Segovia's Textured Buildings

Segovia is worth a visit if you like picturesque cities and architecture. It lies about an hour's drive to the north-northwest of Madrid, so doesn't present a large detour when trip planning. However, it deserves a minimum of half a day's time on-site, and I'd set aside an entire day to do the project justice.

Like most places in Europe, there's a new city and an old city. The old city lies atop a mesa that has been described as boat-shaped and the modern city occupies low-lying ground and nearby rounded hills. Connecting the nearest hill and the old city is an aqueduct built by the Romans that was still in service in the 19th century.

The old city has lots of narrow, winding streets, a few plazas, a fine semi-gothic cathedral and, at the sharp end of the mesa (dare I call it the "prow"?) is a Viollet-le-Duc style (though he wasn't involved here) restored Alcazar, or fortress-castle.

Aside from a few glimpses of the latter, the photos below deal with less imposing buildings found around the old city. The pictures were taken last October and are not adjusted in any way. They are concerned with various kinds of texturing found on those structures. This detailing fascinated me, and I hope you too will be interested.

This is a tower on the Alcazar, the pointed top probably a feature concocted during the 19th century restoration. Regardless of its provenance, it has a romantic flair. Note the variation in the top's cladding.

This shows part of the Alcazar's wall. See how the stonework varies near the wall's intersection with the structures at the left.

A room in the Alcazar.

Now we switch to old city street views. The projecting window can be found here and there in Spain. The one shown here is actually an enclosed balcony. I speculate that it has to do with the comparatively harsh winters experienced in the high country of central Spain; it makes a balcony useful year-round. Note the textured wall on the left. This is characteristic of Segovia. The following photos show some of the variety in textures I saw.

The picture immediately above shows a texture pattern unusual for Segovia. It's too much of a not-so-good idea, but fortunately is contrasted by the large expanse of plain stonework on the arch over the door.

What's interesting here is something I noticed in Segovia, though it might be elsewhere in Spain. It's how the roof tiles are laid. Such tiles are conventionally laid with the rounded part facing upwards on the topmost layer of tile: call it convex. But here it's the reverse. Aside from some decorative bands, the tiles are laid in a concave position.

This photo doesn't have much to do with texture. I include it because I find it charming.

This was the ultimate in texture-mix in the collection of photos I took. Half-timbering, detailing on metal gates, two kinds of brickwork, cut stone, rubbled stone -- a feast! Click on the image for a slightly larger view.

Ineptly Awful Office Building

Ineptly awful? That's the Bellevue, Washington office building pictured above.

To my possibly warped mind, it isn't truly awful: most anything Frank Gehry touches fills that bill. No, it's just a pedestrian hash, a stew (to mix culinary metaphors) of recent highrise architectural clichés.

Note the silly slanted roof. A fairly recent federal courthouse tower in downtown Seattle has the same treatment. Maybe this sort of thing is justified by citing our rainy climate, admitting that flat roofs might not be all that practical. But whatever drainage system might be employed, it strikes a casual viewer that rainwater should pour off the lower edge onto a sidewalk or street below. Similar roofs are on lower parts of the building mostly hidden in this view.

Then there's the "slanted structure" cliche -- clearly here a combination of offset stacked floors on one side and mild cantilevering on the other. And to what purpose? Whatever happened to the modernist mantra of functionality and form following it? What I see is a cheap-looking display of an architect striving for notoriety by attempting the transgressive route. (Hey gang, this isn't strictly functional so I'm doing a brave thing even though I'm not too far off-reservation 'cuz of all that glass, steel and reinforced concrete I used!)

But the real blame falls on the architect's client. Were there no adults in the room when this joke of a project was approved?

When Ornamentation Approaches Overkill

European cities that had late 19th century growth spurts bequeathed us buildings and even entire neighborhoods in Art Nouveau architecture. There are a some exceptions that come to mind: London and Berlin aren't known for that style. But Barcelona definitely falls into the Art Nouveau camp.

I'll have more to say about exteriors later, but for starters will begin with an interior -- that of the Palau de la Música Catalana.

Gallery

This is the grand stairway. Not nearly on the scale of that of Paris' Opéra Garnier, but what else is?

A detail shot of the banister. Note that the little pillars are made of glass.

Interior doorway.

Above are views of ceilings and light fixtures.

Here is the stage area. Note the sculptures below the organ: detail photos are next.

Can there be such a thing as too much decoration? Modernist theorists of the early 20th century held that ornament of any kind must be avoided; Adolf Loos went so far as to equate ornament with a sort of crime.

I take the position that ornament can serve as a link to human predispositions formed by evolution in nature settings -- that we are attuned to the vegetation tangles of the natural environment in non-Arctic, non-desert places.

Moreover, ornament can be functional in theater interiors. This is because it provides a distraction for audience members waiting for a performance to begin. The grand movie houses of the 1920s had all sorts of carvings of treasure galleons, Egyptians tombs, Roman forums and any number of other items depending on the theater's design theme, to entertain waiting patrons. Today's stripped-down cinemas resort to flashing advertising on the screen as the audience assembles.

To return to the question posed, I have to say that the Palau is indeed over-decorated and lacks a theme for the decoration it has. But boy is it entertaining!

What Garnier Created, Chagall Desecrated

Fifty years ago, French Culture Minister André Malraux pulled the trigger, commissioning Marc Chagall to create a new ceiling painting for the Paris opera house that's today best known by the name Opéra Garnier.

The "Garnier" in the name comes from the name of its architect Charles Garnier; it's also known as the Palais Garnier, the title used in the building's Wikipedia entry, here.

The teacher of my undergraduate History of Architecture class hated the place. It was "dishonest" in that its metal framing was covered by ornate stone surfaces. And that grand staircase? ... an abomination of utterly superfluous ornamentation, a confusing mix of different marbles, all of it intended for the pleasure of Louis-Napoléon's aristocracy. That dolt Garnier should have been inspired by the iron-and-glass train sheds at those gares popping up on the right bank not so far from the opera site: those structures were honest, true to their materials and function.

By the time I actually visited the Opéra Garnier the architectural history teacher's work had long since rung hollow. I enjoyed the building. Sure, it probably was a bit over-done, but that was part of its charm.

However, there was one jarring note: that replacement ceiling painting by Chagall. I found Chagall's ceiling totally out of character with the rest of the auditorium it covers.

What could Malraux have been thinking? I suspect it was the groupthink of the late 1950s that included my architectural history indoctrination. Modernism is the only true path; the 19th century was a crazed attempt to preserve classical forms while technological change was sweeping away their underpinnings; the uncomprehending masses need re-education in order for them to comprehend these truths that really ought to be obvious.

Worse for me, even in the days when I'd pretty much bought into modernist ideology, I never thought that Chagall was more than a second- or even third-rate artist. I'll probably get around to writing a post dealing with him, so for now just accept that I'm biased against the guy's work.

So what was there before Chagall worked his magic? About what one would expect: A ceiling filled with classical figures swirling around up there where looking at it strains one's neck and where it's hard to figure out what's going on anyway. Note that this is the case for ceiling art in general.

The original painting was done by Jules-Eugène Lenepveu and titled "The Muses and the Hours of the Day and Night."

And its sad fate? Apparently it still exists. It can be found under Chagall's painting according to this source.

The last link is a comprehensive account of the building and the art it contains and is well worth browsing. I would have extracted some quotes from it, but the poster guarded it with some strongly-worded copyright warnings that made me chicken out. Let me add that he too is not amused by the Chagall ceiling.

To illustrate what's at stake, below are a study for the original ceiling and a photo showing most of the Chagall ceiling.

Postcard view of the opera house, early 1900s.

Lenepveu ceiling; study or reproduction.

Chagall ceiling.

Finally, I need to mention that in order to fully understand the controversy, you need to tour the opera house and view the present ceiling in the context of both the rest of the room and entire building.

Sagrada Construction Zone

Sagrada Família, the giant church designed by architect Antoni Gaudí is probably Barcelona's most famous landmark, an unmistakable symbol of the city. Its motifs and others by Gaudí are now grist for souvenir shops. In fact, Gaudí is to Barcelona is what Wolfgang Mozart and Gustav Klimt are to Vienna.

Given that the Sagrada Família is one of a handful of structures I've wanted to see ever since I became aware of architecture, my wife and I dutifully exited the subway around 10 one chilly October morning hoping to avoid the worst of the crowds guidebooks had warned us about. No luck. The books told us to expect a 45-minute wait to enter, and that's just about the time it took us. While in line we were entertained by helicopters circling the site bearing tourist-photographers.

The church is unfinished even though construction has been under way for nearly 130 years. The Wikipedia link above mentions that there are hopes it will be completed in 2026, the centennial of Gaudí's death. The link also notes that it was consecrated by the Pope a few days ago despite its unfinished state.

As things stand, construction is going full tilt. Outside, the church is surrounded by cranes and the interior is cluttered with workers and their equipment. The following photos I took are intended to give you a sense of where things stand.

This is the east front with the Nativity Entrance. It was built earlier and is the view people are most familiar with.

Tourists enter on the opposite side, however. This is a general view of that entrance.

Four interior views looking upward.

Views of interior construction.

This photo is of a display case containing models.

Models have been an important design aid since the beginning. This is a room where they are fabricated and stored.


The completed church is supposed to include a large central tower topped by a cross. I'm not sure that will be an improvement over the present state where the building is surrounded by a host of spires.

Mies' Barcelona Pavilion Walk-Around

There are gobs, oodles -- whatever term for large numbers -- of photos of Mies van der Rohe's iconic "International Style" German Pavilion built for a 1929 exhibition in Barcelona, destroyed after the event, and rebuilt in the mid-1980s. The Wikipedia entry on the Barcelona Pavilion (its common name) is here and another reference is here.

Unlike most modernist architecture, the Barcelona Pavilion oozed sex appeal and thereby served as inspiration for architects who had to hide in the bomb-shelters of Theory during the hard times of the Great Depression, the distraction of World War 2 and the five or ten years of post-war sorting-out that all took place before "significant" modernist buildings began appearing in number.

I confess that when in high school and college, I loved gazing at black and white photos of the original pavilion and lamenting its loss. And despite the aesthetic ruin manifested by across-the-board modernist architecture we have to live with today, I retain a soft spot in my heart for the pavilion -- van der Rohe's only real masterpiece (in my opinion, of course).

So when I recently found myself in Barcelona for the first time, the pavilion was on my must-see list along with certain works by Antoni Gaudí that I'll deal with later.

I mentioned above that many sets of photos exist of the rebuilt pavilion; they are all over the Web. Many are of nice, professional quality. Nevertheless, I thought I'd use this post to toss in my two bits worth of photos taken during a brief visit I paid while on my way to the big museum featuring Catalonian art. Here goes:

This is the Barcelona Pavilion in its present setting (it's that low, white structure in the background). From what I read, it's sited where the original was in 1929; presumably the large, open area was filled with other pavilions then.

Here's the entrance approach for those coming from the direction of the Plaça d'Espanya. You climb those steps and deal with the fellow on the platform to pay admission.

Admission paid, I entered and was facing towards the right side of the structure.

As in 1929 this area (can I call it a "room"?) has some Barcelona Chairs and hassocks. In the background is the same statue (so far as I know) by Georg Kolbe that was in the original pavilion.

Moving past the Barcelona Chairs to the pool area and statue. I included some of the structure at the left of the photo so that you can see how it is arranged.

I've walked a few steps and am now at the back side of the interior; here's how the statue's setting looks from this position.

Doing an about-face, I see this view along the back of the structure. That small enclosure in the background might have been office space in 1929: today, it's a bookshop.

These three photos are a kind of panorama of the back side of the pavilion, something not always pictured. It's quite possible that the place I was standing was occupied by other buildings making this vista unimportant in 1929, but I cannot confirm this.

Moving towards the front, here's a view of the large pool with its stony bottom. In the shady background is that shop.

Returning almost to the entrance, I see this. The seated man is the ticket seller.

Finally, a parting shot of the Barcelona Pavilion.