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 Graves (1934–2015) later embraced overt historical references and postmodern ornamentation, but his work during the 1960s and early 1970s drew more from Cubist composition than a classical vocabulary.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.

Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet: W

 

The Willcox Building, originally the First Congregational Church, located at 492 East 13th Avenue in Eugene (all photos by me).

This is the next in my Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet series of blog posts, the focus of each being a landmark building here in Eugene. Many of these will be familiar to most who live here but there are likely to be a few buildings that are less so. My selection criteria for each will be threefold:

1. The building must be of architectural interest, local importance, or historically significant.
2. The building must be extant so you or I can visit it in person.
3. Each building’s name will begin with a particular letter of the alphabet, and I must select one (and only one) for each of the twenty-six letters. This is easier said than done for some letters, whereas for other characters there is a surfeit of worthy candidates (so I’ll be discriminating and explain my choice in those instances).

This entry’s selection begins with the letter W, for which my choice is the Willcox Building. As is the case now with several of my entries in the Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet series, I gleaned much of the information that follows from the building’s listing on the National Register of Historic Places.

 

View from the northwest along 13th Avenue.

Willcox Building

The Willcox Building, originally built in 1925 as the First Congregational Church, is one of Eugene’s more distinctive architectural landmarks. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places since 1980, it’s a relatively rare local example of Mediterranean Revival architecture, with influences from California Mission style and English design trends of the early 20th century. 

Designed by Walter R.B. Willcox—an architect and educator who led the University of Oregon’s Department of Architecture from 1923 until his death in 1947—the building served as both a place of worship and a teaching tool. Willcox encouraged students to study its forms and finishes firsthand, and it stands as the best surviving example of his work in Eugene.

The building’s layout originally followed a modified “H” plan: sanctuary to the west, classrooms to the east, with a chapel and study connecting them. The sanctuary (now Auditorium No. 1) features exposed trusses supported by curved wood brackets, with delicate stenciling on the purlins and truss members. The walls are finished in a rough “Mission” plaster that contrasts with the dark wood trim and moldings. Originally, hand-wrought light fixtures hung from long rods, shaded by copper screens punched with small patterns. The stairway to the balcony—a tight turn with no landing—displayed Willcox’s inventive approach to space.

Timber trusses with stenciled patterns at the lobby ceiling.

Inside Auditorium No. 1 (formerly the church sanctuary).

The exterior is finished in creamy-white gunite, a blown-on cement material that lends a soft, textured appearance, especially around corners and window frames. The dark brown wood trim provides contrast, and the building’s proportions and detailing reflect a thoughtful use of modest materials. Additions over the years, including mortuary facilities in the 1950s and a theater expansion in the 1980s—have been constructed with care to match the original character.

From 1980 until its closure in 2021, the building housed the Bijou Art Cinemas. My wife and I attended many films there over the years. The experience was always enhanced by the setting—a former sanctuary and chapel that lent a quiet dignity to the act of watching a movie. The building’s architectural character was never just a backdrop; it helped to shape the experience.

Courtyard.

One of its most appealing features is the small, cloistered courtyard formed by the southern recess of the “H” plan. These kinds of spaces—partially enclosed, open to the sky, buffered from the street—offer a sense of calm and enclosure. I like that the Willcox Building’s courtyard is scaled for people, not spectacle. Ellis Lawrence’s courtyard at the University of Oregon’s Art Museum shares this quality: a space where proportion, texture, and light work together to create a moment of quiet.

After the Bijou closed, the building sat vacant until it was revived as the Art House, a multi-use venue that now hosts films, music, and community events.(1)  A recent restoration highlighted the original hand-stenciled woodwork and Spanish Mission-style flourishes. The Art House recently sold the building to the Los Angeles-based company STVDIO SPACE, who plans to preserve the structure while adding studio space for student artists.

The Willcox Building stands as a reminder of Eugene’s architectural and educational history. It reflects the values of its architect: craftsmanship, innovation, and a belief in architecture as a teaching tool. In a city shaped by change, it remains a steady presence.

(1)    My wife and I attended an Art House screening this past week of the documentary film Water Lilies of Monet – The Magic of Water and Light.

 

Architecture is Awesome #41: Ceilings Worth Looking Up To

A section of the Sistine Chapel ceiling (Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=36772)

This is another in my series of posts inspired by 1000 Awesome Things, the Webby Award-winning blog written by Neil Pasricha. The series is my meditation on the awesome reasons why I was and continue to be attracted to the art of architecture. 

Certain ceilings compel us to lift our gaze. Not just to admire form or finish, but to engage with space in a way that shifts our perspective—sometimes literally, sometimes symbolically. Some ceilings astonish with scale or ornament. Others speak with mastery through restraint, light, or acoustic precision. All have the potential to shape how we experience architecture from the inside out. 

The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is one of the most famous in the world, and for good reason. Michelangelo’s frescoes stretch across the vault with narrative ambition and technical skill. It’s been many years since I visited the chapel, but I remember the intensity of the figures and the scale of the composition. Photography was prohibited (and still is), and no image I’ve seen since has quite matched the experience. The ceiling’s presence was undeniable. It wasn’t just decoration; the ceiling was a statement. 

Grand Central Terminal, New York (my photo)

Consider Grand Central Terminal in New York. The concourse isn’t quiet, but it does invite reflection; not in the meditative sense, but in the act of looking up. Suspended above the rush is a vaulted ceiling painted with a celestial mural, its turquoise expanse dotted with golden constellations drawn from Johann Bayer’s 1603 star atlas. The stars are reversed—east shown as west—a detail that has puzzled and intrigued generations of commuters. For those who pause, the mural offers a moment of orientation in a space defined by motion. It reframes the daily commute as part of a larger continuum, connecting the individual to something older and more enduring. In this way, the concourse becomes a place of reflection not because it’s still, but because it allows for a shift in perspective. 

Pantheon, Rome (my photo)

The Pantheon in Rome achieves something similar through scale and simplicity. Its coffered dome, still the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world, culminates in an oculus open to the sky. I visited the Pantheon on a day when a light mist was falling. I knew the oculus was open, but seeing rain drift gently through it was still surprising. Despite the number of tourists inside, the space was quiet. The ceiling became a compass and a connection to the heavens. It was symbolic as well as structural, linking earthbound visitors to something beyond. 

Silva Concert Hall, Hult Center for the Performing Arts, Eugene (my photo)

Closer to home, the Silva Concert Hall in Eugene’s Hult Center offers a ceiling that shocks and delights. Designed by Hardy Holzman Pfeiffer Associates, its giant basket-weave pattern is visually arresting. It’s an unexpected flourish that an audience first encounters with surprise and admiration. While it does serve acoustic functions, the ceiling’s greatest impact is visual. It doesn’t merely serve; it announces. It creates a sense of enclosure that is bold, intentional, and memorable. For many in Eugene, it’s a ceiling associated with memory, an integral part of every Silva Concert Hall event. 

Kimbell Art Museum (photo by Michael Barera, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Then there are ceilings that shape experience through light. Louis Kahn’s Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, which I’ve long admired and hope to visit one day, uses cycloidal vaults to diffuse natural light with precision. The ceiling becomes an instrument, modulating illumination to honor the art below. It’s a lesson in decorum and responsiveness, a reminder that architecture can be quiet and still carry meaning. 

Ceilings are often an essential aspect of how we remember places. Not just what we saw, but how we felt when we looked up. They frame our upward gaze—toward painted heavens, open skies, or engineered precision. Ceilings can represent both aspiration and/or containment. They can evoke transcendence, as in sacred spaces, or signal limits. In civic architecture, they may reflect collective values: openness, order, ambition, and moderation. 

Some ceilings astonish. Others comfort. All deserve a second look. A ceiling worth looking up to reminds us that architecture is not only about enclosure. It is also about elevation. 

Writing about architecture shifted how I engage with buildings. I found myself noticing ceilings more often. Not just the grand ones, but also the quiet, utilitarian ones that still manage to admirably shape experience. They’ve become part of how I remember spaces, and part of how I understand the values embedded in design. Looking up has become a habit—not of reverence, but of attention.

Next Architecture is Awesome: #42 Framing Long Views

2.MO

One of the latest renderings of "2.MO," the University of Oregon's future second indoor practice facility (all images here by the Oregon Athletic Department).

Drive past Autzen Stadium along Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and you’ll find the flurry of nearby construction activity hard to miss. The University of Oregon’s new indoor football practice facility—dubbed “2.MO”—will soon be rising immediately to the west of the Hatfield-Dowlin Complex (HDC).(1) I first wrote about the project when the university announced its plans in 2021. Back then, I expressed ambivalence: admiration for the design and excitement as a fan, tempered by concern about priorities and sustainability. That ambivalence remains. 

As depicted in the latest project renderings, the current design of 2.MO is consistent with the initial 2021 concept. It will be massive, timber-clad, and unmistakably Oregon. Olson Kundig leads the design team, Hoffman Construction is building it, and Van Horne Brands—known for immersive sports branding—is shaping the facility’s identity. Based on available information (including from the GoDucks YouTube channel), the building will be much more than just another cavernous shed. It will be a narrative space, designed to communicate Oregon’s ethos through form, material, and immersive branding. 

The new facility will span 170,000 square feet, comprised of the 130,000-square-foot indoor practice field and a 40,000-square-foot connector to the adjacent HDC, with another 30,000 square feet of HDC renovations. It will be the largest indoor practice facility in the nation. The university touts green design features, such as energy-efficient systems, but the sheer scale of the project raises questions about resource allocation. The university hasn’t confirmed the total cost, but some estimates suggest the figure could exceed $100 million, funded entirely through private philanthropy. If the current timeline holds, 2.MO will be ready for use in 2027. 

A realignment of Leo Harris Parkway to accommodate reconfigured outdoor practice fields is already complete. Additionally, the broader project includes improved ADA access in Alton Baker Park, expanded parking, and enhancements to fish habitat and water quality in the nearby waterway. These changes reflect a civic dimension to the development, even if the primary driver is athletic performance. 

Now in its second season in the Big Ten, Oregon Football’s national profile continues to grow. NIL, conference realignment, and donor-funded megaprojects have reshaped the sport. 2.MO will serve as a recruiting tool (and it has been since its first unveiling), a training hub, and a statement of intent by Oregon Athletics and its philanthropic backers. But it also reveals something deeper about us and our priorities. 

I’ve described the college athletics arms race as unsustainable. That still holds true. But repeating the phrase risks dulling its edge. What strikes me now is not just the scale of investment, but the normalization of it. Oregon’s boosters (led by Phil Knight) aren’t just funding facilities; they are shaping the university’s identity. The question isn’t whether Oregon leads the arms race. It’s whether the race itself has become the institution’s defining narrative. 

That narrative is complicated. It reflects our willingness to invest in spectacle, to equate prestige with performance, and to prioritize competitive advantage. It also reflects a belief—shared by many in this community—that Oregon football is worth it. That it brings people together, energizes the city, and helps define Eugene. 

I for one, will keep showing up on Saturdays. I’ll keep thinking about what it all means. Come Oregon’s first game of the 2025 season versus Montana State, I’ll walk past the ongoing construction site, not to wonder what it will look like, but to consider what it says about us. If this facility is a mirror, it reflects ambition, spectacle, and a belief in sport’s power to shape identity. It also reflects our comfort with scale—how easily we accept the extraordinary as ordinary. Whether that’s cause for celebration or concern depends on where you stand. I’m still deciding.

(1) "2.MO" is a reference to Oregon's original indoor practice facility, the Moshofsky Center, which is thus "1.MO." I anticipate the new building will receive a more formal name before it opens.

The Architecture of a Print Legacy

Sitting in our garage, boxed and staged for delivery: an archive of architectural thought spanning five decades.

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.