RUINATION

Architect Peter Zumthor is best known for his understatement, and best appreciated by other architects, who understand how difficult it is to execute spaces with a reduced, minimalist look. Visiting Kolumba, the art gallery he designed for the archdiocese of Koln, I was, predictably, impressed by details: the inch-high brick coursing, the flush metal plate door frames, the black plaster finish on the restroom walls, the fastidiously book-marked wood paneling in the library, the bent metal pins supporting the stair handrails. The gallery spaces themselves are finished in a luminous, ash-colored concrete. The floors, ceilings and walls meet simply, without trims or reveals, so that the concrete folds seamlessly from surface to surface. It creates an atmosphere of quiet and sobriety.

Kolumba was built on the site of a centuries-old church and, during excavation, layers of remains from older churches were found, some dating to the eleventh century, all piled upon one another. The ruins were dutifully preserved and are housed in a pavilion, also designed by Zumthor, attached to the new gallery building. One reaches the ruins by walking from the gallery lobby through huge steel doors and a heavy leather curtain. Inside the pavilion there’s a zigzagging wood walkway, raised a foot off the ground, that gives views to the ruins below, all around. The space is dramatically dark, lit only by daylight filtered down through open brickwork at clerestory level, and a handful of cone-shaped pendant lamps.

This pavilion is charged with a theatricality that’s at odds with the quietness of the adjoining galleries. The walkway is clumsy; its handrails are heavy, its wood is stained a garish red, and its jagged course has no apparent logic. Perhaps the departure from Zumthor’s typical restrained vocabulary is meant to emphasize that this is a contemporary structure that’s been inserted into an old, sacred space. Instead it feels like a poor addition, as if it had been authored by a different, less gifted architect.

Photo © Jose Fernando Vazquez-Perez

September 07, 2015 by Nalina Moses

STREET CORNER SAINTS

Traveling in western Germany, through Koln, Mainz and the small medieval wine-making towns nearby, we saw old buildings with corner saints. These religious statues –of Christ, the Virgin Mary, St. Francis, and others – sit inside niches carved into the front facade of small buildings, usually at the second floor. Some are carefully maintained and have the pretty sheen of Hummel figurines. Some are sealed in glass to keep out the elements, and wire mesh to keep out birds. Some have been left in place over decades to weather naturally, romantically.

One of my German friends explained that the west of the country is considered German rather than Prussian, Catholic rather than Protestant. He had grown up in the region, in a Catholic family, and visiting brought back rich childhood memories. The musty smell of a restaurant, and then a crowd of well-dressed church-goers, both reminded him of summers spent with his grandmother. He eventually left the confines of family and church, after the wall fell, to study in Barcelona and work as an artist in Berlin.

Each time I heard bells or passed a corner saint I sensed the presence of the church, not as history or institution, but as a vital imaginative force. Like movie billboards in Los Angeles and office towers in Manhattan, they speak to the spirit of the place, the energies that drive it. The corner saints are meant to bless this or that house, and all that transpires inside. But they are also alert and outward-looking, presiding over the streets below. For a boy living here this authority might rankle, but for a visitor it’s full of grace.

September 06, 2015 by Nalina Moses

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

In Germany, in Rheinland, in the summer, the sun sets after 10 o’clock, behind a gauzy blue night sky. So it became ritualistic to take quiet, after-dinner strolls through the small, medieval wine-making towns we visited: Bacharach, Eltville, Oestrich-Winkel. The town centers have narrow, twisting streets lined with two-story half-timber frame houses. Most are still residences, and others have been converted to small businesses. The small streets, designed for foot traffic and horse carts, are crowded on one another, and the land slopes steeply toward the Rhine. When turning a corner one might suddenly find a church tower, rows of grape vines, a skateboard park, or the river itself. The houses are maintained lovingly, many with slate tile roofs, and painted in bright constrasting colors: yellow-blue, burgundy-saffron, white-red. Some have small flower gardens in front, clouded with bees. Thee streets have a storybook dreaminess, as if living simply, as people here seem to do, is the best way to live.

Yet the towns aren’t prettily preserved, like Bruges or Tallinn. Instead they seem ancient and also alive. (Siena and Jaisalmer are cities with a similar kind of life.) Here there are medieval churches and stone walls choked in ivy, and bank machines and dollar store too. On one walk we watched a scrum of adolescent boys kick a soccer ball, happily, down a sloped cobbled street. Their families might have lived in this place for centuries, and their ancestors might live here for centuries more.

I recently met someone from Detroit who had just returned from a visit there. He said that large parts of that city, the city he remembered from his childhood in the 1970′s, were gone. They hadn’t been gentrified or fallen into disuse. As plots were razed communities had simply disappeared. Towns like Eltville have built parking lots and supermarkets while keeping the architecture of their town centers intact. It’s an achievement that’s slightly miraculous.

September 05, 2015 by Nalina Moses

BATS IN THE BELFRY

I passed tranquil days during my German holiday at Kloster Eberbach, a monastery founded in the twelfth century that’s now a winery and hotel. It’s tucked in the hills above Eltville am Rheim, a charming medeival village along the river. The Kloster’s grounds are lush, planted with lawns, fruit trees, and flower beds. The Kloster’s buildings are in various states of repair. Those that house the hotel, restaurant, gift shop and winery were just recently renovated and offer every amenity. The church, the heart of the Kloster, has a fresh look. Its facade is finished in sparkling white stucco and bright red trim, and its steep roofs in slate tile. Its interior has been stripped of generations of paint and plaster, to unadorned stone block, giving a spare, romantic feeling. (Parts of The Name of the Rose were filmed here.)

The monastery buildings, a short walk from the church, on lower ground, are currently being restored, with an unusually gentle hand. They’re organized around a small, grassy courtyard with a fountain and a tower. The low stone walls along the walkways are cut through with tall grasses and flowers – with weeds – and are left untended. A dining hall that was converted to a winery five centuries ago has also been left as it is. Its monstrous wood presses, rusting railings, cobwebs, and damp give off a strong sense of decay. The exterior of the library, a narrow two-story structure that separates the cloister from the lay brothers’ dormitory, has been cleaned and repainted. But the giant timber beams that frame its second floor sag visibly, almost comically. The chapter house, a low, stone room with a single central column, is home to families of sparrows. A sign inside explains that the birds are not to be disturbed. This lackadaisical (and un-German) style of historical restoration feels right. There’s sense, and grace, in allowing these old buildings to settle, naturally, and give themselves over to other uses.

August 12, 2015 by Nalina Moses