Why we should reconsider the meaning of open spaces

Most people think of urban open spaces in terms of grand parks—Chicago’s Millennium Park or New York’s Central Park or San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. These are our iconic parks—our sublime spaces. They serve as the “lungs” of our cities, and they certainly steal our hearts. These spaces are not locked behind gates but are stages where our own lives play out and memories are created, full of movement and reflection and joy.

There are more modest spaces in our cities, though, that are just as important to our lives—the thresholds and courtyards and pocket parks. They’re the places where we bump into our neighbors to walk our dogs or read on a bench in an environment where nature takes over. They are often unheralded like a great Olmsted Park, but always full of potential for true placemaking to begin.

My father, Edwin Smith was director of parks and recreation for the City of Eugene, Oregon and he knew this. He served for more than 30 years and was responsible for the design and development of 41 parks and greenways in and around the city. His work had a profound impact on me as a future architect. More to the point, his work and vision quietly enhanced the lives of so many people in the community as their access to parks was interwoven into their lives.

Westmoreland Park is one of Eugene’s centerpiece parks and is a great example. Its gentle slopes and lush lawns support stands of mature cedars and redwoods, not to mention Douglas firs, hemlocks, spruces, and the Oregon white oak. Even if you don’t know all those trees by sight, you know Westmoreland Park if you live in Eugene, and you know that it offers something for almost every active resident. I think that’s the importance of a well-designed space—it invites and it responds.

Living ribbon of connection

Responsiveness is a word worth pausing on for a moment. It’s the entire reason for design—architectural, urban, or otherwise—and it’s one of the hallmarks of placemaking.

My firm, MG2, recently envisioned design for an attainable housing project in Irvine, California, that was meant to respond to a specific housing challenge in a rapidly changing part of the state. It isn’t a monolith. It is, instead, what we think of as a living ribbon of connection—a continuous path that links breezeways, community gardens, play areas, and shared courtyards woven throughout the residential units. It is not simply a circulation route. It is a spine, and just like our spines, everything it touches depends upon it for structure. But more importantly, this isn’t just a collection of amenities. It is a social ecosystem. The layout fosters degrees of interaction—private balconies that open into semi-private courtyards, which in turn flow into cooperative gardens and fully public gathering spaces. Residents can choose solitude, casual interaction, or spirited communal activity—each space encouraging a different rhythm of human engagement. Children play while parents share meals. Strangers become neighbors over garden beds. This is architecture as social infrastructure.

To reimagine open space is not to think bigger—it is to think deeper. To look between, beneath, beyond. It is to ask: How do we shape space to be responsive? How do we design for encounter, for joy, for the unplanned but meaningful moments of connection?

Let us not treat the spaces between buildings as voids. Let us see them as vessels—of life, of community, of possibility. Let us design not just for shelter, but for spirit. Let us reimagine open spaces.

Mitch Smith AIA, LEED AP is the CEO and chairman of MG2, an affiliate of Colliers Engineering & Design.