Architecture is Awesome: #43 Market Halls and the Bustle of Commerce

Reading Terminal Market (all photos by me unless noted otherwise).

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. 

Step through the threshold of a great market hall and the city changes register. Outside, traffic and sidewalks. Inside, a hundred small, competing voices: fishmongers and flower sellers, the clatter of crates, the smell of bread and brine mixing in the air. It should feel like chaos. Most of the time, it doesn't. Something is holding it together, and that something is architecture — a spatial discipline that turns bustle into legibility. 

Market halls earn a place in this series because they are one of the few building types where architecture, commerce, and community refuse to separate from one another. The building doesn't just shelter the market. It disciplines it, gathering a chaotic diversity of independent vendors into a single legible place. That discipline is precisely what allows the market to function as something more than a shopping trip: an authentic community hub, rooted in a specific city, offering an alternative to the placeless sameness of standard retail. 

Reading Terminal Market (photo by ajay_suresh, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Philadelphia's Reading Terminal Market is a useful place to start, though its architecture works a little differently than a postcard image might suggest. The soaring arched train shed above — now the Pennsylvania Convention Center's Grand Hall and Ballroom — belonged to the Reading Railroad's locomotives and tracks, not to the market. Since 1893, the market has occupied the ground floor and basement instead, the practical undercroft beneath the elevated train deck. Its columns and low ceiling weren't designed with retail in mind at all; they were sized to carry the load of a railroad overhead. But that engineering, not any deliberate design intent, is what produces the spatial legibility the market needed. The discipline arrived by accident. 

And yet that undercroft still does the same disciplining work. Its grid of columns and low, even ceiling height impose a legible order on 78,000 square feet and more than 80 independent merchants: Amish dairy stands, a century-old ice cream counter, butchers next to booksellers, none of them told what to sell or how to dress their stall. Walk the market's wide central corridors, and you can't see every vendor at once, but you can always see the shape of the whole. That's the market hall's architecture at work. It doesn't standardize the vendors; it standardizes the container. Each stall stays idiosyncratic, with hand-lettered signs, mismatched displays, a hundred small acts of local enterprise, while the columns and aisles impose just enough order that the whole reads as one place rather than a hundred unrelated ones. Take away that discipline, and you have a flea market. Add it back, and you have an institution. 

Granville Island Public Market.

Vancouver's Granville Island Public Market makes the same argument from a different angle. Where Reading Terminal encloses, Granville Island opens. It's a low-slung, industrial-vernacular market hall built from the bones of a 1917 industrial site, its corrugated siding and exposed structure left frankly utilitarian. The architecture here isn't a grand civic gesture. It's deferential to its setting: a working waterfront wedged between the bridge and False Creek.

That deference is the point. Granville Island's power comes less from its structure than from where the structure sits: deep in the urban and geographic fabric of Vancouver, reachable from downtown by a five-minute ferry hop across the creek, framed by the bridge, the boat repair yards, and the artists' studios that share the island. The market doesn't just serve the city; it is legible as Vancouver in a way a generic pavilion, dropped anywhere, could never be. Urban embeddedness is its own kind of architectural discipline. Siting, scale, and context do the work here that the grid of columns does at Reading Terminal. 

Lonsdale Quay Market.

North Vancouver's Lonsdale Quay Market and Montreal's Jean Talon Market each add their own variation on the same theme. Lonsdale Quay pairs a working SeaBus terminal with a market hall, so commuting and shopping share the same waterfront threshold. It's architecture again holding two functions, and two publics, in one frame. Worth noting: Lonsdale Quay doesn't dress itself up as something older than it is. Built in the mid-1980s on a former waterfront industrial brownfield alongside the SeaBus terminal, its architecture is frankly of its own era rather than a costume borrowed from history. Authenticity here isn't a matter of age. It's a matter of the building being honest about what it is and when it was made. 

Jean Talon Market

Jean Talon, sheltered under roofs but open at the sides to the street, shows that the discipline doesn't require full enclosure. A strong roofline and a well-defined edge are enough, even without walls. Closer to home, Eugene's own Saturday Market pushes that idea further still. There's no building at all, just temporary tents and a plaza, and yet it's as central to the city's sense of itself as any market hall is to Philadelphia or Vancouver. Placeness doesn't always require a building. 

What these marketplaces have in common is what that architectural discipline, in whatever form it takes, makes possible: independent makers instead of chain retail, experiential encounters instead of transactions, a place that reflects the specific culture and economy of its region rather than a franchise formula that could be dropped into any city in North America. These are festival marketplaces in the original sense. Commerce, entertainment, and local identity fuse into a single building type, revitalizing the urban districts around them and giving regional producers a stage they couldn't build alone. 

I'd stop short of calling the market hall a rare building type, though. If anything, its very success is its risk. The "festival marketplace" formula — reclaimed industrial shed, curated local vendors, artisanal signage — has proliferated widely enough that it now has its own imitators: market halls built from scratch to look authentic rather than grown from an actual place and its actual history. The architecture can be copied. The roof, the columns, the exposed brick are all reproducible. Harder to fake is the accumulated specificity: decades of a particular city's vendors, habits, and produce settling into a particular building until the two are inseparable. A market hall built yesterday to resemble Reading Terminal is not Reading Terminal, no matter how faithfully it borrows the silhouette. 

The good ones, the real ones, still earn the label. A market hall that holds a hundred small, competing acts of local enterprise together under one disciplined roof, in a place specific enough that it couldn't be anywhere else, is architecture doing something no other building type quite manages: making commerce feel like community. That's AWESOME.

Next Architecture is Awesome: #44 The Architecture of Waiting

Architecture is Awesome: #42 Framing Long Views

Villa Rotunda (photo by Andrew Hopkins from his essay Neither Perfect Nor Ideal: Palladio's Villa Rotonda)

Framing a long view is choreography, not accident. Good architecture composes foreground, middleground, and distant horizon so that seeing becomes an intentional act: a measured approach, a threshold, a framed aperture, or a dissolving boundary. Let’s consider four strategies—classical porticoes, sequential garden choreography, glass pavilion, and intimate apertures—each a different way buildings make long views legible and memorable.

Villa Rotunda (photo by Marco Bagarella, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Perched on a gentle rise with a perfectly centered plan, Andrea Palladio’s Villa Rotonda turns each portico into a picture frame. The portico sets up a designed foreground and a measured interval before the countryside. Terrace, approach, and panorama read as a deliberate triptych. The experience is ordered: the building does not merely reveal the land; it arranges the act of looking into classical perspective. 

Katsura Imperial Villa (photo by Raphael Azevedo Franca - Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1527734) 

The Katsura Imperial Villa stages long views through movement and sequence. Rooms, engawa verandas, sliding screens, and planted sightlines craft a collection of composed tableaux. Each threshold recasts the foreground and repositions focal points so distant features and garden elements become destinations in a carefully paced visual narrative. 

Farnsworth House (photo by Victor Grigas - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=42288805)

Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s Farnsworth House pursues the opposite move: panoramic extension. A thin slab elevated above the floodplain, featuring full-height glass walls and a minimal structural frame, dissolves the threshold between the interior and the landscape. Instead of isolating discrete images, the house produces a continuous picture plane; its power lies in letting the eye move unbroken to the horizon and treeline, amplifying distance and continuity. 

Mount Angel Abbey Library (photo source: The Aalto Architecture - Mount Angel Abbey)

Alvar Aalto’s Mount Angel Abbey Library near Silverton, here in Oregon, resists spectacle in favor of intimate, painting-like views. Small, carefully placed windows and carrels frame clipped foregrounds, middle fields, and distant ridges, each opening embraced by warm, tactile surrounds. The building choreographs slow looking: the landscape becomes a sequence of shaped images to be read over time rather than consumed at once. 

Together, these examples describe a compositional spectrum. Palladio and Katsura use borders, thresholds, and procession to create discrete, framed vistas; Farnsworth dissolves the border to produce an immersive panorama; Aalto occupies a middle ground, shaping compact, outward-facing views that remain intimate. Each choice shapes attention differently—how long we look, what we remember, and how distant places enter the life of a building. 

Notice framed views in ordinary places: a porch that offers an agreeable perspective, a hallway that narrows the horizon, a small window that turns a distant ridge into a painted scene. Those everyday framings are the same compositional moves architects use at larger scales. Recognize them, and architecture becomes a reliable tool for making the world more legible—and, yes, AWESOME. 

Next Architecture is Awesome: #43 Market Halls and the Bustle of Commerce

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

Architecture is Awesome: #40 Light and Shadow

Photo by Mateusz Butkiewicz on Unsplash

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.
 
Light and shadow are essential elements in architecture, shaping space in ways that go beyond aesthetics to influence how we feel and what we understand. Architects have long worked with these elements to create buildings that feel alive—places that connect with us on an emotional and intellectual level. Through the interplay of light and shadow, architects bring stone, glass, and concrete to life, crafting spaces that engage our senses and emotions.
 
Light and shadow convey meaning in architecture by shaping how we experience space emotionally and symbolically. Light often represents clarity, hope, or the divine, while shadow can evoke mystery, introspection, or solemnity. Architects use light to highlight important features or guide movement, creating focal points that draw our attention and suggest significance. Shadows, by contrast, add depth and nuance, softening spaces or introducing contrast that influences mood. Changing patterns of light and shadow also connect us to time and place, marking the passage of day or seasons and telling stories through their rhythms. These shifts give architecture a living, dynamic quality—its character evolving as daylight moves, inviting us to experience the same space anew. Different cultures interpret and employ these effects in unique ways, reflecting their values and traditions.
 
At its most fundamental level, light is electromagnetic radiation—oscillating waves traveling at remarkable speed. The narrow band we perceive as visible light offers immense potential for variation and expression. When light strikes a surface, it can be absorbed, reflected, refracted, or transmitted, depending on the material’s properties. Factors like texture, opacity, and color influence how light behaves—and in turn, how a space feels.

A triangular prism dispersing a beam of white light (photo by By User:Kelvinsong - File:Prism flat rainbow.jpg, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=125361066).

 
Shadow is more than just the absence of light; it adds depth, contrast, and subtlety. Shadows shift with the angle and strength of light, sharpening or softening forms, suggesting movement, and marking time’s passage. Architects use shadow intentionally to shape atmosphere, highlight details, and influence a building’s perceived weight or lightness. The constantly shifting interplay of light and shadow brings movement and depth to static forms, engaging our senses and making spaces feel vibrant and alive.
 
This interplay also plays a role in guiding human movement and shaping how we physically experience space. Lighted paths invite us forward, pockets of shadow create moments for pause or reflection, and contrasts between light and dark draw our eyes and steps in particular directions. Light often marks thresholds—entrances, transitions, or places of change—heightening our awareness of passing from one space to another. Through these subtle cues, architects choreograph our journey through buildings, enriching our connection to place.
 
Moreover, light reveals the texture and tactility of materials. Rough stone, smooth glass, and polished concrete respond differently under varied lighting—casting complex shadows or glowing softly—inviting us to not only see but almost feel the surfaces. This sensory richness deepens our engagement, connecting us more intimately with the built environment.

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

 
Louis Kahn’s Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas, demonstrates this balance beautifully. Kahn’s design incorporates vaulted ceilings with narrow skylights and aluminum reflectors that soften sunlight, spreading an even glow across the galleries. The effect is calm and inviting. Kahn’s well-known remark, “The sun never knew how great it was until it struck the side of a building,” reflects his belief that light reveals a building’s true character.
 
The success of the Kimbell lies in its use of diffuse light—light that bounces off curved surfaces in many directions, minimizing glare while revealing texture. This careful control of natural light creates spaces that feel balanced, contemplative, and welcoming.

Chapelle Notre-Dame-du-Haut de Ronchamp

(photo by Peter.Pielmeier, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

 
Le Corbusier’s Chapel at Ronchamp (Notre-Dame du Haut) in France offers a contrasting use of light and shadow. Completed in 1955, this sculptural chapel features thick concrete walls, a sweeping roofline, and small, irregular windows. Light enters as narrow beams and dappled patches, creating shifting patterns that bring the interior to life. The chapel feels charged with energy, designed as a spiritual journey where light guides visitors. Shadows here are not emptiness but expressions of depth and feeling.

Louvre Abu Dhabi (photo by Boubloub, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

 
The Louvre Abu Dhabi, designed by Jean Nouvel, provides a modern interpretation of light and shadow. Its large dome is made of layered geometric patterns that filter sunlight into changing patterns below. Nouvel calls this a “rain of light.” The dome protects the museum from harsh desert sun while evoking the shaded streets of traditional Middle Eastern markets. This fusion of technology and tradition shows how light and shadow can serve both function and storytelling.

Basilica de Sacré-Cœur (photo by me)

 
The Basilica de Sacré-Cœur in Paris adds another dimension. Sitting atop Montmartre, its white travertine facade catches and reflects sunlight, glowing especially at dawn and dusk. Inside, light filters through the central dome onto a mosaic of Christ in Majesty, casting soft shadows that shift throughout the day. Built as a symbol of hope and resilience, Sacré-Cœur uses light and shadow to shape both the visual and spiritual experience.
 
Around the world, architects have explored these elements in diverse ways. In traditional Japanese architecture, for example, light often enters softly through shoji screens or beneath overhanging eaves, creating indirect illumination. Shadows are embraced, not erased, reflecting a cultural preference for subtlety and impermanence. As Jun’ichirō Tanizaki wrote in In Praise of Shadows, there is beauty not only in light but in the way it recedes.
 
Even technical aspects like color temperature—the warmth or coolness of light—affect how we perceive space. Natural light shifts from warm hues at sunrise and sunset to cooler tones at midday, influencing mood and atmosphere. Shadows also change length and sharpness throughout the day and with weather, providing architects with subtle tools to shape experience.
 

Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao (photo by Tony Hisgett from Birmingham, UK, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

In addition to natural light, architects carefully design artificial illumination to shape atmosphere and highlight form—especially where daylight fades or cannot reach. Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals in Switzerland uses artificial light sparingly and with great intention. Soft pools of warm light enhance the stone’s texture and the spa’s intimate spaces, creating a quiet, almost meditative atmosphere that complements natural light and shadow. On the other hand, Frank Gehry’s Guggenheim Museum Bilbao transforms dramatically at night through exterior lighting that accentuates its sweeping metallic curves. The play of light and shadow across its surfaces gives the building a new life after dark, reinforcing its sculptural presence in the cityscape.
 
Throughout history and across cultures, architects have used light and shadow not only to define form but to convey meaning and shape experience. From the colored light of stained glass in Gothic cathedrals to the subtle, shaded serenity of traditional Japanese interiors; from the filtered glow beneath Nouvel’s dome and the contemplative quiet of Zumthor’s Therme Vals to the shifting patterns in Ronchamp’s chapel and the calm galleries of the Kimbell; and from the glowing mosaics of Sacré-Cœur to the dramatic nighttime presence of Gehry’s Guggenheim Bilbao—these elements engage our senses, guide our emotions, and connect us to the spaces we inhabit. Light and shadow do more than shape architecture’s form—they give it presence, mark the passage of time, and infuse buildings with life. When used thoughtfully and intentionally, their interplay transforms architecture into something truly AWESOME.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome: #41 Ceilings Worth Looking Up To 

Architecture is Awesome: #39 The Comfort of a Corner

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

 
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. 
 
Corners are where architecture gathers itself, where walls meet in quiet agreement. They are the natural refuge of a room—a place to tuck oneself away, to observe without being observed. In a world that often pulls in all directions, corners provide a moment of stillness, a chance to pause, to belong.
 
I have long been fascinated by the role of corners in shaping how we experience space. They are both defining and defined, both boundary and shelter. A well-crafted corner can convey strength, elegance, or even mystery. Think of the hushed intimacy of a reading nook pressed into the junction of two walls, or the grandeur of a vaulted cathedral where corners dissolve into shadow and stone.
 

Photo by Alexander McFeron on Unsplash

 
Corners invite adaptation. In our homes, they become places of retreat—an armchair pulled close, a lamp casting a pool of light, a cat curled into the warm geometry of the space. In public architecture, corners can become anchors of human activity, where city blocks turn, where street musicians tuck themselves away, where friends gather for an impromptu conversation.
 

Photo by Partha Narasimhan on Unsplash

 
Some corners impose, while others embrace. The sharp, precise edges of a modernist masterpiece draw attention to the purity of form, while the softened, time-worn corners of an ancient stone wall suggest history and endurance.
 

Seagram Building, New York. Mies van der Rohe, architect (my photo)

 

Seagram Building - Corner construction detail

 
Even beyond the built environment, corners are woven into the way we think and feel. We speak of turning a corner when life takes a hopeful shift. We find comfort in the idea of a corner table, a corner office, a corner of the world to call our own. Corners offer both perspective and protection, a place to press one’s back and feel grounded.
 
In the end, architecture is about making space for life to unfold, and corners remind us that even in the most open plans, we sometimes seek enclosure. They give us pause, they hold us, and they remind us that finding a corner to call our own—whether for reflection, refuge, or simply a moment of stillness—is truly awesome.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome: #40 Light and Shadow

Architecture is Awesome: #38 Seeing Stonework Sparkle Like New

Inside the nave of the reconstructed Notre-Dame de Paris (photo by Quirinale.it, Attribution, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=156416099)

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. 

There’s something magical about seeing a place you thought you knew suddenly transformed. It’s like meeting an old friend who shows up glowing with joy—still the same, but somehow more alive.  

That was my reaction upon seeing photos of the newly restored Notre-Dame de Paris. After five years of painstaking work following the devastating 2019 fire, the iconic cathedral has reopened, brighter and cleaner than it’s been in centuries or perhaps than it’s ever been. What a difference.  

I visited Notre-Dame in 1979, stepping inside on a gray, blustery All Saints’ Day. The interior was dim, shadowy, and cloaked in centuries of mystery. Candlelight flickered on soot-darkened walls. It was hauntingly beautiful, in the way only something so old can be.  

Now? Notre-Dame absolutely sparkles in photographs. Workers meticulously cleaned its stonework, revealing the original limestone as it once was. The stained glass certainly appears brighter and more vivid than I remember. It’s as if someone pushed the “restore to factory settings” button, removing layers of lampblack to unveil the cathedral as its original builders envisioned it. The result is a reminder that restoration isn’t about erasing history but rather about revealing it.  

Some people aren’t so thrilled. They say Notre-Dame has lost its character, that the dim, dusty gloom was part of its soul. I get it. That aged patina was steeped in history, a connection to centuries of pilgrimage and prayers. On the other hand, Gothic cathedrals were meant to dazzle. Their architecture was about light, color, and lifting medieval spirits skyward.  

How I remember the nave appearing, before the fire (photo by Willtron, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=351596)

If I am fortunate enough to visit Paris again, I expect entering the restored Notre-Dame will feel dreamlike. Relying solely on the pictures that have been circulated widely, the soaring vaults seem even taller now. The bright LED lighting—the target of much of the criticism from detractors—makes the stone appear luminous. The intricate carvings pop against the gleaming masonry.  

The sleek, contemporary design of the new altar by Guillaume Bardet has also raised some eyebrows. But to me, it’s a sign that Notre-Dame isn’t just a relic of the past. It is very much alive, growing, evolving—a bridge between what was and what can be.  

Inside Notre-Dame, the weight of time is palpable—and for those who believe, so is the hope of renewal. The space has seen war, revolution, and fire, yet the cathedral still stands, a testament to all those who invested immense efforts in maintaining or repairing it over the centuries. Notre-Dame is a magnificent monument to the human spirit, one everyone agrees was worthy of the most reverent restoration possible.  

Seeing something ancient shine like new? That’s AWESOME. 

Next Architecture is Awesome: #39 The Comfort of a Corner

  

Architecture is Awesome: #37 Standing the Test of Time

Eugene Public Library (photo credit: Eckert & Eckert)

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. 

For a building to stand the test of time, it must do far more than endure physically. True longevity arises from a building’s ability to adapt, resonate emotionally, and maintain cultural relevance as decades and even centuries pass. Such architecture doesn’t merely withstand the elements—it weathers the shifts in society, technology, and human priorities, remaining both functional and meaningful. 

Durability is the most tangible element of this equation. Buildings that last are crafted with care, using materials and construction methods chosen not only for their strength but also for their ability to age gracefully. A well-built structure is not a disposable product; it reflects an investment in the future. But durability is only the beginning. A structure must also be adaptable, capable of responding to the inevitable evolution of its purpose. For example, a warehouse might become loft apartments, a church might become a cultural center, or a library might expand to meet the needs of new generations of users. Physical robustness and flexibility in design together form the foundation of enduring architecture. 

Yet even the most resilient and adaptable building can falter if it lacks timelessness. What makes a design timeless? It is not about clinging to traditional forms or avoiding contemporary styles, but rather about creating spaces that speak to universal human experiences. Proportion, light, and materiality are enduring elements of design that, when used thoughtfully, create an emotional resonance transcending specific eras. A timeless building does not date itself with fleeting trends but instead conveys a sense of permanence and purpose that feels as relevant fifty years after its construction as on the day it opened. 

Equally important, a building that stands the test of time must connect with its community. This connection is not limited to the functional value it provides but extends to the emotional and cultural ties it fosters. A well-loved building becomes part of the identity of its city or town, earning a place in collective memory. People invest in buildings they care about—physically, financially, and emotionally—ensuring they remain vibrant and useful for future generations. 

The Eugene Public Library, a project I had the privilege to help design, serves as an example of these principles in action. The design team envisioned the library not just as a repository for books but as a civic landmark, a place for learning, connection, and quiet reflection. From the outset, we sought to create a building that would endure physically and culturally. We selected durable materials and planned for future adaptability, including provisions for a fourth-floor expansion under the building’s vaulted roof. 

We also prioritized timelessness in our design for the library. We designed light-filled reading rooms, a grand rotunda, and inviting public spaces that evoke openness and inspiration. We avoided architectural trends that might quickly date the building, focusing instead on forms and materials that balanced innovation with classic principles. Our approach aligned with Louis Kahn’s idea that architecture begins with the room—a space that elevates the mind and spirit while meeting practical needs. 

However, physical durability and timelessness alone are not enough to ensure that a building stands the test of time. The Eugene Public Library has succeeded in large part because it resonates deeply with the city of which it is apart. It is a quintessential “third place,” providing a vital communal space outside the home and workplace. Importantly too, a successful library is a place of transition and continuity, adapting to change while serving as a steadfast anchor in its community. The rise of digital media, shifts in public funding priorities, and evolving urban dynamics have all tested the Eugene Public Library since its opening twenty-two years ago. And yet, I am optimistic about its future. A building that people care about is more likely to be maintained, modernized, and preserved. Our library’s enduring appeal ensures that it will remain a valued part of Eugene’s cultural and architectural fabric. 

Ultimately, what it means for a building to stand the test of time is rooted in this interplay of durability, timelessness, adaptability, and community connection. Architecture that endures serves not only its immediate function but also a greater purpose: providing stability in a changing world, anchoring our collective identity, and inspiring future generations. 

Change is inevitable, but buildings that stand the test of time are those that embrace it without losing their essence. They adapt to new realities while remaining deeply connected to their origins. In doing so, they become more than mere structures—they become AWESOME living monuments, bridges between past and future, and steadfast companions in the journey of human life. 

Next Architecture is Awesome:  #38 Seeing Stonework Sparkle Like New

Architecture is Awesome: #36 Architectural Oddities

Casa Batlló  (photo by ChristianSchd, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

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.

Architectural oddities are unique structures that defy conventional design norms, blending artistic expression, cultural commentary, and experimental innovation. The motivation behind these oddities can range from exploring new architectural concepts to evoking humor or challenging societal expectations. By pushing boundaries and encouraging dialogue, architectural oddities celebrate individuality and playfulness, offering a dynamic and unconventional perspective on the built environment.

There are many outstanding and well-known examples of architectural oddities around the world. Here are just a few that have captured global attention:

The Crooked House (photo is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license)

The Crooked House (Sopot, Poland)

Also known as Krzywy Domek, this whimsical building has a warped and crooked facade that gives it a fairytale-like appearance. It is part of a shopping center and is a popular tourist attraction. 

The Basket Building (photo by Derek Jensen Tysto, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Basket Building (Newark, OH)

Shaped like a giant picnic basket, the former Longaberger Company headquarters in Ohio is a unique architectural oddity. The building (designed by NBBJ) served as the corporate office for the now defunct company, which specialized in handcrafted maple wood baskets.

Hundertwasserhaus (photo by C.Stadler/Bwag, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Hundertwasserhaus (Vienna, Austria)

Designed by artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser and architect Josef Krawina, this apartment building is a colorful and irregular structure with uneven floors and a rooftop covered in vegetation. It stands out as a testament to non-conformist and eco-friendly design.

Casa Batlló  (photo by Chongming76, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Casa Batlló (Barcelona, Spain)

Designed by Antoni Gaudí, Casa Batlló is a masterpiece of Modernisme architecture. Its surreal and organic design features a facade with undulating lines, colorful mosaic tiles, and fantastical shapes.

The Dancing House (photo by Danny Alexander Lettkemann, Architekt, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Dancing House (Prague, Czech Republic)

Also known as "Fred and Ginger," this modern building by architects Frank Gehry and Vlado Milunić is characterized by its unconventional and dynamic design, resembling a pair of dancers.

Kansas City Public Library Parking Garage (photo by Dean Hochman from Overland Park, Kansas, U.S., CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Kansas City Public Library Parking Garage (Kansas City, MO)

This parking garage is designed to resemble a giant bookshelf, with each of the 22 "books" (measuring 25 feet tall by nine feet wide) representing a classic work of literature.

The Elephant Building (photo by Pier Alessio Rizzardi, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Elephant Building (Bangkok, Thailand)

This building, officially named Chang Building, takes the form of an elephant, a symbol of strength and stability in Thai culture. Designed by architect Ong-ard Satrabhandhu, it's an example of how architecture can incorporate cultural symbolism.

The Hole House (photo from the Designing Buildings Wiki: File:Holehouse2.jpg- Designing Buildings).

The Hole House (Houston, TX)

Artist Dean Ruck worked with two houses slated for demolition to create an art installation that plays with the idea of negative space within architecture. The “Hole House” only existed for a few months in 2005 but left an indelible impression.

The Stone House (photo by Feliciano Guimarães from Guimarães, Portugal, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Stone House (Guimarães, Portugal)

Also known as Casa do Penedo or "House of the Rock," this unique dwelling is built between four large boulders, seamlessly integrating with the natural landscape. It’s so surreal in appearance that the photograph above looks like something created by DALL-E or Midjourney.

The Cube Houses (photo by GraphyArchy, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

The Cube Houses (Rotterdam, Netherlands)

Designed by architect Piet Blom, these cube-shaped houses are tilted at a 45-degree angle and rest on hexagon-shaped poles. Blom aimed to create a metaphorical forest within a city. The original goal was to build 55 houses but only 40 of the cube homes were completed.

These examples showcase the diversity and creativity found in architectural oddities, each with its own story, purpose, and impact on the surrounding environment.

Ultimately, architectural oddities remind us that architecture can be a playground for creativity and imagination. These unique structures are AWESOME in their ability to captivate, intrigue, and surprise us. They inspire a sense of wonder and encourage us to see the world from a different perspective, inviting us to embrace the unexpected. By breaking free from the constraints of tradition, architectural oddities open new possibilities for design and challenge us to think about the role of architecture in our lives. Whether they are whimsical, futuristic, or downright bizarre, these structures bring an extra layer of excitement and vibrancy to their designs.

Next Architecture is Awesome:  #37 Standing the Test of Time