Okay, so it’s not the most original observation. But I had the opportunity to hike around my local downtown area today, and it’s been on my mind since. I’d walk past a decrepit, urine-stinky block of squatty little abandoned 1930s-era buildings, and think to myself, “Man, I wish I had a digital camera right now! Look at those cornices! Is that inlaid tilework up there? Amazing!” Then I’d walk past the new SmoothCorp building, its construction presumably backed by all the financial might of a modern multinational corporation, and think to myself, “Man, I wish I had a time machine right now! There were probably some nice-looking buildings here years ago, just like the stinky block back there! I wonder if the library is open yet?”
Somewhere in the upscale, revitalized outer ring satellite communities of the Inferno, there’s a Semicircle devoted solely to people who worked to make the world a significantly less attractive place while on Earth. Ruthless 19th-century strip-mine owners and lumber company executives toil for eternity side-by-side with concussive car-stereo guys and whoever invented the lime-green polyester pantsuit. And in the middle of all this, there is (or will be) some guy who once thought, “Wouldn’t it be the coolest thing in the world if this office building I’m designing right now looks just like a huge, featureless glass box?”
So now, decades later, we are all forced to live with that sad bastard’s legacy; where, no matter if it be a hotel, office building, or fine arts museum, it is virtually guaranteed to be designed with all the elegance of a multilevel parking garage. Sometimes you can’t even tell the difference at first glance. (Hint: the parking garages are the buildings with more concrete and little to no glass.)
What the hell happened? Sometime in the 1960s, the last vapors of Art Deco burned away, and after that… nothing. Oh every once in a while someone puts up a building that looks a bit interesting, kind of, from a certain angle-- but you get the sense that it’s almost apologetic on the part of the architect: “I’m just going to give this structure the vague outline of a visually engaging building, if that’s okay. I promise not to make it look appealing under closer examination.” Most of them aren’t even interesting enough to be ugly.
Something happened to kill off the joy of architecture, that’s certain: the evidence is as obvious as the K-T boundary. Was it the Cold War? The awareness that, no matter how much effort you put into a building, it could all vanish instantly in a radioactive hydrogen cloud, so why even bother? Was it the increasing pace of the business world, where the headquarters of one company could be bought out by someone else next week?
Because not too long ago, architects worked to give even the most humble buildings a certain elan. I’m not even talking about the big public projects like courthouses, banks, churches, railroad stations-- although these institutions were all infinitely more pleasing to the eye as well in days of yore, aside from the horse dung problem. I’m talking about some of these little three-story downtown buildings, probably built around 1900 or thereabouts: they weren’t intended to be monuments to their craft. They probably started out as pharmacies, offices, warehouses, etc. They are made of bricks. Uniform, cheap, dull, monotonous, identical bricks. And yet even here, without exception, the architects went to the trouble of jazzing up the designs here and there-- staggered rows, multicolored brick patterns, the occasional marble inclusion, needlessly arched windows that must have given the glaziers fits. Was there much pride in working as a bricklayer in those days? Perhaps not, but you’d never know it from the fruits of their labor.
Even as recently as 50 years ago, relatively inconsequential buildings like service stations could be high-flown sculptural monuments to Art Deco principles. I’ve been trying in vain to step outside my cultural preconceptions and imagine a future where our modern gas stations will be considered objects of style and beauty, but so far it ain’t happening.
I visited the Ringling Museum in Sarasota FL a while ago. It’s an impressive collection of historical buildings, built by John Ringling of circus fame. He built a lavish Venetian Gothic seaside mansion, called Ca’d’Zan (supposedly “House of John” in Venetian) which fell into disrepair after his death but has since been restored. He was also an avid art collector, so there’s also an art museum on property, housing a diverse collection of works; the museum itself is designed in the style of a Roman villa. (Since he was a circus mogul, there’s also a circus museum on property-- two, in fact-- but that doesn’t really enter into my subscreed.)
Anyhoo. For many years the main gate to Ca’D’Zan-- an ornate, decorative affair in the same style as the main house-- had been closed off, and the entrance to the grounds was through the art museum itself. So a couple-few years back, they finally managed to scrape together enough donations to restore the main gate and construct a welcome center. So now, you walk through the main gate–this beautiful, elaborate arch with its magnificent Venetian colored tile inlay-- and up to the visitor’s center… which looks like ASS! I mean, goddamn, it looks like an airport terminal or an optometry center or something! Right up next to this genuinely attractive architecture, the result is downright painful! Did they not even consider trying to soften the appearance, at all?! Supposedly there’s an historic Italian theatre interior housed somewhere inside. Too bad the exterior looks like the box my stereo came in.
Don’t even get me started on the “addition” to the art museum itself. At least there they seemingly tried to make it blend, a little, sort of, before giving up. Except for the ALUMINUM ROOF and the HIGHLY VISIBLE TRUCK LOADING DOCK, which most Roman villas probably did not feature.
Modern houses are also unpleasant to look at, at least here in Florida. Up to the 1960s or so, builders were still using elements of Spanish architecture, with lots of heavy tile and stucco. It wasn’t much, but it was something-- at least it was a style you could look at. Maybe the developments back then only used twelve basic floorplans, but they were livable, realistically scaled floorplans. Now I look at these new housing developments, and I don’t even know what you’d call it. Bloviated Contemporary? Neo-Drywall? Hurricane Magnetic? Because you can look at these houses and just tell-- one big storm, and the foundation might still be there. Those cartoonishly wide pillars aren’t going to keep out the storm surge, buddy. And didn’t people used to have yards? At what point did it become mandatory for the house to occupy *every square foot * of property? Why the hell do you need fifteen-foot-high ceilings in your foyer?
So. Um… In summary: today’s architecture = suck.
Maybe it’s the same story with all the other arts. But here’s the thing, architects: the other arts are smaller. They mostly fit inside buildings, so the rest of us don’t have to look at them. But we do have to look at your buildings. Which, as previously noted, suck.
It’s a new millenium, architects. Do you really want to carry the legacy of Mike Brady into the 21st century? Of course not. The rest of us expect decent-looking buildings again, and if you have to go all the way back to 1930 and start over from scratch, then get moving.
One suggestion: MORE CORNICES. You really lost it when you abandoned cornices.