Eugene/Architecture/Alphabet: P

Prince Lucien Campbell Hall (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 P, for which my choice is Prince Lucien Campbell Hall.

Prince Lucien Campbell Hall
It was clear to me during my years as a student at the University of Oregon in the early 1980s that few among the campus community regarded Prince Lucien Campbell Hall with affection. Being both a high-rise—the 10-story structure was by far the tallest building on campus until the construction of the Bowerman Tower at Hayward Field—and an anomalous modernist design sited on the Memorial Quadrangle, “PLC” was particularly derided by my fellow students in the School of Architecture & Allied Arts. My guess is the level of animus has waned somewhat, as the passage of time and the acquisition of patina have softened some of the building’s hard edges. Additionally, PLC’s eventful history has become the stuff of UO legend, perhaps contributing to its acceptance as an iconic piece of the campus fabric.
 
Architects Glenn Stanton and Keith Robert McGuire, both graduates of UO’s architecture program, designed Prince Lucien Campbell Hall to provide substantial office space for university faculty, classrooms, and a large auditorium on a limited footprint. Named after the fourth president of the university, construction of the building occurred in two phases. The first, consisting of the five-story south wing and two stories forming the base of the future west wing, opened its doors in 1963. The second phase, completed in 1968, realized completion of the 108-foot-tall slab-like tower along Kincaid Street as well as the auditorium (now the PLC 180 Hyflex 2 Classroom).  
 

View from the Memorial Quadrangle.

Given its mid-century provenance, it isn’t surprising Stanton and McGuire worked within a modernist idiom, specifically the International Style, which eschewed historical forms in favor of simplified shapes and the adoption of glass, steel, and concrete as preferred building materials. PLC stands apart from its neighbors around the Memorial Quadrangle by virtue of its absence of ornamentation and asymmetrical massing.
 
The large English oak trees on the east side of PLC help give shape and form to the Memorial Quadrangle while also somewhat mitigating PLC’s bulk. The university planted the trees in 1940, so they would have been forty years old when I was in school, and perhaps much less substantial than they appear today.  
 
The incorporation of brick and colored tile on the façades does help PLC harmonize with the other buildings, as does setting the tower back toward the west edge of its site. In my opinion, while this aspect of its design works well on the quadrangle, the unrelieved form of the tower as seen from the west is its most objectionable attribute. This is exacerbated by the scaleless repetition of the graph paper-like composition across the entire façade.  
 

West façade. 

I alluded to PLC’s eventful past. One memorable event occurred in October of 1970, when someone planted and detonated a substantial amount of dynamite (estimated at between 20 and 24 sticks) in a ground floor restroom. While no one was hurt, the destruction was substantial, including burst plumbing and damage to four adjacent restrooms and ten offices. The Eugene Police and the FBI never found the perpetrator or perpetrators, and while researching for this blog post I could not find anything about the possible motives for the blast. This was the era of escalating student demonstrations during the Vietnam War, so perhaps the bombing was related to those protests.
 
PLC has unfortunately also been the site of multiple suicides. Desperate individuals have leaped to their death from the building’s highest balconies. Undoubtedly due to this tragic history, there are tales of people seeing ghostly figures at the top of PLC, experiencing chills, or feeling as if they are being watched when no one is there. According to Folklore Flags (a UO student-run project to connect folklore back to the context of place) the elevators in the building “are where some of the creepiest experiences have happened, especially when riding them alone and at night. Phenomena include hearing voices and whispers, feeling breath on the back of one’s neck, and feeling something brush against one’s body.”
 

"The Falconer" statue by James Lee Hansen.

In 2008, someone stole “The Falconer” statue from its pedestal in the courtyard on the Memorial Quadrangle side of PLC. The work of sculptor James Lee Hansen, the abstract bronze was donated to the university by Jordan Schnitzer and installed in 1974. My research suggests that it was never recovered, but I did find it (or a reproduction) sitting on its pedestal; see my accompanying photo (if someone knows this is the original, let me know).
 
Unlike many of my schoolmates and laypersons, I don’t think I ever disliked Prince Lucien Campbell Hall as a piece of architecture. It is a competent example of the International Style, which was the prevailing design philosophy of its time for institutional and commercial buildings. I view it now through rose-colored glasses, with fond memories of my time at the University of Oregon and the classes I attended within the building.

Concept to Completion: A Tale of Tenacity in Small Community Architecture

Rendering of the Flora M. Laird Memorial Library Expansion & Renovation 

Building projects do not happen overnight. Indeed, many only unfold over a protracted period, shaping and reshaping themselves as functional needs evolve and the vicissitudes of the construction marketplace dictate. I’ve been involved in several such projects, one of which—the expansion and renovation of the Flora M. Laird Memorial Library in Myrtle Point, Oregon—was more than two decades in the making. I attended its grand reopening celebration this past Friday, the deeply satisfying culmination of an epic journey for one small community’s library. 

The City of Myrtle Point initially retained my firm, Robertson/Sherwood/Architects, in November of 2002 for the purpose of designing a new building to replace its aging and undersized public library. The modest mid-century Modernist design was originally constructed in 1953 in accordance with plans developed by Max P. Williams & Robert B. Martin, Architects of Portland, and William A. Coffindaffer of Coos Bay. The building originally accommodated about 2,000 square feet of floor area, and subsequently expanded in 1984 by an additional 1,500 square feet, primarily to accommodate a conference room, staff workspaces, and the Children’s collection. Harlan/Miller Associates pc of Coos Bay prepared the design for that expansion. 

Our charge back then was to assist the City with the evaluation of alternative sites for the construction of the new library; however, after studying the assorted options, we concluded that none of the available properties ticked all the necessary boxes. 

The City identified another development option in March of 2004. This prospect ambitiously proposed the vacation of 5th Street between the existing Flora M. Laird Memorial Library and Myrtle Point’s City Hall for the purpose of constructing a new 6,657 SF addition connecting both buildings. The City found the concept appealing because it would address program needs for both facilities, while additionally keeping the Library in its familiar location. Furthermore, such a project would retain a sound existing asset, a more cost-effective strategy than constructing the equivalent new space from scratch. 

The 2004 "Civic Center" concept.

We characterized our resultant design as a new “Civic Center” for Myrtle Point, with aspirations as lofty as the moniker suggested. Alas, budget constraints loomed large. The 2004 estimate of the probable construction cost exceeded $3 million, which at the time was far more than could be matched by fundraising efforts. The City had no recourse but to place the project on hold and recalibrate its hopes for an expanded and modernized library. 

We updated the project’s cost estimate in 2006 and once more in 2008. Additional years would pass before we received a call from the City in 2014 to resume design work on a reduced scope option that omitted the improvements and expansion directly associated with the City Hall. We abandoned the idea of closing off 5th Street entirely, instead limiting the roadway to a single lane of traffic to provide the real estate necessary to accommodate the desired library program area. The new design reduced the area of new construction to half that of the 2004 scheme, but due to inflation the estimated cost remained virtually unchanged. Once again, the City shelved the project. 

Fast forward to 2020. The City and the Myrtle Point Library Foundation were determined to make the library expansion a reality, albeit in a significantly abridged form. The diminished program included a new Oregon Collection Room, a new main entrance vestibule, a covered outdoor reading patio, removal of barriers to accessibility (including provision of a new ADA-compliant restroom), refurbishment of the building’s exterior envelope, replacement of existing light fixtures with new energy-efficient LED fixtures, and interior repainting and replacement of ceiling and floor finishes. The total budget for the scaled-back design would be $850,000.00. 

This is the project we see today. It may not possess the grandeur of the initial concept, but it stands as a testament to the resilience, adaptability, and spirit of Myrtle Point’s citizenry. The project weathered the storms of budget constraints, shifting needs, and the passage of time. The most meaningful projects do not always adhere strictly to the initial blueprint but instead adapt and evolve, doing as much as possible to serve the needs of the people they are designed for. The expansion and renovation of the Flora M. Laird Memorial Library certainly fits this bill. 

View looking toward the new covered reading patio (left) and the new main entrance (center).

A barbershop quartet provided entertainment for the grand reopening celebration.

The new Oregon Collection Room.

Guests at the reopening celebration decorated tiles for installation in the renovation of the existing public restroom. 

The reinstalled building signage.

There is a profound sense of responsibility that comes with working on projects for a small municipality like Myrtle Point. I developed a connection with the folks there over the years. I felt accountable to them, and wanted to go the extra mile to ensure the expanded and renovated library would not only be aesthetically pleasing but functional, sustainable, and in harmony with the community ethos. 

As I wrote in my Architecture is Awesome #33 post, there are few things more rewarding for me as an architect than witnessing the genuine smiles and expressions of delight from clients and user groups upon first enjoying a project I had a hand in designing. Happy smiles and thanks for a job well-done were in abundance during the grand reopening celebration for the Flora M. Laird Memorial Library. Architects impact lives in many profound ways, most significantly by helping others. Friday evening validated my decision to become an architect and served as a powerful reminder of why I do what I do.

Architecture and the Culture Wars

 

I am both fascinated and concerned by the voices outside of my profession who have weaponized the aesthetics of architecture for use at the front of the culture wars. My thoughts on the topic are hardly original as many others, such as Robert Bevan (author of Monumental Lies: Culture Wars and the Truth about the Past), have astutely commented on what is happening. As Bevan has written, a decades-long agenda to promote traditionalist design and architecture under the cover of “beauty” appears to be paying off. At its core, the growing appropriation by alt-right elements of new classical architecture(1) is rooted in traditionalist appeals to nativism and preservation of “cultural identity.”

It's both disheartening and perplexing to see architecture caught in the crossfire of political ideologies. Architecture, a traditional reflection of culture and society, has been co-opted by agendas that extend well beyond the discipline’s bounds. Instead of serving as a medium for inclusive, equitable, and sustainable design, architecture is now too often a tool of propaganda, inflamed by the cauldron of social media.  

Even seemingly apolitical concepts like the 15-minute city have become battlegrounds. Conservative politicians target urban planning initiatives, framing them as symbols of coastal elitism and "wokeness." Misinterpretations fueled by distrust has led to the politicization of mobility in cities.

The unfair tethering of new classical architecture to far-right conservatism prompts reflections on tradition, identity, and urban planning. It’s crucial to note that not every advocate for new classical architecture aligns with the politics of the far-right (nor are proponents of contemporary design idioms necessarily left-leaning). For many architects, the new classical vocabulary is simply a means to craft beautiful and functional structures that harmonize with the needs of modern society. It bothers me that neo-traditional architectural vocabularies have become tainted by political associations.

Predictably, the alt-right has also demonized the aesthetics of modern architecture. The clean lines and innovative designs that define modern structures are portrayed as symbols of an ideology they reject. This demonization creates an unfortunate binary where any deviation from traditional styles is characterized as a symbolic threat to their political beliefs.

Beauty and common-sense design are and should remain apolitical. Architectural beauty—diverse and subjective, traditional or modern—speaks a universal language that should resonate across a spectrum of viewpoints. Common-sense architectural design, driven by practicality and efficiency, aims to create settings that address the basic needs and well-being of individuals, irrespective of their political leanings.

Architects can resist architecture's transformation into a tool for propaganda by maintaining professional autonomy, promoting inclusive design principles, and adopting a strong ethical framework. Education and collaboration with varied stakeholders, including community members and policymakers, are essential to creating spaces that genuinely serve societal needs. Advocating for architectural freedom and staying informed about societal changes enable architects to adapt designs in responsive ways while building a resilient professional community to withstand external pressures. By upholding these principles, architects can ensure their field remains committed to inclusivity, ethics, and architectural freedom, resisting undue politicization.

Perhaps I’m being naïve. Decisions about the location, design, and functionality of public buildings are frequently laden with political meaning. Urban planning, zoning regulations, and the allocation of resources in a city are inherently political processes that shape the built environment. The ways in which buildings are conceived, designed, and used can be implicitly or explicitly partisan in their implications. That moral battle lines may be drawn, or that righteous contempt are potential byproducts of architecture should not surprise me. Nevertheless, I am hopeful we can safeguard the apolitical pursuit of beauty and common-sense design, and I hope architecture can be a bridge that transcends political divides, creating spaces that resonate across multiple perspectives.(2)

(1)   New classical architecture is a catch-all term for a movement that emerged during the late 20th century and draws inspiration from traditional architectural styles. Characterized by a return to historical forms, proportions, and ornamentation, new classical architecture aims to capture the elegance and timelessness associated with traditional architecture, while adapting it to contemporary needs and contexts

(2)   Being as clear-eyed as possible, I do acknowledge that even these seemingly apolitical concepts can be influenced by cultural, social, and historical contexts. What one society deems as beautiful or commonsensical may differ from another, and these perceptions can be shaped by political, economic, or philosophical factors.

 

View Corridors

 
Skinner Butte viewed from the west along 1st Avenue in Eugene. This is not a regulated view corridor. (Google Street View)

View corridors are planning tools used in urban design and city planning to protect and enhance specific views within a city. They are meant to preserve visual connections between key landmarks, natural features, or other important elements of a cityscape. The goal is to maintain or create aesthetically pleasing vistas that contribute to the overall character and identity of a city. In the context of urban planning, municipalities implement view corridors through zoning regulations, building height restrictions, and other planning measures.
 
Many cities blessed with significant natural or built features establish view corridors to protect views of iconic landmarks, bodies of water, mountain ranges, or other significant natural or built features. This can contribute to the overall visual experience of a city and enhance its attractiveness. In many instances, this involves restricting the height of new developments within certain areas to maintain specific sightlines. These regulations can be applied to both public and private spaces, ensuring that designated views are not obstructed by new construction.
 
Vancouver, British Columbia—a city I’m especially familiar with—is well known for its strategic use of view corridors. The city implemented regulations years ago to preserve views of the surrounding mountains and waterfront. For example, view corridors from certain vantage points in the city lead directly to landmarks like the North Shore Mountains and Burrard Inlet. One famous view corridor in Vancouver is along the Cambie Street Bridge, which offers unobstructed views of the downtown skyline and the mountains. The city's commitment to preserving these vistas has contributed to Vancouver's reputation as a visually stunning and livable city.

 

Vancouver view corridor diagram.

Vancouver view corridor B.2.

Seattle’s municipal code likewise protects scenic view corridors toward both natural and human-made features, including mountains and skylines from designated public spaces. The code’s public view mitigation measures strategically control the height, bulk, profile, or location of new buildings to preserve key vistas.
 
What about Eugene? The City of Eugene Site Development Standards do include height limitation areas, whose purpose is to protect views to and from certain geographical landmarks considered to have scenic attributes and are of value to the community. To the best of my knowledge, the Skinner Butte Height Limitation Area is presently the sole example of such an area, though the Downtown Riverfront Special Area Zone incorporates a height regulating plan and view corridor requirements. Fundamentally, Eugene’s height limitation area regulations seek to achieve similar ends as controlled view corridors do in other cities.
 
Skinner Butte is a prominent landmark named in honor of city founder Eugene Skinner. The elevation at the top of the hill is 682 feet above sea level and approximately 200 feet above the surrounding streets. The Skinner Butte Height Limitation Area restricts the maximum height of any building within its limits to 500 feet above sea level. The Eugene City Council recently amended the Skinner Butte Height Limitation Area to increase allowed building heights of up to 530 feet in elevation on specific properties. As I reported previously, the intent is to attract investment within the city’s core, accommodate much-needed housing, enliven the pedestrian experience, and welcome increased density and eyes on the streets. The Eugene Code additionally exempts certain roof structures and architectural features above these height limits.

 

Commonly understood by architects is the human tendency to seek identity and orientation. Nature and history have conspired to endow Eugene with a recognizable and navigable structure. The pioneer citizens formalized the axis between Skinner Butte and Spencer Butte as Willamette Street, and like the ancient Roman cardo, it has served historically as the center of economic and cultural life for the city. The two landmarks bookend the axis. They presented planners with a natural structure about which to organize the street grid as Eugene grew.
 
Bolstering the legibility of Willamette Street as Eugene’s principal north-south axis is thus as important to the city’s identity as focusing upon the preservation of sightlines toward Skinner Butte. We should selectively protect those views, but the reality is it is challenging to fully appreciate how the diminutive butte punctuates the north end of the axis when seen from the south along Willamette Street. Indeed, its prominence is best grasped when approaching from the west, along the north bank of the Willamette River, or when in its immediate vicinity. The view from the top toward Spencer Butte rather than the ones toward Skinner Butte provides Eugene with its signature prospect.
 

Spencer Butte seen from the top of Skinner Butte (photo by Laura Alier, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

 
View corridors play a crucial role in urban design by preserving and enhancing important vistas that contribute to the overall character and identity of a city. Implemented judiciously, they balance the importance of those vistas with the need to accommodate growth and densification. In the case of Eugene, it may be the establishment of view corridors is of less importance or unnecessary so long as the city retains its structural legibility and essential sense of identity through other means.

Architecture is Awesome: #34 Adaptive Reuse

 

The Tate Modern, an example of adaptive reuse (photo by MasterOfHisOwnDomain, 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.

Adaptive reuse is a process that adapts buildings for new uses while preserving their original features. Adaptive reuse prolongs a building’s life, often retaining major systems, including the original structure, the shell, and even the interior materials. The practice breathes life into old buildings by converting them into something newly useful, whether it is as fresh commercial space, multifamily housing, community centers, mixed-use facilities, or something else.

 

The High Line, New York (my photo)

Wonderful examples of adaptive reuse abound in many cities. For example, the Tate Modern art gallery in London is housed in a building that was formerly the Bankside Power Station, a decommissioned electricity plant. Taking an adaptive approach allowed builders to create a unique and beautiful art gallery. Another noteworthy model is New York’s High Line, which transformed an abandoned section of railroad on Manhattan’s west side into an elevated linear park. Since its opening in 2009, the High Line has become a popular and well-used city icon.

 

Closer to home, The John G. Shedd Institute for the Arts converted the former First Baptist Church in downtown Eugene into a well-used performance venue and music school, while the proposed redevelopment of the Eugene Steam Plant is a catalyzing opportunity to provide an iconic community destination along the city’s riverfront.  

The Jaqua Concert Hall in the John G. Shedd Institute, Eugene.

Eugene Steam Plant vision by the deChase Miksis Development.

In communities with a noteworthy heritage of historic architecture, adaptive reuse restores culturally significant sites that otherwise would be left to decay or be razed to make room for new buildings or wasteful parking lots. In too many cities, the loss of such a built heritage has contributed to the systematic destruction of what was a coherent urban fabric in favor of blockbusting, car-oriented development. Adaptive reuse is an effective strategy for countering this detrimental trend.

 

New isn’t always better, especially when viewed through a sustainability lens. By saving countless solid, older buildings from demolition, adaptive reuse capitalizes on the operational and commercial performance of valuable existing assets. It is certainly the most environmentally sound approach to development. Adaptive reuse decreases a building’s potential carbon footprint by reducing the need for new construction, which in turn lessens its embodied energy (embodied energy being the energy consumed during the extraction, manufacture, transportation, and installation of new building materials).  

 

Adaptive reuse can also help contain urban sprawl. When builders search for new construction sites, they often choose land located outside of a city center because of budget friendly considerations. While developers may find the calculus for such development to be favorable, the fallout of sprawl is its externalized costs:  the erosion of community identity, greater fuel consumption, higher public spending on infrastructure and servicing, the adverse impact of lowered tax bases for central cities, and harmful environmental outcomes. Adaptive reuse leverages existing resources and is a powerful tool for rejuvenating established neighborhoods.

 

Adaptive reuse is often cost-effective. While a project to renovate an existing building may require more labor to execute than one built from scratch, the savings in material costs is often significant, especially as the price of new materials has skyrocketed in recent years. Adaptive reuse also forgoes the cost of demolition, which can represent a substantial portion of a construction budget.

 

Skylab Architecture’s new headquarters (image from Skylab’s website)

Adaptive reuse is not restricted to architecture of historic significance and can be a strategy for extending the useful life of many obsolete buildings that have outlived their original function. An excellent recent example is the new headquarters of Skylab Architecture in Portland. The firm chose to creatively adapt two old steel warehouse structures in the city’s NW industrial area (one of them a prefabricated Quonset hut), transforming them into not only its dynamic new workspace, but also as a place to host events for the larger design community.

 

Adaptive reuse is AWESOME because it gives old buildings a new lease on life by repurposing them for uses unforeseen by the original builders, all while retaining many of their historic and most attractive features. The process is an admirably sustainable approach to building that preserves built heritage, reduces sprawl, and reinvigorates the urban fabric.  

 

Next Architecture is Awesome:  #35 Problem Solving