the 13th century. These weren’t empty gestures. The acts of seclusion, voting, waiting, and revealing each served a purpose. Together they structured the transfer of authority and made it legible. The built environment of the Vatican shaped and amplified the process. The architecture didn't merely house the ritual; it framed it and gave it weight.
 
The Sistine Chapel played a leading role. Michelangelo’s frescoes, including The Last Judgment, surrounded the cardinals with images of divine judgment and salvation. The space, enclosed and richly symbolic, emphasized solemnity and introspection. It fostered deliberation by design, its scale and intimacy reinforcing the gravity of the decision.
 

St. Peter's Square (my photo)

In contrast, St. Peter’s Square staged the event’s public dimension. The crowd gathered there understood the signals. Dark smoke meant inconclusive voting. White smoke confirmed a result. The central balcony of the basilica offered a platform from which the new pope could be revealed, framed by the architecture as both figurehead and shepherd. The spatial sequence—from private deliberation to public appearance—mirrored the transition from selection to leadership.
 
Even the pope’s clothing choices communicated intent. Pope Leo XIV wore the red mozzetta—a shoulder cape that had fallen out of use under his predecessor, Pope Francis. That decision sparked interest because it suggested a return to visible expressions of papal tradition. Francis, in 2013, had declined the mozzetta to emphasize humility and discontinuity with a more monarchical style of papacy. By choosing to wear it, Leo XIV aligned himself with earlier precedent, not necessarily rejecting simplicity but reasserting the symbolic aspects of the office. Vesture, like ritual and architecture, helps define the papal role—not only for the faithful, but for the watching world.
 
Architecture outside religious contexts can function in similar ways. A courthouse, for example, may guide participants through security checkpoints, long corridors, and formal chambers, reinforcing the seriousness of the proceedings. A university campus might use a progression of quads, arcades, and lecture halls to communicate hierarchy, purpose, and community. These sequences don’t rely on belief; they rely on structure. When people move through spaces designed to mark transition, the experience becomes comprehensible.
 

"Habemus Papam"

Ritual and architecture also share a reliance on symbolism. In the Conclave, the white smoke became a decisive symbol, understood across languages and cultures. It gained this power through repetition and context. Likewise, in architecture, repeated formal cues—such as a threshold, a dome, or a columned portico—signal importance or transition. These cues don't need to be literal to be effective. They work because people have learned to recognize and interpret them.
 
Tradition persists not simply because of reverence for the past, but because it serves a practical function, reflecting patterns that have held meaning over time. When a procession follows a defined route, it creates order. When a ceremony unfolds in a particular place, it draws strength from continuity. These enduring forms—examples include the circular layouts of ancient gathering spaces or the thresholds marking transitions—demonstrate how physical design can give shape to shared experience. Architects who understand this can design spaces that support shared purposes, even in secular contexts. A civic plaza can invite assembly. A memorial can promote reflection. A council chamber can foster deliberation. The forms vary, but the intent remains: to shape human behavior and understanding through spatial design.
 
The Vatican illustrates how physical settings can support both timeless ritual and subtle change. The buildings remain constant even as each pope brings a different tone to the office. Leo XIV’s decision to embrace certain visual traditions doesn’t indicate a return to old hierarchies, but it does suggest an interest in reaffirming the symbolic weight of the role. Within the architectural and procedural framework of the Vatican, that kind of gesture has room to resonate.
 
The 2025 Conclave demonstrated how space, sequence, and symbolism work together to create meaning, even where disagreement exists. The Catholic Church includes a wide spectrum of views, yet the Conclave’s shared structure produced a clear, public outcome, offering a framework for moving forward despite differences. Though I am not religious, nor particularly spiritual, the event presented me with insights of broad relevance. In a time when many institutions face fragmentation, the deliberate use of ritual and architecture to foster clarity, continuity, and collective focus remains a powerful tool.

The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook

In an era when cities face compounding pressures—climate disruption, housing scarcity, and the need for more inclusive public spaces—guidance grounded in both vision and practicality is rare. That is what makes The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook stand out. Coauthored by Nico Larco, AIA and Kaarin Knudson, AIA, it offers cities like Eugene the tools to design a more resilient, equitable future.

Published last year, the 438-page volume reflects the authors’ deep understanding of urban form and environmental systems. I’ve followed its release with interest, not only because of Nico and Kaarin’s professional credentials—Nico as a professor of architecture at the University of Oregon, and Kaarin as an architect, educator, and now mayor of Eugene—but because of my own belief in the need for such a comprehensive approach to urban design, and also because I’ve had the opportunity to discuss Eugene’s design challenges with Kaarin firsthand on multiple occasions. In a city wrestling with affordability, climate adaptation, and livability, this book feels both timely and necessary. 

The Handbook’s structure is elegant and intuitive. It organizes over 50 urban design elements into five core topic areas: Energy Use & Greenhouse Gas, Water, Ecology & Habitat, Energy Use & Production, and Equity & Health. Nico and Kaarin examine these topics across four spatial scales—Region & City, District & Neighborhood, Block & Street, and Project & Parcel—which together reveal how decisions at every level influence one another. A parcel-level bioswale, for example, supports district-wide stormwater strategies and contributes to regional watershed health. Transit-oriented neighborhoods at the district scale can dramatically reduce emissions city-wide. In Eugene, these principles are visible in efforts such as riverfront revitalization and the EmX bus rapid transit system. The Handbook offers not just ideals, but implementation strategies that resonate with our local context. 

Crucially, the book’s impact goes beyond sustainability metrics. It is also about good urban form—designing places that function well, feel good, and invite people. The Handbook includes guidance for creating walkable streets, robust stormwater networks, infill development, and affordable housing strategies—each reinforcing not only environmental performance but also quality of life. In this way, its utility transcends its title: it is as much about building desirable, livable communities as it is about reducing emissions. 

One of the most compelling aspects of the Handbook is how it balances high-level theory with on-the-ground practicality. Each design element is accompanied by clear descriptions, case studies, diagrams, and cost/difficulty ratings. For example, Nico and Kaarin note multimodal streets as cost-effective in new developments but more complex in existing urban settings—a valuable nuance for planners, designers, and decision-makers. In Eugene, the Handbook’s ideas apply directly to projects like the Franklin Boulevard redesign, where walkability and transit align with equity goals, or to affordable housing initiatives that integrate green spaces to enhance community health. These examples, blending global insight with local relevance, transform abstract concepts into tangible solutions for professionals and advocates here and beyond. 

Visually, the book’s meticulous design shines. Its diagrams translate complex ideas—of walkable streets and cross-scale stormwater management—into accessible images. These graphics facilitate collaboration, making them useful tools for workshops, design charrettes, and public engagement efforts. 

An introductory page explaining the book's chapter structure.

The Handbook is earning attention nationally. Nico recently shared that it topped Amazon’s bestseller list for Planning and Landscape Architecture, ahead of such enduring titles as The Death and Life of Great American Cities and A Pattern Language. The Handbook’s place alongside A Pattern Language on the bestseller list highlights a deeper parallel. Like Christopher Alexander’s 1977 classic, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook presents its content through modular, interconnected parts. Alexander’s 253 patterns outline a vocabulary for shaping human environments of all scales—from regions to window seats—distilling complex design problems into practical, re-usable solutions. Similarly, Nico and Kaarin’s elements address urban challenges—heat islands, stormwater runoff, walkability—across scales and contexts. Their elements, like Alexander’s patterns, combine flexibly to yield diverse, cohesive outcomes. Both frameworks champion adaptive, systems-based thinking and an iterative approach to design. If Alexander wrote for a world seeking beauty and coherence, Nico and Kaarin write for one confronting climate breakdown and inequality—anchoring their approach in today’s most pressing challenges while echoing a time-tested methodology. 

No book is without its blind spots. While Equity & Health is a foundational topic in the Handbook, it just barely touches on the risk of displacement and gentrification—issues increasingly relevant in neighborhoods like Eugene’s culturally vibrant Whiteaker, where citywide development pressures risk undermining affordability and community cohesion. Likewise, the Handbook acknowledges implementation barriers but could do more to explore how cities build support for infrastructure investments like transit hubs or affordable housing. These gaps are worth noting, especially in a book that aims to balance ambition with feasibility. Still, they don’t diminish the Handbook’s overall value. 

This is a book for a wide audience. Professionals in architecture, planning, engineering, and landscape architecture will appreciate its technical depth. Policymakers and advocates will find clear explanations and actionable strategies. And students will encounter a richly structured resource that bridges theory and practice. In Eugene, where climate and housing challenges are front and center, the book’s ideas—cool or green roofs, transit corridors that prioritize pedestrians, ecological restoration in urban districts—offer a way forward. 

With Kaarin as Mayor, Eugene benefits uniquely from this work. Her combined experience as a designer, teacher, and civic leader positions her to help translate the Handbook’s principles into built outcomes—community spaces, transportation systems, and housing that meet environmental goals without sacrificing human needs. Her presence in local government is more than symbolic; it’s a catalyst for design-led change. 

In all, The Sustainable Urban Design Handbook is a triumph. It bridges disciplines, scales, and aspirations with clarity and conviction. While deeper attention to the social dynamics of urban change would strengthen it, its synthesis of form, function, and equity is exceptional. For Eugene—and for any city striving to do better by people, by place, and by planet—it’s not just a guidebook. It’s a blueprint.

Franklin Boulevard’s Vertical Growth and the Policy Void Beneath It

A trio of Eugene's recently built luxury student apartment buildings: "The Standard" on the left, "The Rive" in the distance, and "Union on Broadway" on the right (my photo).
 

A Houston, Texas developer (The Dinerstein Companies) proposes an eleven-story apartment tower (dubbed The Aspire) containing 210 units at the site of the now-shuttered 66 Motel on East Broadway/Franklin Boulevard at Hilyard Street.(1) This project joins the surge of mid- and high-rise residential buildings here in Eugene targeting students, particularly near the University of Oregon, Bushnell University, and in the West University neighborhood. The most recent of these projects are proceeding despite signs of market saturation and the growing gap between this specific housing supply and the city’s urgent need for affordable options.
 
This pattern of growth is unsurprising when viewed through the lens of private development economics. Student-focused apartment towers generate reliable profits, especially those leased by the bedroom. As I wrote back in 2021, these luxury student projects command high rents, benefit from strong and predictable occupancy, and pose relatively low risk for developers as long as university enrollment remains steady. The University of Oregon alone draws approximately 23,000 students (undergraduate and graduate) each year, many from out of state and able to afford rents well above the citywide average. These conditions position student housing as an attractive investment vehicle, even as the broader housing market continues to underserve workers, families, and non-student residents.
 
Eugene’s land use policy framework exacerbates the issue. Along East Broadway and Franklin Boulevard, and at other sites near campus, zoning encourages high-density, multi-story construction. The City also designates major corridors like Franklin and parts of 13th Avenue for urban-style development to promote density and transit access. These policies advance sustainability goals, but they do not necessarily prioritize diverse housing types. The Eugene Code generally addresses luxury student towers and mixed-income housing as if they are similar, despite their vastly different constituencies.
 
State-level constraints further limit Eugene’s options. Oregon law prohibits traditional rent control and, more importantly, bars mandatory inclusionary zoning for rental properties—meaning the city cannot require developers to include affordable units in new apartment buildings unless those units are for sale. While voluntary inclusionary housing programs exist, they rely on incentive structures—typically in the form of density bonuses or fee waivers—that developers may simply ignore when the market renders their projects feasible without them.

"The Aspire," which will be built on the site of the old 66 Motel.

 
The result is a housing pipeline heavily weighted toward student-oriented rentals, with little regard for affordability or long-term community needs. These buildings often feature private bedrooms and bathrooms, rooftop decks, gyms, and leasing models geared toward high turnover and premium rent. While they absorb some of the student population, they do little to alleviate the broader housing shortage and can worsen it by driving up land values, displacing long-term renters, and consuming development capacity that could otherwise foster more inclusive housing.
 
Other university cities have taken stronger action to correct this imbalance. In Boulder, Colorado, the city imposes linkage fees on new residential development, directing those funds toward affordable housing. Berkeley, California, enforces a well-established inclusionary zoning program requiring a percentage of units in new buildings to be priced below market. Chapel Hill, North Carolina, requires that 15 percent of housing in most new developments be affordable, and enforces this requirement with regular audits. Though these measures have not solved their housing crises outright, they reflect a recognition that the market alone will not deliver the diversity of housing necessary to support equitable communities.
 
Eugene could pursue several similar measures within its current legal constraints. The city can strengthen and expand its use of voluntary inclusionary housing tools by offering more meaningful incentives to developers who include below-market-rate units. It could impose higher construction excise taxes and direct those additional funds toward the acquisition of land for affordable housing. It can support nonprofit housing developers with access to publicly owned land and expedited permitting processes. Importantly, Eugene could work more closely with the University of Oregon to address the demand side of the equation—by encouraging the university to invest more directly in student housing, either through new on-campus residence halls or by partnering with mission-driven housing providers to build mixed-income housing specifically for students with modest financial resources.
 
Protecting neighborhoods most vulnerable to displacement is also crucial. The city can adopt anti-demolition measures for older (yet sound) naturally affordable housing stock; create zoning overlays that prioritize family-sized and affordable units; and direct tax increment financing from urban renewal districts into housing stabilization funds. Furthermore, Eugene could expand its engagement with community land trusts and housing cooperatives, which offer long-term affordability through models that remove land from speculative markets.

The Aspire. 

The continued march of luxury student towers along Franklin Boulevard and beyond is not inevitable. It reflects a policy environment that allows the logic of private finance to dominate the planning and development process. This is why I believe the City must adopt a more deliberate and proactive stance toward addressing its housing shortage in a way that serves the full breadth of its population. That means acknowledging the limits of current zoning policy, reevaluating the assumptions behind development incentives, and using every available tool—financial, regulatory, and collaborative—to rebalance the housing ecosystem.
 
The cranes may keep rising, but unless Eugene redirects the framework shaping what gets built, the result will be a city increasingly defined by what is easiest to finance, not by what is most urgently needed. 

(1)    The Aspire project was subject to an Adjustment Review, which the City of Eugene Planning Director approved. You can find documents associated with the Adjustment Review application here. The proposed building totals approximately 420,000 square feet, while the site is 71,170 square feet in area (the floor area ratio is thus 5.9:1). The architect for the project is TCA Architects of Los Angeles. John Hyland Construction will be the general contractor. Hyland built several of the recent student housing towers along East Broadway and Franklin Boulevard, including The Hub, The Rive, 959 Franklin, and Union on Broadway.