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.

The Quiet Dispossession of Civic Space

The Standard, a student housing project by Landmark Properties (my photo). Note the absence of active storefronts fronting the street.

I first wrote about the potential redevelopment of the former PeaceHealth University District campus back in March. At the time, PeaceHealth had just listed the 12.5-acre property, and speculation about its future remained wide open. I allowed myself to imagine a scenario in which the site could evolve into a true civic asset: a place that stitched together the University of Oregon campus and the West University neighborhood with a mix of housing, public space, and services responsive to Eugene’s particular needs. That vision reflected cautious optimism, a recognition that the opportunity was rare and worth aspiring toward, even if the odds seemed long.

Now, just a few months later, we have breaking news. According to Eugene Weekly, PeaceHealth appears to have found a suitor. Landmark Properties, a national student housing developer based in Georgia, responded to the RFP and signaled its intent to move quickly. Landmark reportedly plans to secure demolition and construction permits as soon as February.(1) While the sale hasn’t closed, the courtship between PeaceHealth and Landmark looks serious. 

For those familiar with Landmark’s presence in Eugene, the news doesn’t come as a shock. The company recently completed The Standard, a massive luxury student housing complex on Broadway near the United States Courthouse. Like many of its peers across the country, Landmark focuses on high-end amenities, private leases, and sealed-off designs that prioritize interior lifestyle branding over meaningful engagement with the public realm. Retail spaces, welcoming sidewalks, or other contributions to the streetscape rarely figure into their formula. These are not buildings designed to support the long-term life of a city. They’re financial instruments, meant to be operated for profit, traded, and flipped. 

The arrival of luxury student housing brings short-term gains: an expanded tax base, temporary construction jobs, and more beds for students. But it also introduces long-term tensions. Wide, blank walls and missing storefronts dampen street activity. Affordability erodes as land values rise and buildings target premium rents. Architectural cohesion frays, with these newer developments often ignoring context or heritage. Most crucially, these buildings age poorly. 

The Hayward Student Living complex (aka 13th and Olive) as viewed along Willamette Street (Google Street view). Originally developed by Capstone Collegiate Communities and now owned by Timberline Real Estate Ventures, the roundly criticized development did not provide the initially promised street-level retail storefronts when completed in 2014. 

To be clear, more student housing isn’t inherently a bad thing. Adding to the housing stock—at any level—can help ease market pressures and create more breathing room overall. That said, what gets built matters. Buildings with rigid floor plans aimed at a narrow demographic can't easily evolve into more inclusive or diverse housing over time. The problem isn't that new high-end student housing projects are being built; it's that they're being built in a way that limits future use and contributes little to the larger civic ecosystem.

The PeaceHealth site deserves better. Its scale alone makes it consequential, but so does its location. Once a hub for community health services, the University District campus holds an institutional memory that still resonates with many residents. Redeveloping the land as another cloistered enclave of high-end student housing would erase that legacy and squander a rare chance to create something that serves broader community needs. 

The City of Eugene retains some, albeit limited, leverage. Projects of this scale must undergo Site Review, as laid out in Eugene Code sections 9.8430 through 9.8450. This process requires developers to demonstrate how their proposals address circulation, building orientation, landscaping, and compatibility with surrounding uses. While not a cure-all, Site Review creates a channel for public and staff scrutiny. These requirements don’t block development outright, but they do insert friction—opportunities for people to ask questions and raise concerns. 

Even so, the outcomes we’ve seen from recent luxury student housing projects raise valid doubts. Why hasn’t Site Review resulted in more pedestrian-friendly or contextually responsive buildings? Why does so much of it feel like a formality? In practice, Site Review often falls under the “clear and objective” track mandated for housing projects. If a developer checks the right boxes—height, setbacks, open space—the City has little discretion to say no or ask for something better. Unless a developer requests an adjustment or variance, public hearings typically don’t happen. Staff, constrained by deadlines and legal obligations, rarely have room to push back. The process becomes paper-driven, not vision-driven. Fundamentally, the City of Eugene’s current planning tools aren’t built to navigate this scale of development. 

The Standard effectively presents its backside across 8th Avenue to the Wayne L. Morse United States Courthouse. (2)

Meanwhile, Eugene continues to absorb wave after wave of high-end student housing. New projects keep entering the pipeline, even as recently completed buildings each add hundreds of new beds. With Landmark now looking to redevelop one of the city’s most significant properties, it’s worth asking how long this model can persist. The market for luxury student apartments isn’t infinite. At some point, supply will outpace demand in this very specific market niche. When that happens, vacancies will rise, rents will stagnate, and investor interest will cool. Maintenance slips, services get cut, and ownership turns over. The downward spiral is easy to recognize and hard to reverse. 

Buildings designed to turn a quick profit rarely transition well to long-term community assets. And as I mentioned above, there are challenges converting projects optimized for the premium student housing market into typologies better suited to meeting Eugene's more pressing needs. 

PeaceHealth could still alter course, but I see little reason to believe it will. As a private seller, it holds the right to choose whichever buyer meets its institutional goals. City officials might consider tightening design standards, but introducing new regulations now would likely provoke legal challenges. And the University of Oregon, a natural partner in shaping the site’s future, has already made clear that it intends to stay out of the discussion. 

So here we are. A major civic parcel, once dedicated to care and community health, now appears destined for yet another branded student lifestyle compound. It may not count as a scandal, but it’s certainly a loss. Not just of a building, or a set of services, but of a chance to do something better. Something that Eugene, with all its promise and challenges, could genuinely use. I return to this subject not to repeat myself but because the stakes are high. What happens here will shape the city’s trajectory for decades. The die may not be fully cast, but the mold is setting fast. 

(1)    Initiating demolition and construction on the site as soon as next February seems entirely unrealistic to me. 

(2)    Aside from its main entrance, The Standard is entirely lacking active storefronts that would enliven its street frontage. Granted, that frontage, particularly along the heavily trafficked Mill Street approach north toward the viaduct, is a less-than-accommodating pedestrian realm. Regardless, the building turns inward rather than engaging the city it sits within. The Standard also squats on E. 8th Avenue opposite the United States Courthouse as a less than fitting foil for the design by Pritzker-prize winning architect Thom Mayne. Imagine if a portion of that site had instead been reserved for a public gathering space, a plaza of a scale commensurate with the importance of the courthouse.