Architecture is Awesome #11: Sense of Place

Pont Neuf (1872, Pierre-Auguste Renoir)

 

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.

One of the “aha! moments” of my academic life was coming to realize architecture has the power to add to the physical, cultural, and social identity of places. I learned how important it is for architects to thoroughly understand how an authentic place is not anywhere but rather somewhere people have purposely invested meaning in over time. I came to understand why caring for a sense of place should be an imperative in my work.

The best places possess a strong identity and character. They help us know where we are in the world and why they are unique. They are far from placeless (that feeling “there is no there, there") because they impart a physical, emotional, and sometimes spiritual connectedness to a specific geographic area. Architects who keenly understand this will do everything they can to ensure what makes a well-loved place so is enhanced, rather than diminished, by what they add to it.

Architects are adept at analyzing and responding to the problems of a site, which include its physical attributes, context, and opportunities. Additionally though, the most thoughtful among us do consider much more in an effort to distinguish a site’s most important characteristics. These architects reveal and strengthen the spirit of the place, rather than allowing it to remain weak and undifferentiated.

The locations we all consider memorable, unique, and enjoyable are often redolent of placeness. Their protective genius loci is strong, yet contingent upon how people have used and built upon it over time. Think of the banks of the Seine in Paris, the views from which have inspired countless artists, among them Renoir and Van Gogh. Or the Piazza Navona in Rome, once an ancient stadium, later transformed as a public space and market, its history vividly layered for all to see. Closer to home, it’s hard to imagine Timberline Lodge anywhere but nestled high up the snowy south flank of Mt. Hood. 

Piazza Navona, Rome

Sometimes, a singular piece of architecture not only contributes to the sense of place but is necessary to bring it to light. The Sydney Opera House is inseparable from its harbor setting but now even more so from Sydney’s consciousness. Jorn Utzon’s optimistic masterpiece transcended its infamous travails to become an unforgettable landmark and symbol for an entire nation. 

We do have to be careful: Attempting to create a sense of place from whole cloth is folly; instead, we must discern and tease out the already present, most beneficial emergent properties of each site we work with. No two projects should ever be exactly alike because the countless factors influencing every one of our projects are as complex and varied as life itself. Therefore, our goal should be to build upon the distinguishing structure of each place, taking care to preserve its unique essence—its soul—when we design. 

The irony of our hyper-connected digital existence today is that many of us are starved of deep engagement with others and the real world we inhabit. The automobile-centric development patterns that predate the electronic age and persist today exacerbate our isolation and the ubiquity of placelessness. Preserving and augmenting a sense of place is an antidote: the particularity of real places, the memories they help make or elicit, and the way they bring us together provide us with the kinds of genuine experiences we naturally crave as human beings. 

Bringing a critical approach to designing every project means designing with place and what it means always in mind. I think it’s totally AWESOME we architects are entrusted to contribute positively to a sense of place with every project we undertake, and in the process help people truly connect with the world they live in.

Next Architecture is Awesome: #12: Ordered Complexity

Hyperlocal Identity: A Strategy for Small Cities and Towns

Downtown Cottage Grove (my photo)

The appeal of life in a vibrant small city or town is clear. The slower pace, an abiding familiarity, and a homespun sense of community are among its charms. So too is an embrace of local traditions and character. We recognize that a small city or town we consider most memorable, unique, and enjoyable is often redolent of place. It is far from placeless (that feeling “there is no there, there") because it imparts a physical, emotional, and sometimes spiritual connectedness to a specific geographic area and cultural context. People who keenly understand this will do everything they can to ensure that what makes a well-loved place is enhanced, rather than diminished, by what they add to it. They capitalize upon that community’s hyperlocal identity.

I know big-city life. I was born and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia, and spent two years in Los Angeles studying and working in architecture. I have traveled to great cities around the world. I now live in mid-sized Eugene, where I thoroughly appreciate my adopted home’s blend of urban amenity and outdoor opportunities. Living here has introduced me to other communities in the southern Willamette Valley, among them Springfield, Creswell, Cottage Grove, and Pleasant Hill. These smaller cities and towns are all distinct. Each is set apart by a combination of its people, history, geography, and character. Each has a well-developed sense of place.

Built environments that exhibit a loss of place have no special relationship to where they are located—they could be anywhere. When the urban tissue is “loose” or sprawling, paths, edges, districts, and nodes lose their imageability. Unsympathetic developments fundamentally dilute the sense of place. Strip malls, big box stores, fast food outlets, and cloyingly named enclaves of speculatively built homes (with their aimlessly curved streets and cul-de-sacs) are all hallmarks of a placeless and inauthentic environment. The problem with too much of the American urban landscape is that it is so remorselessly generic and unexceptional.

Because I am an architect, my stock-in-trade is to understand the nature of a place and how to enhance its most distinctive and obliging characteristics. When planning new developments in a town or city of any size, it is important that I analyze and respond to its physical attributes, context, and opportunities. It is equally important to reveal and strengthen the spirit of the place, rather than allowing it to remain weak and undifferentiated. The stronger the hyperlocal identity is, the more likely the community will thrive and not merely survive. The future is fraught enough with change and uncertainty, so my goal is to avoid detracting from what already makes a place most unique and attractive.

The rules of the game have certainly changed in our post-pandemic world. Working from home is an attractive option for many workers, as they no longer have to live where their employers are based. Attractive smaller cities and towns stand to gain from the exodus of folks from large metro areas who struggle with high costs of living or who simply prefer a simpler lifestyle.

I do believe small cities will be more adept than large ones at developing self-reliant local economies and infrastructure systems. Dependence upon regional, national, or international resources will increasingly be unsustainable, so localizing infrastructure, diversifying community services, and increasing cooperation at the local level will be key strategies for climate adaptation and resilience. Smaller cities and towns are poised to drive the economies of the future by supporting nearby farmers, businesses, restaurants, e-commerce, and marketing, but only if they thoroughly understand themselves and their potential.

The irony of our exceedingly connected digital existence today is that many of us yearn for deep engagement with others and the real world we inhabit. The automobile-centric development patterns that predate the electronic age and persist today exacerbate our isolation and the ubiquity of placeless-ness. Preserving and augmenting a hyperlocal sense of place and identity in our smaller cities and towns is an antidote: The particularity of real places, the memories they help make or elicit, and the way they bring us together provide us with the kinds of genuine experiences we naturally crave as human beings.

Eugene, Genius Loci, and the Butterfly Effect

Our city has a developed “sense of place,” an identity and character that we Eugeneans and many visitors feel. This is imparted by various natural, manmade, and cultural factors: There is the confluence of the Willamette and McKenzie rivers, the landmark buttes and hills that punctuate and frame the valley, and the overlay of the urban grid, inflected by the presence of the natural features and the persistence of historic paths of travel. There is the diverse population of people in pursuit of alternative ideas, aging hippies, outdoor enthusiasts, and expatriate retirees from California and elsewhere. There is also the settlement's history, from its beginnings as a trading post and “Skinner’s Mudhole,” through its halcyon days as a center for timber processing and agri-business, to its role as a hub for the 60s and 70s counterculture and its identity as Track Town USA. Together, these factors form an a priori condition to which we as architects must respond. They comprise our city's genius loci, the spirit of the place, that which is unique, distinctive, and cherished about our city.

It was during the 1970s and 1980s that I learned about several key principles of place-making. Influential at that time was the Norwegian architectural theorist Christian Norberg-Schulz, who explored the phenomenology of place in his book Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture. His book is a tough read—my copy was published by Rizzoli and translated from Italian—but it profoundly impacted my thinking about architecture and urban design, particularly during my graduate studies at UCLA, where ideas about environmental psychology and psychogeography had a foothold among some faculty. For Norberg-Schulz, place-making was a total phenomenon that cannot be reduced to its constituent properties, such as spatial relationships. People are part of this phenomenon, and to belong to a place means to have an “existential foothold,” which “concretizes” the genius loci. The sense of place does not rely upon any one individual's perceptions or experiences, yet is dependent on human engagement for its existence. Norberg-Schulz did not advocate any kind of environmental determinism; instead, he viewed architecture’s basic responsibility as being to understand the genius loci, to protect it and become part of the totality. The fundamental underlying principle was that architecture should always be adapted to the context of which it will become a part.

Another central precept of the genius loci is the human tendency to seek identity and orientation; this is commonly understood by architects. Nature and history have conspired to endow Eugene with a recognizable and navigable structure. For example, Skinner Butte and Spencer Butte are two prominent landmarks. The pioneer citizens formalized the axis between the two buttes as Willamette Street, and like the ancient Roman cardo, it served historically as the center of economic and cultural life for the city. The Willamette River is both path and edge at the same time, as is the Union Pacific rail line. The yearning by today’s visionaries for a return to the river is as much a response to the genius loci, recognition of the river’s historic and structural importance to the city, as it is a desire to enhance a heretofore underdeveloped community amenity.

Manmade environments that exhibit a loss of place have no special relationship to where they are located—they could be anywhere. They lack a distinct identity and are disorienting. When the urban tissue is “loose,” paths, edges, districts, and nodes lose their identity and imageability (see note 1 below). Like many other cities that have grown significantly since World War II, Eugene’s strong sense of place has been diluted by unsympathetic developments. The numerous strip shopping malls, big box stores, fast food outlets, and cloyingly-named walled enclaves of speculatively built homes (with their aimlessly curved streets and cul-de-sacs) are all hallmarks of a placeless and inauthentic urban environment. They are also the product of the interaction between complex variables—economic, social, political, and technological—of a nonlinear dynamical system, to borrow from mathematical terminology.

So, how might Eugene preserve and reinforce its unique character under the pressures of growth and change? How do we sustain the genius loci? Perhaps we can find the answer by borrowing another term from mathematics, more specifically, Chaos Theory.

The butterfly effect (see note 2 below) is a phrase that sums up the notion that tiny variations of an initial condition can produce outsized changes in the behavior of a complex system. What the butterfly effect posits is that predicting the behavior of any large system is virtually impossible unless you could account for all the tiny factors that might have an effect upon it. The city is a model of a large nonlinear dynamical system that is vulnerable to the effects of every decision, action, and event that occurs over its history. Each variation produces cascading effects and largely unintended consequences determined by the unbroken chain of prior occurrences. The inability to reliably implement urban design initiatives is evidence of this effect (see my March 8, 2008, post regarding the Eugene Downtown Zoning Review Project). The outcome is ever changing and never static. Every action either reinforces or detracts from the genius loci.

I’m not trying to make the point that urban planning is futile, rather that urban planning could be more effective if it was based upon a shared appreciation of the genius loci. This might be expressed as agreement about a set of patterns, perhaps similar to those developed by Christopher Alexander and his colleagues at the Center for Environmental Structure in The Oregon Experiment and as later codified in the book A Pattern Language. An appropriate and unique collection of such patterns would be analogous to a record or memory of the genius loci. Conversely, the collection of patterns might be regarded as the emergent product of a complex system (the city itself)—a novel and coherent structure arising out of the multiplicity of interactions. The more coherent and legible the collection of patterns is, the more resilient it will be in the face of constant changes.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if a set of patterns or some other means is used to articulate the genius loci; the objective is to generate intended, rather than unintended, consequences that reinforce the spirit of the place. We should view every one of our projects as an opportunity to build incrementally upon the distinctive and valued qualities that differentiate Eugene from anywhere else. Work from this perspective as you evaluate every one of your design decisions, even the smallest ones, such as the selection of brick pavers of a certain color and texture for use along a pathway. Every decision is important; every choice has far-reaching effects. It is the control we wield over the tiny variations of the “initial condition”—the butterfly effect—that will cumulatively buttress the genius loci and minimize its erosion.


1. Kevin Lynch was another urban theorist that figured prominently during my student years. His most influential book, The Image of the City, documented how people perceive and navigate the urban landscape in predictable ways, forming mental maps that rely upon recognition of five elements: paths, edges, districts, nodes, and landmarks. Lynch’s work did not address the understanding of experience like Norberg-Schulz’s did by co-opting the philosophy of phenomenology, but it did provide a metric for the experience of three-dimensional urban space.

2. “The phrase refers to the idea that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmoshpere that ultimately cause a tornado to appear (or prevent a tornado from appearing). The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale phenomena. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different.” (Wikipedia)

Architecture is Awesome: #31 Taking it All In

Pioneer Courthouse Square, Portland (photo by Cacophony - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2335737)

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 buildings or spaces possess an extraordinary quality that gives us reason to pause and appreciate them in their entirety. In that moment, we take it all in as we realize why they strike us as special, illuminating, and complete. Genius, design, and serendipity play their parts, as do the interplay of wholeness, scale, identity, emotion, and inspiration. These buildings or spaces possess the special power to captivate and impress, perhaps no more so than upon our first encounter with them.
 
When we come upon a building or space that resonates with us, it often is because it contributes to a strong sense of place and identity. Whether it’s a historical site, a bustling urban square, or a serene natural landscape, these examples embody the essence of their surroundings. These places authentically embrace the local culture, materials, and context. When we take in the unique characteristics of a place, we appreciate how architecture can harmoniously merge with its environment and immerse us in a complete and meaningful experience.
 
A building or space that gives us reason to pause often carries symbolic importance and cultural significance. It may have become a repository of history, values, and aspirations, evoking a sense of collective identity and heritage. It can inspire a shared sense of belonging, inviting us to take it all in not only aesthetically but also intellectually and emotionally, encouraging a deeper appreciation for the cultural fabric from which it emerged.
 
The best architecture embodies a sense of wholeness, wherein every element, from the overall form to the minutest detail, contributes to the creation of a unified and harmonious design. Great architecture feels complete, coherent, and purposeful. Whether it’s the majestic sweep of a dome, the graceful curves of a bridge, or the symmetrical layout of a garden, the structure imparts a sense of unity that transcends its constituent components. Details reveal themselves upon closer inspection, drawing us deeper into the architectural narrative. As we take it all in, fractal patterns that repeat and evolve at varying scales may become evident. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts, one that is in concert with our native desire for order and harmony.
 
Spatial choreography and our sensory experience within a place are also important. We live in a three-dimensional world. We move about it. The thoughtful arrangement of spaces and the transitions between them is a hallmark of memorable buildings and places. It can create a narrative and unveil different perspectives. A well-crafted sequence takes us on a journey, guiding our emotions and perceptions. We take it all in gradually, layer by layer, perhaps being surprised along the way. Natural light filtering through a series of interconnected spaces, the gentle sound of water cascading down a sculptural fountain, or the tactile sensation of running our hands along a meticulously finished surface may engage our senses.
 
The power of architecture fundamentally lies in its ability to enhance our lives. Spaces that strike us as special and complete have a transformative impact on our well-being, creativity, and overall quality of life. They provide us with opportunities for connection, contemplation, and self-discovery. Whether it’s a place of worship that inspires spiritual reflection or a vibrant public square that fosters social interaction, these architectural experiences leave us with a lasting impression.
 
An example of a transformative space is Pioneer Courthouse Square in Portland. Known as the city’s “living room,” its design promotes community engagement by including ample seating, performance areas, and public art installations. Scheduled events and gatherings curate shared experiences. Pioneer Courthouse Square embodies the best aspects of Portland’s unique culture, serving as a gathering place that celebrates the city’s history, arts, and community. The notion that architecture can shape and enhance public life is evident, especially to first-time visitors, who routinely pause to enjoy and take in the sense of connection Pioneer Courthouse Square fosters.
 
The moment of insight we experience when as we take it all in and contemplate exemplary built places and spaces can be profound. The AWESOME ability to appreciate great architecture is an innate characteristic we all share, one that is richly rewarded if we take full advantage and seize every opportunity to do so.
 
Next Architecture is Awesome:  #32 Every Building is a Prototype

Designing for Experience

Gamble House porch – Greene and Greene, Architects (photo by Mattnad, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

 

Architecture transcends form and function. It is a lived experience that shapes how we perceive, feel, and belong in spaces. The environments we inhabit influence our emotions and sense of place, extending beyond mere aesthetics and utility. A phenomenological approach to design places the human dimension at the forefront, focusing on how individuals engage with and experience their surroundings over time.
 
When I first studied architecture, human experience was not at the forefront of my design thinking. Instead, I was drawn to the conceptual abstraction found in the work of certain architects I admired. These practitioners seemingly focused more on abstract theories than principles founded on experientiality or sensory engagement. Their designs distilled complex ideas into seductive forms, while emphasizing intellectual rigor over emotional or physical resonance. I found their cerebral and aesthetic approaches captivating.
 
This perspective shifted during my studies at the University of Oregon under Professor Bill Kleinsasser. His course, Experiential Considerations in Architecture, introduced a transformative lens, emphasizing a design approach that prioritizes human needs and contextual harmony over theoretical abstraction. Bill highlighted the dynamic, subjective nature of existence, a view I later recognized as aligned with phenomenology.
 
Martin Heidegger’s 1951 essay Building, Dwelling, Thinking provided a profound framework for phenomenology and understanding architecture’s role in human existence. He shifted the focus from buildings as static objects to environments that facilitate meaningful dwelling, fostering a deeper connection between people and place. This concept of dwelling, grounded in physical and existential experience, influenced later thinkers and architects who have built on the idea of engaging all the senses in design.
 
In his book The Eyes of the Skin (1996), Juhani Pallasmaa critiqued architecture’s tendency to overemphasize the visual, advocating for a more holistic, multisensory approach to design. In this regard, Pallasmaa’s critique builds on Heidegger’s notion of dwelling, further expanding the architectural experience beyond sight to include other senses that foster a more holistic engagement with space.

Interior, Therme Vals (photo from 7132 Hotels: Experience Serenity: Peter Zumthor Thermal Baths at 7132, Vals, Switzerland)

 

Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals (1996) project in Switzerland exemplifies this emphasis. Its subterranean stone corridors, muted light, warm humidity, and resonant acoustics engage the body holistically, creating a multisensory experience that goes beyond the visual. For Zumthor, the materiality of stone, wood, and concrete is not just a visual experience; it invites tactile, acoustic, and even olfactory engagement, reminding us that true dwelling happens not only in the mind, but through the full spectrum of our senses.
 
Similarly, Steven Holl’s Chapel of St. Ignatius (1997) in Seattle prioritizes spatial experience over visual dominance. The sequence of intimate, textured volumes—rough concrete meeting smooth wood—combined with acoustic stillness, fosters contemplation and creates an atmosphere that is felt as much as seen.
 
Architectural taxonomists categorize Charles W. Moore as another well-known architectural phenomenologist. Charles, whom I had the privilege of working with and knowing during my years in Los Angeles, applied an experiential approach to his work, fully embracing playfulness and narrative. The Oceanside Civic Center (1986) exemplifies this approach. Rather than adhering to rigid modernist formulas, the Civic Center creates a dynamic and engaging experience. Vibrant colors, layered references, and an interplay between interior and exterior spaces make the environment feel both engaging and accessible, fostering a strong civic identity while being inviting. The design underscores the idea that spaces should evoke emotional connections, as an environment that fosters community and well-being.

 

Just as the work of Zumthor, Hall, and Moore emphasizes the emotional and narrative dimensions of space, the focus on human experience also extends to the urban context. Kevin Lynch explored how people perceive and navigate cities, emphasizing elements that create coherence, meaning, and a sense of place. In The Image of the City (1960), he identified legibility—the ability to mentally map and emotionally connect with one’s surroundings—as an essential component of urban experience.
 
Christopher Alexander’s theories strongly support design with experiential considerations in mind. He championed intuitive, emotionally resonant, and contextually grounded design processes, opposing mechanistic approaches that prioritize abstraction over lived experience. In A Pattern Language (1977), Alexander and his co-authors, Sara Ishikawa and Murray Silverstein, identified intuitive patterns that contribute to livable, meaningful spaces. The enduring appeal of these patterns lies in their ability to form a bridge between past experiences and the design of new environments.
 
Alexander asserted that certain spatial arrangements—such as small public squares that encourage gathering or window seats that invite reflection—resonate with people on an elemental level. His book The Timeless Way of Building (1979) introduced the concept of the “quality without a name,” an indefinable yet deeply felt essence that makes spaces feel alive and meaningful. This essence aligns with Heidegger’s notion of dwelling and Pallasmaa’s multisensory focus. 

An experiential approach to design is clear in the Gamble House (1908), designed by Greene and Greene. The house features rich, tactile materials like wood, stone, and copper, creating an intimate and sensory experience. The design incorporates carefully crafted details that invite touch, such as handcrafted furniture and textured surfaces. Carefully placed openings frame views to the surrounding landscape. The Gamble House emphasizes comfort, warmth, and an organic sense of dwelling—qualities that resonate with Heidegger’s notion of place and belonging (despite predating Heidegger's ideas).  

More contemporary applications of these principles extend this legacy. Frank Gehry’s Maggie’s Centre Dundee (2003) in Scotland, a cancer care facility, features an undulating roof, warm timber interiors, and garden views, offering solace through tactile comfort and natural soundscapes. Tadao Ando’s Church of Light in Japan is a minimalist example, a simple yet profound exploration of concrete, light, and shadow. The meditative space encourages introspection and spiritual engagement. The experience of moving through the space and encountering natural light is both physical and emotional, making it a deeply phenomenological.  

The spaces we occupy shape our emotions, memories, and sense of identity, deepening the significance of place. The patina of weathered materials or the rhythm of spatial transitions can deepen these connections, making a place feel lived-in and meaningful.  

Buildings are not static; they are shaped by human life and interactions, evolving through experience and adaptation to new needs and contexts. In an era when globalized design tends toward uniformity, phenomenology offers a vital framework to prioritize the human dimension, crafting spaces that resonate deeply with their inhabitants. 

The Nature of Order

 

Photo by Roberto Nickson on Unsplash

As I write this blog post, it’s Christmas morning. I’m not a religious person nor am I a particularly spiritual individual, yet I am moved by the “Christmas Spirit.” The yuletide season is a time to be selfless, to forgive, share with others, take stock of what is important, and become better versions of ourselves. It’s also a time to seek meaning and purpose in life, to connect with something beyond the self, and embrace awe and wonder. Additionally, Christmas is marked by reflection upon a range of traditions that link us to our past, to the world, and to the people and communities that are important to us.

I’ve always believed the best architecture is likewise moving. The best architecture is meaningful and purposeful. It is supportive, provides us with comfort, venerates nature, and sustains traditions. Like Christmas, the best architecture is an expression of positive values, of connections with community and a greater good. 

So, is there a formula or theory that we can draw upon to improve the odds of designing buildings and places that are humane, full of life and meaning, immediately and inextricably connected with place, culture, and tradition—in a word, that are “moving?” Many architects and theorists have sought to provide such a prescription, but a successful, fundamental, objective, and all-encompassing model has proven elusive.      

In his four-volume magnum opus, The Nature of Order, the late Christopher Alexander attempted to define the “patterns of life” essential for creating a sense of well-being and connection to the natural world in the places where we live and work. His theory is based on the idea that there is a fundamental unity to the world, and that this unity can be seen in the patterns and structures found in nature. He believed these patterns are essential for creating a sense of life and vitality in the built environment, and that they can be used to create spaces that are both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

Book One of The Nature of Order is The Phenomenon of Life, in which Alexander proposed a scientific view of the world wherein all things have a perceptible degree of “life.”

Book Two is The Process of Creating Life. In it, Alexander claimed life and beauty only arise from processes which allow living structure and structure-preserving transformations to unfold.

In Book Three, A Vision of a Living World, Alexander presented hundreds of examples to illustrate what a world built in accordance with the principles outlined in Books One and Two is like.

Book Four is The Luminous Ground, which revealed Alexander at his most spiritual. In this volume, he described a new cosmology uniting matter and consciousness.

To elucidate the concepts throughout all four volumes, Alexander drew upon a wide range of examples from architecture, urban design, and the natural world. He introduced a set of principles for designing buildings and spaces that reflect natural patterns. These principles include ideas such as the importance of creating a sense of order and coherence in the built environment, the use of natural materials and forms, and the creation of spaces that are adaptable and flexible over time.

One of the key concepts throughout The Nature of Order is Alexander’s concept of “wholeness.” He argued that we should design buildings and spaces with a sense of wholeness, with each element fitting together seamlessly to create a harmonious whole. This sense of wholeness is essential to well-being and connection with the natural world. Harmony is a function of wholeness, and Alexander described how we perceive it, describe it, and achieve it in the formulation of things.

Photo by Ronincmc, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

To illustrate the concept of wholeness, Alexander used the example of a traditional Japanese tea house. He argued that the tea house is a perfect example of a building that possesses wholeness, with each element fitting together seamlessly to create a harmonious whole. The classic tea house displays a clear hierarchy of structure, with the tearoom at its center, surrounded by a series of smaller rooms and spaces. The materials used, such as wood and stone, are natural and authentic, and the layout of the tea house is changeable.  

Beyond wholeness, Alexander further defined “order” as the arrangement of elements in a way that creates coherence and unity. The concept of order and the patterns and structures that comprise it are closely linked to the idea of an essential quality of buildings and spaces that are deeply satisfying to be in.

The Nature of Order builds upon the ideas Alexander and his colleagues presented earlier in the enormously influential book A Pattern Language. While both argue for the importance of the “patterns of life” to the creation of the places in which we live and work, The Nature of Order goes into greater depth, providing a comprehensive and systematic exploration of how these patterns fundamentally underlie the creation of architecture.   

The Nature of Order does touch on spiritual themes, in the sense that Alexander explored ideas bordering on the ineffable. In another earlier volume, The Timeless Way of Building, Alexander writes of The Quality Without a Name, which he described as a central quality of life in a man, a town, a building, or wilderness. He said this quality is objective and precise, but it cannot be named. This quality permeates all 2,200 pages bound within the four books of The Nature of Order.

To a degree, Alexander’s metaphysical, oracular tone and his commitment to absolute certainty undercut the legitimacy of his utopian principles; nevertheless, it is this very tone that I find compelling about The Nature of Order and Alexander’s other work. It may be because it helps to satisfy a spiritual deficit, a void I reluctantly acknowledge. Perhaps it is because it touches me in the same place, in a different way, as the spirit of Christmas does.

Though I have owned them for many years already, I have yet to completely read all four books of The Nature of Order from cover to cover. They are so unimaginably sweeping, both in terms of their scope and their transformative vision for architecture, that I cannot absorb in one take the entirety of the framework for design that Alexander created. I fully expect it will take multiple re-readings and years for me to appreciate his grand unified theory of everything truly and fully.

Influences: Christian Norberg-Schulz

 
Christian Norberg-Schulz

An earlier blog entry of mine, “Genealogy of Influence,” promised a series of posts about the architects and theorists who influenced my architectural world view. This is the latest post in the series.  

Christian Norberg-Schulz (1926-2000) was a Norwegian architect, educator, and architectural theorist. Though he initially worked as an architect—being a member of PAGON (Progressive Architects Group Oslo Norway), with whom he designed several notable rowhouse projects in Oslo in a decidedly modernist style—he is best known for writing a series of highly influential books from 1965 onward about the phenomenology and psychology of place. His books are important to grasping the significance of meaning and experience to architecture, a concept that stood in contrast to the rationalism and prevalent anti-historicism of postwar modernism. He wrote about making and inhabiting places in the real world—places connected to history and community—in an accessible and compelling manner. 

An understanding of the dominant ideas and beliefs within the architectural profession and the schools of architecture during the period when Norberg-Schulz first came to prominence is necessary to appreciate why his theories would prove so persuasive. They would find widespread acceptance at a time when architects had largely ignored the essential roles of meaning, memories, and emotion in architecture and place-making. His writings were very much part of the zeitgeist during the formative years of my education and would forever shape my approach to architecture.

A significant portion of Norberg-Schulz’s theories derived from the philosopher Martin Heidegger’s methods of interpreting the being of human existence. This was perhaps no more evident than in his book Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture, which was published in 1979, just prior to my 1980 arrival at the University of Oregon to study at the School of Architecture and Allied Arts. In Genius Loci, Norberg-Schulz translated Heidegger’s notions of “dwelling,” “gathering,” and “thing” into a study of place and meaning. More specifically, it is “the meanings which are gathered by a place” that provides the best understanding of genius loci.(1)

Norberg-Schulz spoke of the phenomena of places and the importance of recognizing how meaningful environments help you feel “at home.” He wrote about how the landscapes we regard as meaningful have accumulated mythologies about them, such as the differentiation of high places that belong to the earth and yet rise toward the sky and heaven above. Additionally, he used specific cities he was familiar with—Prague, Khartoum, and Rome—as concrete examples of the phenomenon of place.

He noted a defining aspect of Prague is how its urban spaces are focused on towers and spires, and how churches, town halls, and old house alike simultaneously hug the ground and aspire to reach the sky. Norberg-Schulz observed how Prague would become different over the centuries and yet remain the same, as new buildings adapted to what was there before.

The genius loci of Khartoum stems both from its geography and the fact it originated as three distinct settlements. Located at the confluence of the White Nile and the Blue Nile in Sudan, Norberg-Schulz remarked visitors cannot form a unified visual image of Khartoum, as its vast dimensions are tuned to the infinite expanse of the desert surrounding the city. Despite this indeterminate character, Norberg-Schulz saw order and meaning in Khartoum’s standing between Arabic-Islamic desert culture and the “magic world” of Africa proper, as well as its importance as an interior watershed distinct from other African regions related to the coasts—Khartoum thus being at the center of several worlds.

Norberg-Schulz likewise asserted that Rome is defined more by its rootedness in the surrounding landscape—the features of the campagna and Rome’s seven hills—than by its monumental grandiosity. The city originated within that landscape as a vernacular cluster of settlements, later becoming a more comprehensive totality comprised of separate urban foci (monuments, streets, and piazzas) loosely organized about a system of axes (the cardo and decumanus). Rome’s architecture, characterized by plasticity and heaviness, shapes and determines the properties and boundaries of the public realm.

By relating the examples of Prague, Khartoum, and Rome, Norberg-Schulz illustrated the concepts of “meaning” and “structure” as key to understanding the genius loci. The “meaning” of any object consists in its relationship to other objects, whereas “structure” denotes the formal properties of the system of relationships; hence they are aspects of the same totality. In his view, that totality comprises the genius loci, or sense of place. From a phenomenological perspective, place is an integral part of existence.

Prague (photo by Moyan Brenn from Italy, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Norberg-Schulz believed one cannot describe place solely through analytic, scientific means. He argued exclusively objective and scientific approaches failed to provide people with the “existential foothold” necessary to meaningfully experience the environments they inhabit or use. Fundamentally, spaces where life occurs are places, and places are spaces with distinct character. Recognizing its genius loci requires reinforcing the larger order with each new intervention, continuing the existing pattern or structure, and embodying and expressing its essential spirit.

Importantly, Norberg-Schulz advocated for recovery from a loss of meaning and place during a period in architecture when settlement as a place in nature, when urban foci as places for everyday living, and when meaningful sub-places where one could feel both individuality and belonging, were not priorities. He restored the necessity of experiential considerations in design such that a building is not merely a building but a shared spatial experience—a locality—that embodies and shapes the values of its environment and culture.

I owe a debt to Christian Norberg-Schulz for helping me understand the concept of architectural phenomenology and for stressing the importance of experiential qualities in the design of our built places.

(1)    According to Wikipedia, the term genius loci comes from classical Roman religion, being the ancient Romans’ protective spirit of a place. In contemporary usage, and thanks in large part to Christian Norberg-Schulz, genius loci refers to a location’s distinctive atmosphere. 

To Be Everywhere is to Be Nowhere

Photo collage by Uoregon14 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

The following piece will appear as the AIA-Southwestern Oregon Committee on Local Affairs' contribution to the 2017 Design Annual (Register-Guard insert), to be published next month. The theme of this year’s edition is “Technology.”

Few shifts in the cultural landscape have so profoundly impacted our shared conception of the public realm as the advent of the Internet, smart phones, and social media. The smart phone has changed every aspect of our social interactions, with profound implications for the future of communities everywhere. Just as the automobile prompted the decline and replacement of much of the productive urban fabric of our cities (think urban renewal, freeways, parking lots, and exclusionary zoning), the Internet and, more specifically, social media now jeopardize the reversal of that decline.

The irony of social media has been an attendant rise in loneliness, depression, and a sense of detachment among its heaviest users. For the compulsively addicted, virtual spaces become more attractive than real ones, virtual exchanges more appealing than in-the-flesh interaction; entire worlds are just a keystroke or finger-swipe away. The 2,000-year-old words of the Roman philosopher Lucius Annaeus Seneca—who speaking in his time of the price paid by obsessive travelers—now aptly describe this contemporary condition: “To be everywhere is to be nowhere.”

Nowhere is not where anyone should want to be. Nowhere is not a place. Being nowhere means lacking the prospect of progress or success.

The risk posed to cities by a collective preoccupation with virtual communities is the possibility we may eventually forget what it takes to make real places: successful civic, public spaces that are accessible, comfortable, sociable, and truly used. We made this mistake during the Age of Automobiles and paid the heavy price; we cannot afford to make a similar mistake again. If we do, we’ll surely struggle to retain our community identity and sense of place, much of which may have only been regained and/or established in the past few years.

So, what is a realistic future for our cities, Eugene in particular? In the face of stresses that would topple dominant urban planning paradigms, how do we avoid being both everywhere and nowhere at once?

The answer is to redouble our efforts to maximize the public realm as a shared interest because it is our public spaces that most effectively differentiate here from everywhere and nowhere. This means recognizing what makes Eugene’s cultural, physical, and historical context unique. It means countering the banality of many of Eugene’s public spaces. It means stressing the importance of physical structure and identity—the vividness of unique elements and conversely a grasp of the whole—by celebrating design excellence. It means building upon the recent revitalization downtown, which is a more vibrant place today than it has been in many years.

As the region’s historic center for business, governmental, and cultural activities, the success of downtown Eugene is critical to our community’s sense of identity. We commend the City of Eugene for its promising efforts to improve the Park Blocks using the “lighter, quicker, cheaper” strategy to enliven public spaces promulgated by its consultant, Project for Public Spaces. If and when City Hall occupies the location of the “Butterfly” parking lot, the Park Blocks will assume an even more important civic role than they do now. We consider the public-private partnership that brings a high-speed fiber network to 120 downtown Eugene buildings equally promising. This project capitalizes on Eugene’s emergence as the “Silicon Shire,” one of Fast Company magazine’s “Next Top 10 Cities for Tech Jobs.” We’re encouraged to see developers regarding downtown as desirable ground for housing projects attractive to urban professionals and retirees. And we’re pleased downtown at last has its new Whole Foods outlet.

Downtown is starting to work, which is good news for the entire city. We’ve made great progress but much more remains to be done. Many people still consider downtown a dangerous place filled with undesirable people. Too many restaurants still close early each day. Evening activities remain disproportionately focused on the club/bar scene rather than encompassing a more diverse range of options. In the face of Internet shopping, retail businesses aren’t likely to return and once again dominate downtown. There are still far too many inactive storefronts, including those that ring the Park Blocks. Downtown Eugene needs to evolve in response.

Growing the resident population will help. When people live in the city's core, they become caring stakeholders who take ownership of its future. Supplying free public wi-fi throughout would draw people downtown, empowering those who otherwise lack affordable Internet access. Blending shopping with authentic experiences in unique, brick & mortar settings will set specialty retailers apart from their online competitors.

To sustain real progress will require learning how to adapt to the changes that threaten to overwhelm us. Social media may be here with us to stay, but this does not mean they can or should supplant the complex ecosystem that is an actual city. We contend the presence of real public spaces is important to the existence of any civil society and democracy. So too is differentiating those spaces so they are as unique, context-specific, attractive, and meaningful as possible. Investing intellectual and monetary capital in the public realm—such as in downtown Eugene where we as a community exercise our social and civic functions—is crucial. Ideally, the public realm will always remain free to use, accessible, and welcoming to all types of people from all walks of life.

As architects, we firmly believe a sense of place can foster civic engagement. We believe in the power of design as an antidote to the social disengagement abetted by today’s smart phones and computers. We’re not Luddites, but we do prefer living in and working for the betterment of our real world, as opposed to a virtual one. We believe in being present and engaged so that we can design genuine solutions for difficult problems. For the sake of today’s iGeneration and those who will follow them, we’re committed to ensuring Eugene will never become everywhere or nowhere anytime soon.

Austin Bailey, Scott Clarke, Eric Gunderson, Stan Honn, Randy Nishimura, and Travis Sheridan

Navigating Change with a Dash of Nostalgia and a Whole Lot of Hope

Those of you who know me understand how much I enjoy being a fan of the University of Oregon football team. Friday’s news that the Ducks and the University of Washington Huskies will leave the PAC-12 conference in 2024 for greener pastures as members of the Big Ten, as well as the defections of Arizona, Arizona State, and Utah (and before them, Colorado) to the BIG 12, is huge. The PAC-12 is imploding before our eyes, and with it the rich history of the “Conference of Champions.” My feelings about what is happening are mixed, but I know one thing: the lifeblood of college football has always been its storied traditions and regional rivalries. Oregon’s move to the Big Ten comes at the expense of much of what first attracted me to the game. 

As an architect, I cannot help but see parallels between the changes roiling college football and the constantly evolving architectural narrative. As with college football, considerations regarding tradition, regional character, and an unpredictable future profoundly impact architecture. Financial exigencies too often lead to the erosion of regional identity and the abandonment of contextually appropriate design considerations. Both college football and architecture grapple with preserving heritage or a recognized sense of place while accommodating modern demands. 

Though change is inevitable and money rules, I am saddened that conference realignment brings with it collateral damage. The Oregon State Beavers (along with Stanford, Cal, and Washington State) are left behind among the ruins of the erstwhile PAC-12. Their inevitable relegation to second-tier status underscores the broader implications of conference realignment: the unintended costs paid for the pursuit of a new era.(1) 

The futures of both college athletics and architecture are complex and uncertain, but several trends and considerations help us speculate on potential outcomes: 

Loss of Identity and Tradition

Conference realignment will be responsible for the loss of historic rivalries in college athletics. Similarly, the allure of the new in buildings has too often led to erosion of regional identity and the abandonment of traditional design elements and construction techniques in buildings. In the years to come, both college football and architecture will work toward reconciling modern demands with the values and traditions that have defined them. 

Commercialization and Authenticity

Big money is compromising the authenticity of college athletics. Likewise, financial considerations too often result in architectural designs that prioritize profit over the cultural and historical significance of a place, undermining the authenticity of the built environment. 

Impacts on Community

Changes in both college athletics and architecture impact local communities. A disregard for tradition and regional identity diminishes the connection between people and their environment, adversely impacting the sense of place and community pride. 

Navigating Change

Just as both college athletics and architecture must absorb the impacts of forces external to their fundamental purposes, they also must find ways to prioritize the well-being and identity of those they serve—student-athletes and communities, respectively. 

The Big Ten Conference in 2024.

The prospects for college athletics and architecture lie in finding a balance between financial interests, modernization, a regard for the past, and the well-being of individuals and communities. The outcomes in these domains will depend on the decisions made by stakeholders, the priorities set by institutions, and the broader societal values that guide their evolution. The stewards of college football and the guardians of well-considered architecture alike bear this responsibility. The preservation of tradition, whether it has to do with cherished rivalries or treasured places, requires advocacy and vigilance. 

Furthermore, the parallels between college football and architecture highlight the universal challenge of change. The shifting landscapes they occupy offer us an opportunity to reflect on the essence of identity, tradition, and progress. Whether it is college football interests working to retain storied rivalries or architects striving to preserve a place’s identity, the core theme remains—the protection of what defines the game or place amidst transformation. 

For now, I expect to remain a dedicated supporter of my alma mater’s team. Likewise, as an architect, I will continue to apply commonsense design principles to the projects I’m involved with. I’ll figure out how to steer through the latest developments while staying true to both my fandom and the solid base of established architectural knowledge I’ve acquired throughout my education and career. It’s about finding that sweet spot, where tradition and innovation do a dance, and where players and fans, much like a city and its inhabitants, thrive together. In a world of unknowns, I think that’s a solid game plan. So, here’s to my beloved Ducks, to weaving stories into our built environment, and to all of us, navigating change with a dash of nostalgia and a whole lot of hope.  

(1)  The travel demands the University of Oregon will be forced to contend with as a member of Big Ten will not be inconsiderable. Besides the greater expense for everyone in the University of Oregon’s Department of Athletics, the increased travel may hinder the recruitment and development of athletes in the non-revenue sports and limit their exposure to competitive opportunities and potential scholarship offers. Balancing the financial benefits of conference realignment and student-athlete welfare will be essential.