The Drama of Space: Spatial Sequences and Compositions in Architecture 9783035604351, 9783035604313

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THE DRAMA OF SPACE

Dedicated to MiMoLo

THE     DRAMA   OF SPACE Spatial Sequences and Compositions in Architecture HOLGER KLEINE

Birkhäuser Basel

Contents

Preface  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������6 Editorial note  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������8

Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture  ����������� 1 02

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������9

Introduction  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 102

Why spatial dramaturgy?  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������9

Developing variation  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������106 Berliner Philharmonie

Introduction 

Methodology  �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������10 Intention 

���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1  1

Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space: three Scuole Grandi in Venice  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 4 Introduction   ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 14   What is a Scuola Grande?  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������15 The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces 

Tones and overtones  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 16 Yale School of Architecture, New Haven, Connecticut Four protagonists  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 122 Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin

PART 1

����������������������������������������� 1  8

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms  �������������������������������������37 The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms  ���������������������������������������������� 49  5 The dramaturgy of spatial configurations  ���������������������������������������� 6

PART 2

Dramaturgical models  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 70 Introduction  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 70 Scenes  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 7 0 The drama of sound  �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������72 Theatrical and cinematic devices  ����������������������������������������������������������������� 7 5 The dramatic situation  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������79 Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  ������ 84

4 

PART 3

Welcome – overview – appropriation  ����������������������������������������������� 1 30 Exeter Library, New Hampshire Index and excess  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������136 Fehrbelliner Platz underground rail pavilion, Berlin Revue in fragmented space  �������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 40 Abteiberg Museum, Mönchengladbach Transcending the station drama  ������������������������������������������������������������148 Thermal baths in Vals Linear narrative  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 52 La Congiunta, Giornico Competition – dominance – compensation – cohabitation  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 156 The New Art Gallery, Walsall World theatre  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������162 The McCormick Tribune Campus Center, IIT, Chicago, Illinois Cinematic space  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������170 RPAC Recreation & Physical Activity Center, Columbus, Ohio Acceleration and reprise  ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 174 Mercedes Benz Museum, Stuttgart

Stimulating and retarding moments  ����������������������������������������������� 1 80 Langen Foundation, Hombroich Still images in a field  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������186 Les Bains des Docks, Le Havre Rhythms and cycles  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 1 92 Car Park, 1111 Lincoln Road, Miami, Florida Turning point and moment of recognition  ��������������������������������198 Louvre-Lens Creative aura and synaesthesia  ���������������������������������������������������������������204 Reid Building at the Glasgow School of Art Round dance  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 2 08 Children’s Nursery, Weiach Types of drama 

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 212

PART 4

Designing the drama of space  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������216 Introduction  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������216 Space 4.1 Archetypes  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������216 4.2 Configurations  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 2 18 4.3 Body-space relationships  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������224 4.4 Arithmetic relationships  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������227 4.5 Proportions  �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������230 4.6 Rhythms  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������232 4.7 Correspondences  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������233 4.8 Dramaturgical relationships  ����������������������������������������������������������������234

Time 4.9 Beginnings  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������237 4.10 Paths 

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 239 ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������243

4.11 Endings 

4.12 Scenes  ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������245 4.13 Sequences  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������247 4.14 Dramatic arcs  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 2 49 Body 4.15 Synaesthetics  �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������250 4.16 Surfaces 

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 2  51

4.17 Light  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������253 4.18 Views  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������255 4.19 Movements  ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 2 59 4.20 Intensities  ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 262 Figures of time 

�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������266

The dramatic situation in spatial dramaturgy  Notes 

�������������������������������270

����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 276

Timeline of the three Scuole Grandi  Referenced literature  Illustration credits  About the author  Subject index 

������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 284

������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 286

������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������287

��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 288

Index of referenced buildings  Index of names  Colophon 

������������������������������������������������������������������� 282

����������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 292

����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 293

������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 295

  5

Preface

This book is for people who have at some time felt gripped by passion. That means everyone. While most readers are likely to be architects and interior architects, the book is intended for anyone with a passion for interesting spaces, whether experts or enthusiasts, as well as those who employ dramaturgy in their respective disciplines. The book aims to help us understand the effects that spaces have on us. The ideas and theories formulated and presented here do not, for the most part, make any assumptions about the background knowledge of the reader, and should therefore be accessible to as many ­people as possible. That the author makes reference not just to ­his own chosen profession of architecture but also draws on ideas,­concepts and principles from music and theatre is due, aside from the central role that dramaturgy plays in these fields, to his own personal interests. Readers, however, whose personal preference or area of expertise is ballet or sport, or for that matter the organisation of party conferences or even children’s birthday parties – those hardest-to-predict events – will find it easy to draw parallels to their own areas of experience and reflect on it all the more incisively. The author of this book is a practising and teaching architect. As such, he longed for many years for a book that deals with the passions and questions discussed here in a systematic way. In its absence, he finally decided to write one himself. Fritz Schumacher’s assertion that “the task of an architect lies not merely in illuminating the respective individual space; the real nature of the problem lies in contrasting and revealing light in a succession of spaces”,i which the author read in 2001 or 2002, gave him the necessary assurance that his questions were more than just a personal preoccupation and also that they are not easily answered. The book first began to take shape in February 2010 when a grant from the Federal Government Commissioner for Culture and Media (BKM) enabled the author to spend two

6  The drama of space

months researching at the Centro Tedesco di Studi Veneziani in Venice, for which I am eternally grateful to the Centro Tedesco, the BKM and the selection committee. The methods and typologies developed from the study of three Venetian interiors and their progressions of spaces then needed to be verified by studying examples of today’s architecture and expanded to incorporate the vocabulary and strategies of the aforementioned arts. That the author chose to consider only publicly accessible interior spaces can be seen, in addition to the reasons given in Part Three, as a political statement. Public space is typically only associated with outdoor urban spaces, however, in a democratic society, public interiors are just as much an active part of the public realm and should be used, frequented, reflected on and controversially interpreted. They must touch those who use and visit them. Nietzsche’s call for an “architecture for those who wish to pursue knowledge” in which the godless are able to think their thoughts and go for an inner stroll, resurfaces time and again in ongoing discourse,­reminding us anew of our obligation to appropriate public space.ii Finally, in Part Four, the findings from the preceding studies were elaborated into a systematic breakdown of design-oriented options. The resulting four parts of this book – and especially the case studies in Part Three – can be read independently of one another but do, of course, refer to explanations and examples in the other parts. This book would not have come to pass without the support and input of many people. I have been fortunate to have an ever-evolving discursive arena first through my teachers and co-students and later colleagues and own students at the TU Berlin, the RheinMain University of Applied Sciences in Wiesbaden and the Cooper Union in New York, as well as in the offices of Peter Eisenman, Georg Bumiller and Sauerbruch Hutton, and later the staff of my own office and my long-standing office partner Jens Metz.

Of the many people with whom I periodically have the opportunity to discuss our experiences in and of space, I would like to personally thank my friends Timmy Aziz, Dariusz Bober, Domitilla Enders, Kilian Enders, Stefan Fuhlrott, Simone ­Giostra, Jörg Gleiter, Carsten Krohn, Constantin von der ­Mülbe, Ulrike Passe, Georg Windeck and Tamar Zinguer. For their critical reading and valuable input on selected parts of the book, I am especially grateful to the architect Zsolt Gunther, the architecture critic Claus Käpplinger, the comparatist Julia Weber, the music educator and composer ­Bernhard Große-Schware and the musicologist Camilla Bork. Thanks, too, go to the photographers Iwan Baan, Hélène B ­ inet, Emanuelle Blanc, Didier Descouens, the Camerafoto Arte Venezia, Kay Fingerle, Zsolt Gunther, Carsten Krohn, Philippe Ruault, Sabrina Scheja, David von Becker and Xiao Wu for their permission to use their excellent photographs. The same applies to the architects, clients and operators of the public interior spaces shown in this book, in particular of the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista, the Scuola dei Carmini and the Scuola di San Rocco in Venice. The architecture offices Herzog & de Meuron, Caruso St. John and L3P Architekten as well as the Berliner Verkehrsgesellschaft BVG are to thank for permitting me to view additional unpublished plans and materials. Boris Egli, Kurt W. Forster, Jeff Haase, Joachim Jäger, Christian Krausch, Uwe Riedel, Gail G. Scanlon and Xiao Wu have kindly given me access to not otherwise accessible spaces and explained their background. The drawings have arisen over a period of seven years, mostly in close collaboration with my students at RheinMain University of Applied Sciences. The majority of the drawings in Part One were drawn by Leona Jung, in Part Three by Pia Friedrich and in Parts Two and Four by Anja Trautmann. These three people are, so to speak, the indispensable caryatids on whose shoulders this book rests. Regardless of whether drawn as

part of a seminar, as a commissioned work or in a process leading from the former to the latter, all the drawings bear witness to the attention to detail, idealism and openness to dialogue of the people who drew them, in particular Kristin Bouillon, Nicole Duddek, ­Elena Fuchs, Hannelore Horvath, Yubeen Kim, Caroline Mekas, Julia Pietsch, Erik Schimkat, Maxine Shirmohammadi, Ömer Solaklar, Lars Werneke and Max Wieder as well as Xiao Wu, Master Candidate at Yale University in 2017 – thank you to you all. Miriam Bussmann’s design ideas and execution are to thank for the fact that the four rather divergent parts of the book with their three forms of communication – text, drawings and photographs – have been so skilfully woven together into a consistent and stimulating flow. While I am not a native speaker, I believe that Julian Reisenberger’s translation – admirably – reads as if it were an original English text. I am especially indebted to my editor Andreas Müller who, with an out-of-season sense of idealism, gently encouraged and capably steered the project forward. Without him, I would have considered the manuscript finished after writing the first part. After his suggestion that I write a third part, I was able to get my own back by sending him a second and a fourth part for editing – which, it seems, gave him great pleasure. And, last but by no means least, I would like to thank my wife Béatrice Durand, who believed in the idea, indeed in the “necessity” (her words) of the book even when there was not the slightest evidence of its existence. Without her intellect and understanding it would never have seen the light of day. The commissioning of the drawings would not have been possible without the prize money awarded to me by the RheinMain University of Applied Sciences for “Excellence in Teaching” in 2013. And without the generous contribution towards the printing costs by the company dormakaba, the book may

Preface  7

never have made it into the tangible world. To both I am most grateful. EDITORIAL NOTE  In order to ease readability in Part One of the book, the three Scuole Grandi have usually been abbreviated as follows:

SGE = Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista SdC = Scuola Grande dei Carmini SR = Scuola Grande di San Rocco In Part One, the various aspects of the dramaturgy of space are compared in the three Scuole in this order. The various rooms of the Scuole are referred to either in English or according to their Italian name depending on context: prayer room/oratorio, lower hall/sala terrena, upper hall/sala superiore and staircase/scalone. Other rooms, to avoid misunderstandings, are only given in Italian as the scuola is not the same as a school, just as the albergo is not a hostel or the sometimes adjacent archivio is not only an archive. For the upper hall, the literature sometimes uses the functional description sala capitolare or sala del capitolo, while the lower hall of the SGE, with its row of medieval columns, is often also known as the sala delle colonne. The system of denoting room proportions follows the pattern “length : breadth : height”. For easier comprehension, the proportions are always given as a multiple of the shortest dimension, which is defined as 1. When only two dimensions are given, the first is length and the second either breadth or height. The constellations of the six surfaces of a spatial cube are described – from the chapter “Spatial configurations” in Part

8  The drama of space

One onwards – with a number pattern added to the characterising term. For example, a space defined by the floor and four walls in which the ceiling registers as a separate plane, we call a “Basin (5+1)”. A systematic breakdown of all possible combinations of a six-sided volume can be found on p  217 in Part Four. For better legibility, and to focus on the relevant information, the axonometries of Part One show a room’s surfaces in the Scuole predominantly as smooth surfaces, i.e. without surface modulation. In all drawings, rooms that are not accessible to visitors or are solely serving in purpose are typically shown as block surfaces, i.e. as incorporated into the mass of the wall (as in the idea of poché in the Beaux-Arts tradition). In order to show all the surfaces of an interior in a single axonometric drawing, we have in Part Three frequently combined the top view of the floor and walls with the underside view of the ceiling. In such folded axonometric drawings, the eye of the beholder is placed, so to speak, comic-like within the wide-open jaws of the crocodile, or in this case the interior of the space. In Part Four, the case studies from Part Three are referred to by a short name formed by the place name or function. The names make immediate sense to the reader. To avoid the ­reader having to trawl for them in the text, the project names are highlighted.

Introduction “It’s always about composition, proportion, about ­consistency and its counterpoint, i.e. the beauty of the moment of surprise. It’s about contrast and unity.” 1 Alfred Brendel, Pianist

WHY SPATIAL DRAMATURGY?  Up until the late 19th

century, reflections about architecture were primarily concerned with architectural objects and their ordering para­ meters. It was not until the emergence of a new paradigm, initiated by August Schmarsow, in which space rather than form constituted “the essence of architectural creation”,2 that space, and with it the dialectics of body and space, became of increasing concern; later still, in the early 20th century,3 the co-relation of the categories of time and space in physics and mathematics finally led to a growing realisation that architecture, too, is experienced in time in diverse ways and likewise shapes our experience of time. Today, we take it for granted that architecture can only truly be grasped through the temporal experience of moving through it in time. The aesthetic implications of this common insight, however, have yet to be explored, and its practical implications, under the predominant conditions of architectural representation in images or clips, are less clear than ever. Time in this context does not mean time in history, but time as experienced. That time is essential to comprehending space emerges from the simple fact that the directionality of human vision means we cannot see an entire room at once while we are in it. We scan its surfaces with our eyes, turn our head and begin moving, registering a series of individual retinal images which we then assemble into a mental image of the room. It is impossible to describe the effect of a space without first taking in its qualities with all our senses and then seeing how we react to them physically. To understand the effect of a succession of spaces, we must first pass through the actual sequence of spaces and then, from outside, reconstruct them in our mind’s eye. It is this “eccentric positionality”4 – our capacity to observe what we are doing while we are doing it, and thereafter to recapitulate and reflect on it – that, according to Helmut Plessner’s fundamental and widely recognised work, sets us

apart as human beings. This alone is reason enough to step up to the challenge of understanding the dramatic qualities of space – the dramaturgy of space – because, at its core, it pertains to a cultural capacity of mankind. Giving due consideration to the dramaturgy of space is part of the aesthetic implications of the temporality of architecture. The dramaturgy of a work of architecture revolves around five key questions: How does it arouse our curiosity? How does it keep our attention? How does it reach a satisfying conclusion?­How does it maintain a sense of inner coherence? How does it kindle a desire to repeat the experience? Numerous parameters play a role in the design and appreciation of the dramaturgy of space. We define spatial dramaturgy as the creative design and systematic understanding of the effects of space in its temporality. By temporality we mean, on the one hand, the succession of events that constitute an experience. Our consciousness encompasses not just the immediate present but also what the philosopher Klaus Stichweh calls, adapting the terms coined by Husserl, “a court of retention and protention”. Retention is “what remains in our consciousness of a perceptual act” while protention is “the anti­ cipation of what is about to come”.5 This court of retention and protention is the connective tissue that gives meaning to what we perceive, also and especially in a creative context. On the other hand, the notion of temporality refers to a more than just linear reconstruction of experiences in our reflection. All phenomena that stimulate us to engage with (or disengage with) a space, as well as all the parameters that help us understand these phenomena and our reaction to them, pertain to the realm of spatial dramaturgy.

Introduction  9

METHODOLOGY  We approach the drama of space from two directions. Our first line of inquiry is an analysis of the actual experience of two series of built works of architecture. Without evidence from actual buildings, any elaborations on the design of space would be baseless. In Part One of this book, we examine the progression of spaces in three Scuole Grandi in Venice, and extend this in Part Three to 18 works of contemporary architecture. These buildings are not considered as examples from art history, from which we would trace historical lines of development or illustrate epochal characteristics. Instead, they represent a range of relevant and accessible examples of the dramatic composition of space. The principles we derive from these case studies are consequently arranged and elaborated not chronologically but by typology and area of application in Part Four. (We shall leave it to others to examine how specific these findings may be to a particular moment in time).

The second line of inquiry is an investigation of the discourse on dramaturgy in the disciplines of music, theatre and film with a view to identifying aspects of relevance to architecture and to designers for their own profession and practice. Together with an investigative study of dramaturgical models in the historical architectural discourse, this forms Part Two of this book. Our intention here is not to sing the praises of interdisciplinarity or to infuse architectural discourse with borrowed vocabulary and skewed comparisons, but, on the contrary, through comparison with other disciplines to reveal the particular characteristics of architecture and its dramaturgical capacity. We have limited our focus to the spatial dramaturgy of interiors, but the principles we identify are meant to apply similarly to the design of cities and landscapes; after all, the differences between today’s various spatial design disciplines are ultimately more professional than conceptual. By limiting our

10  The drama of space

focus to interiors, we do, however, forego a key dramatic moment, namely the relationship between inside and outside. To adequately consider the building’s exterior, we would have to look at not only each building’s volume and form and entrance situation, but also how we experience its reciprocal relationship to its context: the first fragmentary glimpses we get of it, the building up close, the passage around the building, its appearance at different times of day and in different weather conditions, and so on. That would likely have doubled the size of the book, in the process obscuring the clarity of our intentions in an effort to accommodate this single aspect. We have nevertheless attempted to mitigate this lack through a short glimpse of the relevant context at the beginning of each case study. The case studies in Part One, and particularly in Part Three, are written in the form of unfolding accounts of a visit that follow the perspective of the visitor as they progress onwards through the spaces of a building. We avoid slipping into the analytical “The building is divided into four sections…”, preferring instead the explorative “On entering, we find ourselves directly opposite a front wall that…”. Just as symphonies are not composed for score readers, buildings are not built for floor plan readers. The analytical case studies can be more aptly described as accounts of “exposing oneself to the building”, a method that is discussed in more detail in the introduction to Part Three. Terms such as experienced time, experience, body, protention or phenomenon suggest that this book can be situated in the context of phenomenology. While the reader would be right in this assumption, it is not the author’s intention to critically reflect on the theoretical basis and distinctions of the philosophical movement. Plenty of other scholars have done this with great expertise, and certainly far better than a practicing architect could hope to achieve. Unlike many phenomenolo-

gists, the author’s observations focus not just on built space in general but also on built works and their artistic intentions. The special attraction of phenomenology for the author is its attempt to uncover the directness of experience, without sacrificing its communicability. With each case study, he attempts to attain this goal anew by exposing himself, as naively as possible, to the building – and it is predominantly through this exposure to architecture that he develops and tests his terms and hypotheses, rather than through the study of texts. Where definitions and constructs have derived from other texts, for example in the case of the dramatic situation, their background is discussed accordingly. Should the reader occasionally come across unfamiliar terms lacking definitions, Janson and Tigges’6 lexical volume provides an authoritative, clear and consistent overview of the current state of phenomenological considerations in the context of architecture.

tematic classification of dramatic typologies, explains the dramaturgical options in 20 parameters, characterises the temporal forms which the dramaturgies assume and finally exposes the underlying dramatic situation that is at the basis of every spatial dramaturgy and must be both upheld and transcended through it.

INTENTION  We are exposed to dramaturgical manipula-

tions of space all the time and wherever we go, not just in retail stores. In addition, we also contribute to triggering them with every step we take. As such, better knowledge of how the dramaturgy of space works is of very practical use. The ability to analyse its occurrences and mechanisms allows us to under­ stand them better as recipients, and as producers to employ them more effectively to achieve a respective goal. Understanding them helps us to navigate their manipulations more competently, to immerse ourselves in them more fully, or to recall them more powerfully in our mind’s eye. While there are forms of information that lessen our capacity for experience, there are also forms of understanding that heighten it. A good work of art will always raise questions and be engaging, though never offering unequivocal answers. As part of our attempt to identify and define the principles that contribute to our enjoyment and understanding, the general dramaturgy of space presented in Part Four outlines a sys-

Introduction  11

PART 1

Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space THREE SCUOLE GRANDI IN VENICE

“Passion can create drama out of inert stone.” 7 Le Corbusier

Introduction For identifying fundamental principles that inform the dramaturgy of space, it would seem sensible to compare different linear sequences of spaces comprised of a small number of relatively simple elements that exhibit different qualities but have arisen out of the same basic conditions. Their decorative treatment should be intact and perceptible in their entirety, neither posthumously modified to create a “museum” nor only partially extent. All these characteristics come together in three Scuole Grandi in Venice. Apart from the staircases, the interiors are all six-sided, orthogonal rooms (floor, four walls and ceiling), and while the functions and sequences of the spaces are largely identical, their dramaturgies are very different. Although some of the rooms are overwhelming in their rich colour and sumptuous decoration, their structure is clearly visible. In the following exploratory process of uncovering the principles behind the dramaturgy of space, we have approached each building in four steps, introducing an additional key ­aspect in each of the four chapters: Sequences of surfaces: In the first chapter, we examine the dramatic effect of successive surfaces (floors, walls, ceilings) in a sequence of rooms. The relationships established by these sequential compositions of surfaces we call architectural operations. The mirroring of surfaces or the combination of motifs are examples of such operations. The architectural operations set up a dramaturgical progression across several rooms, or serve as part of such a progression, but do not ­themselves constitute a narrative: a single operation does not yet reveal whether a certain relationship will be symptomatic or dominant, incidental or subtly perceptible, distracting or

14  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

The septo marmoreo of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE)

even counterproductive for the unfolding succession of ­spaces or for the building as a whole. Formation of rooms: The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms discussed in the second chapter concerns the interplay of floors, walls and ceilings within a single room. Beyond comprising architectural operations, this type of dramaturgy also gives rise to certain spatial figures that we call archetypes. For example, the bounding surfaces of a six-sided space can be articulated as a cave, portal, basin or hood (see diagram on p 217). Sequences of rooms: In the third chapter, we examine the dramaturgy of sequences of rooms. The architectural operations and archetypes observed so far have laid the ground for a dramaturgical narrative, or form part of such narratives. The concurrent considering of formations of rooms and sequences of their surfaces broadens the view towards sequences of rooms and allows to perceive the forms, effects and dramaturgical development of, for example, figures of movement, directed lighting or changes of colour. Examples of the

The facade of the Scuola Grande dei Carmini (SdC) to Campo Santa Margherita

The entrance facade of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR)

resulting ­effects might be an “increasing refinement” or a “transition from frontal approach to spherical view” over a sequence of rooms. Spatial configurations: The dramaturgy of the spatial configuration discussed in the fourth chapter refers to the concerted application of the individual dramaturgical means in an overall dramaturgical idea. Examples for dramaturgical ideas could be an overall fragmentation or a distinct presence of complementary spatial elements. WHAT IS A SCUOLA GRANDE?  Before we engage with the “pure visibility”8 of the three Scuole Grandi, here is some factual background on the buildings, their history and current condition.

Scuole Grandi are religious lay confraternities that arose in the 13th century through the settlement of itinerant Orders of Flagellants (flagellanti) in Venice. Originally founded on the principles of penance and asceticism, the confraternities grew over time into one of the most important socio-political and

charitable networks for the non-patrician citizens of the ­aristocratic republic, many of whom had become consider­ ably wealthy.9 A thorn in the side of the nobility for centuries, the majority (with the exception of the Scuola di San Rocco) were dissolved as Catholic confraternities during the Napoleonic occupation in the early 19th century. At that time there were six Scuole Grandi in Venice, some of which were re-­ established in the 19th and 20th century. Since the state assumed the role of providing welfare, today the Scuole predominantly devote their activities to the management of their architectural and artistic legacy. Historically, their buildings can be classed as early civic ­assembly and meeting halls. Typologically they are related to the Scuole Piccole (the halls of trade guilds, associations of fellow countrymen, smaller lay brotherhoods and also synagogues were all called Scuole in Venice) of which there were around 300 in Venice.10 Many are still in use today as halls for events, exhibitions, libraries or ateliers.11 At the same time, they drew their inspiration from the architecture of the seat of the nobility, the Doge’s Palace with its magnificent halls –

Introduction  15

Aerial view of Venice showing the Scuola Grande dei Carmini (SdC, bottom left), the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR, centre with zinc roof) and the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE, top right)

most notably the sala del maggior consiglio, the council chamber in which several hundred members of the aristocracy met and debated every Sunday morning. Unlike the buildings of the trade guilds and the aristocracy, the Scuole Grandi are ­hybrid buildings in which not only profane meetings took place but also sacred ceremonies such as Eucharist mass.12 The three buildings we shall consider all directly adjoin a church dedicated to their respective patron saint. An impression of the elaborate festive processions can be seen in paintings by Gentile Bellini, Vittorio Carpaccio or Canaletto.13 The Scuole Grandi typically comprised the following rooms: On the ground floor the sala terrena, or lower hall, was open to all visitors, especially pilgrims and travellers, for the purposes of prayer.14 As the hall was directly accessible from the street, the reception vestibule, the atrio, was arranged to one side rather before the hall. Because the main staircase leads directly off the lower hall – the device of the corridor had not yet become widespread throughout Europe – the hall was also a passage, a dramaturgical station, through which every visitor had to pass. The staircase leads directly into the upper hall, the sala superiore or sala capitolare (chapter house), which served as meeting and ceremonial space for the members. Leading off this room were an oratorio, a chapel or room for prayer, the albergo and the archivio. The alberghi served a dual function: as a place where people in need could come and ­apply for charity (but not, as the name might suggest, to shelter them), and as a meeting space for the cancelleria, also called banca or zonta, the governing board of the Scuola under the directorship of the guardian grande. The archivi served as a

16  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Site plan of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) and the Chiesa San Giovanni Evangelista

store for documents and valuables and for administrative ­purposes. None of the Scuole Grandi were built in one go – not even the walls or the facades, and certainly not the interior decorations. Like almost all Venetian buildings and spaces, they are the result of hundreds of years of bricolage – motivated in part by competition among the Scuole for prominence and wealthy patrons among their 500–600 members. Numerous architects, builders, artists, tradesmen and committees were involved over the years in their construction.15 The quarrels that accompanied, for example, the building of the Scuola di San Rocco have been described at length, and not without irony, by Manfredo Tafuri.16 The three Scuole Grandi that we will examine are the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE), the Scuola Grande dei Carmini (SdC) and the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR). The Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) was founded in 1261. Its prominence rose dramatically after it acquired a relic of the true cross in 1369, which was housed in a reliquary in the oratorio. Located in the sestiere (district) of San Polo, the Scuola is situated on a narrow site that largely dictates the arrangement and proportion of the rooms within the building, which was extended and added to repeatedly over the years. Lacking a representative facade of its own, its presence in the city is marked by the so-called septo marmoreo, a singular example of architectural fantasy in Venice. This marble screen marks off a campiello between the chiesa and scuola, which we consider as part of the sequence of interior spaces.

Site plan of the Scuola Grande dei Carmini (SdC) and the Chiesa dei Carmini

Site plan of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) and the Chiesa di San Rocco

The atrio is likewise considered as it plays a key role in the SGE. The archivio and albergo, on the other hand, are omitted as they represent only brief episodes outside the main progression of spaces. Originally founded in 1594 as a house of the Carmelite Order, the Scuola Grande di Santa Maria del Carmelo o dei Carmini (SdC) was only declared a Scuola Grande in 1767. Depictions of the Virgin Mary consigning the brown scapular, a shoulder robe that promised salvation to those wearing it when they die, recur repeatedly in the paintings within, for example on the ceiling of the sala superiore and the archivio. The building in the sestiere of Dorsoduro is much smaller than the other five Scuole Grandi. Its two-storey facade at the fringe of the Campo Margherita reveals a three-bay section (the hall) next to a two-bay section (the stair). A second side entrance affords direct access from the Campo dei Carmini. Both facades abut directly at the corner as the original Scuola building from 1638 initially wrapped in an L-shape around another building on the corner. After the purchase of the plot and demolition of the corner building in 1667, the ensemble was completed by extending the key elements of each facade to the corner. In the SdC, both the halls as well as the albergo and archivio are part of a complex, orchestrated ensemble.

seen in every detail of the Scuola in the sestiere of San Polo. Its two-storey colonnade frontage to the campo was so imposing that the front of the neighbouring church was later adapted to match in the 18th century.17 Jacopo Tintoretto’s engaging series of paintings in the lower hall, upper hall and albergo were expressly commissioned for the purposes of catechesis, and the choir stalls in the upper hall by Francesco Pianta are appropriately expressive.18 In the SR, the spatial arrangement of the two halls together with the albergo form a dramaturgical unit, and not just due to Tintoretto’s paintings. Several other alberghi and archivi are separate closed-off spaces and have therefore been omitted in our consideration. The timeline on p 282 shows the history of the buildings of the three Scuole Grandi arranged primarily according to the completion of the bounding surfaces. All the building measures that still exist today are emphasised.

The Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) was established in 1477 after a devastating plague and takes its name from St. Roch of Montpellier, whose remains passed into ownership of the Scuola in 1485. The confraternity was officially recognised a year before it began caring for the sick. Its great wealth can be

Introduction  17

Floor of the lower hall of the SGE

Floor of the campiello of the SGE

The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces Which architectural operations and dramaturgical narratives can be identified in the sequences of surfaces, for example of successive floor, wall or ceiling surfaces?

Floor of the upper hall of the SGE

FLOORS (SGE): COMBINATION  The patterns of the floors

in the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) seem unrelated to one another. While the forecourt between the church and the Scuola has been additionally refined through decorative strips inserted in the grey trachyte marble, more typical of a larger Campo than such a small Campiello, the floors of the lower hall and the stair landings have a simple chequerboard pattern without any additional embellishment. In the upper hall, however, the decorative strips reappear in combination with the chequerboard pattern, and frame the floor into three successive panels. The colours of the floors increase in intensity from room to room: the low-contrast duochromic pattern of the forecourt is followed by a brighter duochromic combination in the lower hall and staircase, and culminates in a pentachromic pattern on the floor of the upper hall. There, a black tile is added to the red and white tiles of the lower floor to create a vibrant triad, framed by the softer ochre and light grey surround of the decorative bands. This concert of colours is flanked by sections of floor in muted colours: a marble “altar carpet” of tightly inter-

18  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

woven creepers and lilies and a beige-coloured terrazzo in the prayer room, with decorative bands that echo those in the forecourt. In addition to increasing the intensity of the colours, the combination of the band and chequerboard motifs is used to heighten the spatial potential. The switch from an orthogonal arrangement in the forecourt to a diagonal arrangement in the lower hall is achieved by simply rotating the pattern, a ­device that serves, on the one hand, to mask irregularities in the tile formats, joint widths and junctions with the walls and, on the other, softens the orthogonality of the space, avoiding a rigid directional orientation. Laying this diagonal bond in a dichromatic pattern also causes the pattern to quickly dissolve into a pointillist shimmer, so that it is only noticed in passing. The floor in the upper hall, by contrast, demands our attention as the decorative strips divide the floor into three main panels whose patterns radiate from stars.

Floor of the altar zone of the SGE

Floor of the prayer room of the SGE

Floor of the prayer room of the SGE

Floor of the atrio of the SGE

The floor designs of the two other Scuole are shown in the illustrations of the following chapters.

This rhythmic treatment gives the hall a sense of breadth and makes it possible to vary the chequerboard pattern in two different ways. Within each panel, curved radials intersect in opposite directions to form a pattern of distorted rhombi, creating the impression that the floor rises in the centre, especially in the central, circular panel. In the sections between them, the rhombi are combined in three colours to create repeating rhombohedra, a pattern popular since Antiquity that here has the qualities of a work of Op-Art: to the eye it appears as a dizzying plane of staggered cubes in axonometric projection that seem to extend endlessly into the distance – although which of the three surfaces is horizontal and which vertical depends on what the eye focuses on – but also as a series of interwoven bands extending in three different directions. The appearance of the surfaces varies depending on the angle of view, mental association, focus and illumination, sometimes being predominantly of one colour, then another, sometimes compressed, sometimes elongated and sometimes in balance.



Between these intermediary panels that extend into the distance and the rising visual swirls of the main panels, the decor­ative ochre bands that fold back and forth act as a datum line. Compared with the illusory depths of the floor, the tendrils of the suppedaneum (the “altar carpet”) look like a thin layer of compressed space, and the band inlays in the terrazzo flooring of the prayer room only acquire depth at their intersections. With the increasing finery of the materials in the opus sectile (the upper hall floor made of differently cut pieces of inlaid stone), the metaphorical material quality of the marble is exploited to ever greater effect. The textile quality of the marble bands weaves its way through a sea of mineral or crystalline cascades, i.e. through material formations that are the very opposite of the textile quality. The culmination is defined not only by the material exquisiteness but even more so by the metaphorical potential of the materials.

The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Floors  19

Floor motifs in the SGE

Floor of the Campiello of the SGE

Rhombohedra on the floor of the upper hall of the SGE

Floor motifs in the SdC

Floor motifs in the SR

The close is formed by large-format stone tiles in the atrio, in which the chequerboard pattern appears through the alternation of rough and smooth monochromatic surfaces. By combining opposites – band/chequerboard, raised/inlaid, hard/ soft, textile/crystalline – the upper hall makes the most of the affective, spatial and metaphorical potential of the previously unrelated materials. The dramaturgical principle of intensification through combination seems so simple and obvious that it appears almost self-evident. As we will see, that is by no means the case. FLOORS (SdC): SHIFTED ACCENTUATION  The conventional red-white chequerboard pattern of the lower hall of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) does not draw attention to itself. The red-white-grey rhombohedral pattern of the mezzanino – shifting the chequerboard into the third dimension, as in the SGE – on the other hand, hints at greater complexity to come, a promise that the beige-grey-white shimmering surface of the terrazzo flooring of the upper hall then fails to fulfil.19 It

20  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

serves, however, merely to postpone the effect seen in the ­albergo and archivio where large, three-dimensional dichromatic stars and numerous interwoven ribbons of inlaid marble are used to stunning effect. Alongside the splendour and radiance of the floors, the raising of the floor level of these two side rooms two steps above the sala capitolare further denotes their exclusive status for the few. Starting from a conventional chequerboard pattern, both the colour and the motifs are successively refined, from the uniform pattern of the lower hall, to its shift into three dimensions and finally its multiplication into a series of interwoven structures. The most sophisticated floors are found in the stair hallway and the cabinet rooms, neither of them the most obviously important rooms, while the upper hall functions as a means of deferring the moment of intensity. In the SdC, the serving spaces are decorated while the served spaces are more subdued. The accentuation is shifted.

Axonometric of the floors of the SGE

Axonometric of the floors of the SdC

Axonometric of the floors of the SR



The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Floors  21

FLOORS (SR): DIRECTED ACCENTUATION  In contrast

to the floors of the other two Scuole, none of the floors of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) are paved in a continuous pattern; instead all are divided into panels. The switch to an orthogonal rather than diagonal chequerboard arrangement in the flooring between the columns of the lower hall emphasises its three-aisled structure and the length of the room, highlighting its processional character. The button-like decorative studs on the risers of the upper flight of the stairs continue this principle, delineating the double width of the staircase and thereby helping to keep the procession on course when ascending the stair. A characteristic motif of the floors of the SR is the circle, which is used repeatedly to mark key points in the space. –– The semi-circular entrance landing with its red radiating inlay signals the presence of the confraternity in the public realm; –– The turning point on the stair landing, marked with three stars on the floor; –– The centre of the upper hall: composed of twelve partially veinless kinds of marble, the floor has an opaque, porcelain-­ like character that creates a colourful but unsettled impression in which the different motifs cancel one another out. The optical illusion of the pattern of prisms is frustrated by being limited to the frames themselves, of which there are many, suffocating the potential of the central star to radiate. It is, nevertheless, still the centre point; –– The centre of the albergo. Although the floor of the upper hall pulls out all the stops, it fails to be entirely convincing. The albergo, by contrast, achieves this with a single artifice: rendering the circle as a three-dimensional coffered dome. The effect of this inverted dome is enthralling, captivating one’s gaze despite the range of rich patterns in the surrounding panels.

22  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Of all the different motifs, the circle is the most dominant, rendered variously as radiating beams, stars, studs and domes. ARCHITECTURAL OPERATIONS AND DRAMATURGICAL NARRATIVES: FLOORS   Combination along with shifted and directed accentuation are our first examples of architectural operations. The dramaturgy of the floor surfaces heightens the experience of the interiors in various ways:

–– in the SGE through a combination of contrasting, initially isolated elements and qualities that increase in intensity, culminating and descending again in the oratorio and atrio; –– in the SdC in a linear progression, that is unexpectedly deferred prior to culmination; –– in the SR through the increasingly magnificent accentuation of key moments. WALLS (SGE): DISSOLUTION  In terms of the treatment

of its walls, the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) is a veritable experimental laboratory of different approaches to structuring the walls to the point of dissolution. Except for a few festive and surreal moments, however, the character of the walls is predominantly sober: all exhibit white plaster surfaces, which in combination with Istrian limestone and the dark-stained wooden benches in the upper hall creates a sparse, muted impression. Zoning: The typical two-zone division of walls is nowhere to be seen in the fully plastered walls of the lower hall, and is only subtly articulated in the staircase through a change of materials at the height of the embedded handrail. The upper hall, by contrast, switches straight to a three-zone arrangement with an illuminated zone above rather than between the paintings, enabling them to be viewed without glare.

Floor of the upper hall of the SGE



The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Floors, Walls  23

Wall between the upper hall and prayer room of the SGE

Grisailles in the lower hall of the SdC

Profiling: The sporadic instances of relief provided by spolia in the lower hall give way to fine, linear ornamental profiles – cornice, rail, pilaster and handrail – that follow the line of the stair, culminating in the stone picture frames in the upper hall. As the oil paintings in the central wall zone do not cover the entire surface, appearing instead as individual picture frames set forward of the wall, the wall has a sense of lightness. Articulation of framework: In the illumination zone, the profiling of the wall surface is refined into a finely-articulated tectonic framework, which at the altar wall becomes a full-blown two-storey order of pilasters, whose A-B-A arrangement recalls the pattern of a triumphal arch.

24  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Perforation: The culmination of the dissolution strategy is the highly unusual perforation of two walls. While the plaster panels of the altar wall already have a diaphanous quality, the tracery-like framework of the rear wall of the hall is partially glazed, allowing daylight into the room, and partially filled with a screen, affording a glimpse of the prayer room beyond. Turning back around 180 degrees – catching a glimpse on the way of the domed stair landing – one can see that the two ­altars confront one another. Inside and outside, the symmetrically arranged but differently treated openings become surreal parallel worlds. At the same time, the perforations refer back to the septo marmoreo, one of the few pieces of archi­ tectural fantasy in Venice that divides the campo into a widening of the alleyway (the ante saeptum) and an outdoor room

Upper hall of the SdC

Albergo of the SR



The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Walls  25

Axonometric showing the windows of the SGE

­ ithout a ceiling (the campiello). The septo marmoreo is the w actual portal to the Scuola, blurring the boundaries between inside and outside. Dissolution of the corner: The positioning of the windows in the corners, typical in Venetian secular buildings, decouples the walls at the corner by their almost room-high extension. Separated by these glazed slots, the walls appear like freestanding planes – a precursor to a favourite device of the classical modern period. Counterpoint: The altar represents a counterpoint to all the above dissolution strategies, projecting forward of the rear wall as a three-quarter profile. It is also the only element to transcend the horizontal zoning of the walls and extend the full height of the room. The two-storey pilasters of the wall heighten this effect.

26  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Axonometric showing the windows of the SdC

The walls of the prayer room are simply an epilogue, varying the structures and motifs already seen – the projecting altar, the oval medallions, toplights, horizontal division in bench zone and mural zone – at a reduced scale without initiating any new experiments. Of all the various means of dissolution employed in the interior of the SGE, the septo marmoreo, as the opening act, and the “rood screen” perforations of the wall between the upper hall and the prayer room are the most striking. WALLS (SdC): DISRUPTION  The walls of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) are all divided horizontally into a bench zone and a painting zone. Quite unlike the SGE, the cycles of paintings are not incorporated into a tectonic structure but cover the entire upper part of the walls. The canvases wrap pain­ stakingly, almost manically, around the polygonal edges of the cornices of the altar, portal and windows, leaving no fleck of plaster visible that could destroy the illusion. The v ­ isitor

Axonometric showing the windows of the SR

should feel immersed in the paintings. The walls of the SdC are narratives in four chapters, each with a different tone, with numerous individual stories told by different painters and a dramatic break in the stair foyer. The contrast between the grisailles and the polychromic paintings is highly effective.­­ Both of these zones, however, are disrupted by stone interventions, most jarringly in the lower hall where the delicate, reverent motifs of the only Venetian cycle of grisailles are interrupted repeatedly by the portal and window openings that extend right down into the bench zone – most notably the five-axis portal that frames the flights of stairs. This conflict between fiction and tectonics is partially defused in the upper hall by leaving the portals unconnected, facing the entire altar wall in stone and ending the windows above the bench zone, resulting in a much calmer overall scene, thanks also to the similar colour of the wall base and the



Illuminating wall and illuminated wall in the archivio and albergo of the SdC

painting zone. The conflict is only truly resolved, however, in the albergo and archivio where the walls are given clearly defined roles: three adjoining walls with paintings are illuminated by the fourth wall with glazing. As the connection between the albergo and archivio is not placed in the centre of the wall but towards the outer edge between the block housing the staircase that separates the rooms and the external wall, the external wall of both cabinet rooms can be seen as a ten-axis ribbon window, almost as a glass curtain, that creates a kind of spatial continuum spanning the two rooms. Spatial continuum, illuminating wall and illuminated walls – the conflict between the fictional world of the paintings and the tectonic necessities is resolved using ideas that were only widely adopted much later in the period of classical modernism. As in Vasari’s Uffizi, this is achieved by sacrificing the symmetry of the bounding walls and separating the competing demands.

The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Walls  27

Axonometric showing the walls of the SGE

WALLS (SR): INVERTED HIERARCHIES   The monu-

mental impression of the lower hall of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) is due primarily to the long wall opposite the staircase. Its stone bench zone is almost half the height of the wall and ends far above eye level. The rhythm of the alternating wide-format paintings (wavering around 1.3:1) and high-­ format windows (1:1.2) is calm and measured and is echoed ­by ­the divisions in the stone back panels of the bench zone. The hall appears to stretch upwards as both the paintings as well as the windows are aligned just beneath the ceiling. The compressed depth of the altar bay and the disruption to the rhythm by the portals on the access wall have little impact as these ­irregularities are obscured or mediated by the pillars of the three-aisle room.

28  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

While the walls of the two lower flights of stairs are bare, the scene change at the stair landing could not be more radical. On the ground floor, the oil paintings are content to occupy their respective panels, but from this point on they suddenly fill the entire walls, relegating the stonework to a subordinate role. Even the decorative balustrades are incorporated into the fictional scenes as balcony balustrades distorted to match the perspective. After this abrupt initial victory of painting over architecture, of fiction over reality, there is no turning back in the sala superiore. The windows appear suspended from the gilded ceiling cornice, hanging freely in the colour­ ed scenery like periodical fragments of a distant, high-lying, no longer very haptic palace facade. They neither contain (as in the sala terrena) nor disrupt (like in the SdC) the world of ­images but become part of the scene – an inversion of the ­usual hierarchies.

Axonometric showing the walls of the SdC

The portal between the staircase and hall is so massive that the staircase looks like a dramatically descending transept linked to the upper hall. The wooden benches of the upper hall with their opulent carvings occasionally reflecting the light, likewise become part of the pointillist glittering interior. In the chiaroscuro the zones of the walls of the upper hall are bound into one. The story continues in the albergo where Tintoretto’s paintings flood the walls, most notably the crucifixion covering the entire breadth of the front wall. Unlike the SdC, the victory of fiction over reality in the treatment of the walls in the SR is not even the product of a conflict: it takes one by surprise, without warning, half-way up the stairs between the two halls, never failing to take one’s breath away.



Axonometric showing the walls of the SR

ARCHITECTURAL OPERATIONS AND DRAMATURGICAL NARRATIVES: WALLS  Dissolution, disruption and inversion are the most important architectural operations employed in the treatment of the walls. Their respective antithetical characters reveal that walls have a wider variety of tasks to fulfil than floors, with greater potential for conflict. The dramaturgy of the wall surfaces is:

–– in the SGE, a multi-faceted sequence of variations, framed by two particularly memorable moments, and compressed in the upper hall; –– in the SdC, the step-by-step resolution of a conflict; –– in the SR, an abrupt inversion of hierarchies at an unexpected moment.

The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Walls  29

Detail of the timber beam ceiling of the lower hall of the SGE

Capital, cross beam and timber beam ceiling of the lower hall of the SGE

Ceiling of the prayer room of the SGE

30  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Detail of the upper hall of the SGE

CEILINGS (SGE): STRETCHING AND VAULTING Like

the ceilings of the halls (androni) on the ground floor of Venetian palaces, the closely-spaced, stained timber beams of the lower hall ceilings, sometimes rough-sawn, sometimes planed, remain exposed in all the Scuole Grande – which to some looks unfinished. However, the striped underside of the alternating beams and shadow gaps creates a loftier impression than a smooth ceiling would. The flights of stairs, on the other hand, are barrel-vaulted, as per Venetian convention, the white plastered masonry vaults following the direction of the stairs. The typical undersides of representative halls in the late medieval period were diagonally-arranged coffered ceilings with deep blue panels and gold mouldings.20 This type can be admired in the upper halls of the Scuola di San Marco and the Scuola di Carità (today part of the Galleria dell‘Accademia). This kind of ceiling also graced the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista until the early 18th century, when it was replaced, as it was not representative enough. The fact that all sale superiore have flat ceilings has also acoustic reasons: the trend towards ever more complex, polyphonic music in 16th-century Venice required an acoustic clarity best

achieved with a modulated timber ceiling.21 These three ceiling types follow one another in abrupt succession without any clear relationship between them, although little attention is paid to the two formerly mentioned types when not additionally refined22 and made part of the overall dramaturgical idea. That is the case in the vaults and domes of the staircase of the SGE which, due to the mirroring of the flights, form a large arc. The ceiling of the upper hall of the SGE is surprisingly high, and relates to the ceiling of the prayer room since both of them feature a large, centrally-positioned elliptical panel with a painted scene. This similarity also makes the differences between the two ceilings more apparent. While the ceiling of the upper hall is stretched taut like a wall covering turned horizontal, the ceiling of the prayer room arches upwards, its edges draping like a blanket falling softly. Gilded lunette caps lend rhythm to this transitional zone, while in the upper hall, a block cornice draws a clear line between the ceiling and the wall. While the flat ellipse of the upper hall is a geometric ­figure, that of the prayer room bulges and is surrounded by

Ceiling of the staircase of the SdC



The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Ceilings  31

Ceiling painting by Tiepolo in the upper hall of the SdC

Ceiling of the archivio of the SdC

gold braid. The partly grey, partly gilded picture frames and ceiling mouldings of the upper hall are so narrow and low-­ profile that the eleven different paintings appear to be part of a larger picture, while the elliptical form of the prayer room ceiling is the main event of the room and projects forward of the surrounding ceiling plasterwork. The amorphous panels that remain at the perimeter are almost too small to hold a significant motif.

near and far, front and back, weight and lightness, fusion and separation.

CEILINGS (SdC): FRAMING  The rich colours and materi-

The gilded ceiling of the staircase is composed of 15 domes and three barrel vaults decorated with stucco clouds and tendrils within which angels, putti and sirens frolic happily. In the upper hall, the clouds continue into the picture frames and, in Tiepolo’s paintings, seem to be parting just as one approaches to reveal their scenes in gentle turquoise and golden-­ red evening light. As six of the 15 ceiling panels are decorated with ornaments, the images do not merge into a larger picture, despite their common atmosphere and themes. The ceiling feels light and airy with its slender golden mouldings, and, despite the stucco, the paintings, panels and frames all appear to occupy the same wafer-thin plane.

ality of the ceilings of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) relate them to one another. The brown of the lower hall, the archivio and albergo frames the white and gold of the staircase and ­upper hall in the same way that the wooden ceilings frame the stucco ceilings. This dualism is the basis for a series of variations from room to room on the themes of image and frame,

By comparison, the rustic ceiling of the archivio appears to weigh down even more heavily with its exceptionally deep, unvarnished picture frames,23 in which the clouds and tendrils have mutated into vigorous rocailles and curling scrolls. The deep, stepped and voluted frames make the narrow paint-

The difference between the ceilings of the upper hall and that of the prayer room is perceived as a complement of hard and soft, of integrated and emphasised, and most notably of stretching and vaulting.

32  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Ceiling of the albergo of the SdC

ings appear far removed, even obscuring them when seen at an angle from afar. The L-shaped or lozenge-shaped paintings look like broaches pressed into a soft mass. Yet another relationship between painting and ceiling can be seen in the lighter looking ceiling of the albergo: the centrally positioned painting has a classic format (L = 1.54 × B) and is surrounded by wide, rough planks onto which eight medallions have been “attached”. These perimeter paintings are arranged as ornaments within wood frames carved with arabesques. Raised stucco versus broaches pressed into a soft mass, flush relief versus attached medallions: the different relationships between image and frame have a strong impact on the changing atmosphere of the interiors.



CEILINGS (SR): FLOWING  After the exposed timber beams of the lower hall and bare barrel vault of the first flight of stairs, the ceiling of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) changes suddenly and dramatically halfway up the stairs above the landing.

As the vault over the second flight of stairs extends horizontally from the ceiling of the upper hall, the crown of the vault above the stair landing jumps from approx. 4.50 m to 11.50 m. The fact that the third bay over the stair, nearest the upper hall, is topped with a dome is quite literally dizzying, not least because one lacks a firm footing while looking upwards midway up the stairs. The illuminated dome painted with joyful motifs serves as a prelude to the ceiling of the upper hall. And the ceiling is

The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Ceilings  33

Upper hall of the SR

­ orthy of it: not just its size but also its splendour is overw whelming. The three main paintings in the longitudinal axis are each encircled by four elliptical or diamond-shaped mono­ chromatic paintings. The inward-curving faces of the diamond­shapes, instead of being static corner markers, actively contribute to leading the eye along the lines of the entire, partially gilded, partially richly painted frames and scrolls of the ceiling. In fact, they lead beyond the actual plane of the ceiling as it is not contained by a perimeter frame but continues to flow onward into the paintings of the walls that start immediately beneath the ceiling. The endless sea of gold, on which the pictures float like rafts, glitters as the light reflects off the surfaces of the carved necklaces of pearls, twisted cords, eggand-dart borders, rows of corbels, woven wreaths or flower garlands. They correspond perfectly to the chiaroscuro of the throng of heads in Jacopo Tintoretto’s paintings so that image and frame blend visually into one. Ceiling of the albergo of the SR

34  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Ceiling at the transition from the staircase to the upper hall of the SR



The dramaturgy of sequences of surfaces – Ceilings  35

Axonometric of the ceilings of the SGE

Axonometric of the ceilings of the SR

In the albergo the sea of gold grows calmer: a single wide ornamental frame that, much like the albergo in the SdC, incorporates narrow paintings, surrounds a relatively small elliptical painting. These three painted ceilings form a coherent dramaturgical whole: the ecstatic, luxuriant flow of the sala superiore is preceded by an uplifting springboard and followed by a calm and collected conclusion. ARCHITECTURAL OPERATIONS AND DRAMATURGICAL NARRATIVES: CEILINGS   Stretching and vaulting, and framing and flowing are the primary architectural ­operations of these sequences of ceilings. The dramaturgical narrative

–– in the SGE is antithetical; –– in the SdC, is developing variations; –– in the SR is the triad of release, expansion and conclusion. Axonometric of the ceilings of the SdC

36  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Lower hall of the SGE

The dramaturgy of the ­formation of rooms The surfaces that bound an individual room – the ceilings, walls and floors of the room – can likewise perform architectural operations through the way they respond to each other. All the major rooms in the Scuole are bounded by four orthogonally arranged walls, an even floor surface and a flat ceiling, offering an ideal opportunity to examine the possibilities of combination within a cubic space. The spatial figures that arise by linking the room surfaces we call archetypes, as we instinctively associate fundamental spatial structures with a particular configuration of surfaces, for example a tent, portal, bay or ring. The arrangements we examine here are not merely geometric contrivances but have a remarkably strong influence on a room’s atmosphere and on our emotional response to it. In this chapter, we restrict ourselves to considerations from a static point of view. We discuss movement within a room, and through successive rooms in the two chapters that follow: “The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms” and “The dramaturgy of spatial configurations”.



LOWER HALLS (SGE): PERFORATE  The raising of the

floor of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) by 80 cm in 1969 to counter the effects of flooding makes the sala terrena appear even more compressed than it was beforehand (proportions 5 : 2.2 : 1), and the subdued lighting contributes little to the aura of the exhibits. Were there not a row of columns down the middle of the room, the floor and ceiling would appear as areas which are consistent within themselves, though not corresponding with one another; but by occupying the centre of the space, the row of columns makes the focus shift to the perimeter walls and their assorted array of windows. In this way, the six surfaces form an uneasy ensemble of a perforated ring of the walls and two independent horizontal surfaces of ceiling and floor (1 + 4 + 1, from bottom to top). LOWER HALLS (SdC): ENCIRCLE  The muted colours and

matt surfaces of the lower hall of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) (proportions 2.7 : 1.5 : 1) create a subdued feeling. Despite the presence of the portals, the delicate grisailles encircle the ­entire room and the visitor, suffusing the atmosphere with

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Halls  37

Lower hall of the SR

­ essages that may potentially sublimate the oppressive feelm ing into repentant devotion – though the stoicism of the floor and ceiling does nothing to support this (1 + 4 + 1). LOWER HALLS (SR): ELEVATE  The sheer dimensions of

Lower hall of the SdC

38  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

approx. 40 m × 17 m × 8.50 m and proportions (4.6 : 2 : 1) of the three-aisled lower hall of the Scuola di San Rocco (SR) already lend it a sense of expanse and height. The white columns, themselves raised off the ground on slender pedestals, contribute to this effect, thrusting upwards and contrasting dramatically with the dark ceiling. The colonnades leading to the altar transform the central aisle into a via triumphalis, while the side aisles are enlivened by the shifting rhythms of the row of columns and the perimeter walls. Within the hall there are numerous correspondences between its bounding surfaces: the off-white of the limestone relates the floor to the columns and walls, the red tones relate the floor to the paintings, and the

Upper hall of the SGE

brown tones relate the paintings to the ceiling. The high stone benches around the walls are a defining element of the room, linking the floor and walls to create a notional basin (5 + 1). UPPER HALLS (SGE): MIRROR  Measuring 34.5 m × 13 m × 

11  m (proportions 3.1  :  1.2  :  1), the upper hall of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) is of a similar scale to the corridor-like sale superiore of the palazzi. The proportions of its elements carefully balance one another: its long and narrow floor plan, a factor of the site, is balanced by its imposing height, which in turn is mediated by the horizontal subdivision of the walls, which in turn allows the paintings to be viewed from a shallow angle. Its series of oval windows around the top of the room, which begin immediately above the ridge of the adjacent staircase, provides illumination from both sides of the room, a situation not found in any of the ­other Scuole Grande.



The unity of the room is also cleverly maintained, despite the emphasis accorded to the altar zone. All secondary measures such as steps, changes of floor material and the introduction of a theatrical stage portal, which separates the final altar bay from the five bays of the hall, are kept discreet. This portal more or less hides the side walls of the final “stage” bay from view, but as these have large windows, light shines in from the side illuminating the altar and allowing it to take centre stage. Material correspondences (marble: floor and altar; oil paintings: walls and ceiling) play a less significant role than the ­different tonalities of the various bounding surfaces. The bright black-white-red of the floor is quite different to the subdued white-grey of the walls and the veiled grey-gold of the ceiling. As a consequence, the atmosphere of the room oscillates between sombre and triumphal, depending on the quality of light and direction of view. Correspondences between

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Halls  39

Upper hall of the SdC

the different bounding surfaces are, therefore, primarily of a geometric nature: the three panels of the floor and the ceiling mirror one another, likewise the A-B-A structure of the two end walls and the five bays of the longitudinal side walls. ­Because the rhythm of the wall bays does not match that of the floor and ceiling panels, the vertical and horizontal surfaces register independently. The six sides of the room therefore mirror one another in pairs (2+2+2) – relationships that, like stretching (ceiling) and perforation (walls), emphasise the ­planar characteristics of the surfaces. UPPER HALLS (SdC): INTERLOCK  Four hierarchical dispositions are responsible for creating a harmonious interplay between the bounding surfaces of the upper hall of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC):

40  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

–– The terrazzo floor and the dark wooden benches are treated as abstract flat surfaces, so as not to detract from the paintings on the upper surfaces of the walls. –– The paintings on the walls are relatively dark, harmonising with the colour of the wooden benches and providing a base for the white-golden elaborations of the ceiling. –– The portals are restrained so as not to compete with the monolithic altar wall, which extends over the entire width of the room. –– The beige colour of the terrazzo floor relates to that of the altar wall, instead of introducing another contrasting colour of its own. With proportions of 3.1 : 1.2 : 1, the room is also evenly sized.

Upper hall of the SR

The hierarchies established above lend the room two struc­ tural characteristics that define its overall impression: the increasingly vibrant and intricate treatment of the surfaces from bottom to top and the contrast between light and dark. The surface treatment can be seen in the transition from the smooth terrazzo to the sculptured elemental stonework and in the transition from the continuous wall paintings to the individual ceiling paintings. The light-dark contrast between the floor, altar wall and ceiling on the one hand, and the three other remaining walls on the other creates a U-shaped bay out of the three dark walls and a U-shaped clasp out of the three lighter surfaces (3+3). It is therefore the tonality of the surfaces – the warm, full-bodied chord of umbra, turquoise, beige, gold and cream – and their respective light-dark combination that determine the 3+3 structure of the six bounding surfaces.



UPPER HALLS (SR): ENVELOPE   With ist vast dimen-

sions of 44 × 17 × 11 m and balanced proportions of 4: 1.5 : 1, the upper hall of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) approaches the majesty of the sala del maggior consiglio of the Palazzo ­Ducale. It is not just the paintings and framing of the ceiling and the wall paintings and bench zone that appear to blend into one through their dark-painted, stained and glittering gilded surfaces, but the ceilings and walls as a whole. Their general ­tonal similarity eclipses their diverse material characters. The ceiling and the four walls together form a hood whose stunning effect is not compromised but heightened by the fact that it extends into the somewhat lighter staircase. The windows, likewise, cannot undermine the effect, as they do not

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Halls  41

Prayer room of the SGE

Albergo of the SdC

42  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Archivio of the SdC

Albergo of the SR

divide the wall into a series of painted strips hung from the ceiling but instead take the form of separate wall incisions between the paintings and above the intricately modulated wooden benches, and thus register as individual, isolated events within the glittering sea of black and umbra and gold. The multi-coloured marble carpet of the floor, on the other hand, with its smooth polished surface and general brightness, is distinct from the rest. It makes no connection to the isolated set pieces of the altar, portals and windows, and its rhythm does not correspond to that of the ceiling. While the ceiling structures the hall symmetrically along its entire length, the floor only does this at its centre. The altar zone has its own ordering structure and is divided off by two pedestals with statuettes. The room is, therefore, structured as a hood plus floor (5+1). ORATORIO (SGE): FLUIDITY  Like the upper hall, to

which it connects visually, the oratorio of the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE) is a tall, elongated room (proportions: 1.7 : 1.1 : 1). Here, too, the constraints of the narrow site define its shape. The long walls and ceiling exhibit little correspondence as the cornice delineates a strong boundary between the wide-format depictions of the crucifixion on the



wall and the soft, curved forms of the ceiling. On the opposite side facing the campiello, windows brutally puncture the wall (their Gothic ogee arches were bricked in to create rectangular openings) paying little heed to the proportions of the wall paintings. The relationship between the altar wall and the ceiling is more harmonious as the corner medallions, segmental arches, ceiling curvature, marble veining and frieze cornice relate to one another. Although only truly celebrated by the ceiling, the dominant motif of this room is that of fluidity. Despite the separation of walls and ceilings, their tonal congruence – the combination of white and light green – is so obvious that visually they form a hood, based on a 5+1 relationship of the bounding surfaces. ARCHIVIO AND ALBERGO (SdC): OSCILLATION The

archivio and albergo of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) have the proportions of a flattened cube (1.6 : 1.6 : 1 for the archivio and 1.6 : 2 : 1 for the albergo). While the ceilings and bench zones communicate a sense of comfort, the distinct horizontality of the ­ribbons of paintings and windows and the imposing verticality of the portals act as counterpoints. Although the frameless series of paintings separate the bench zone from the ­ceiling, the character of the rooms oscillates between the ar-

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Oratorio, archivio, albergo  43

Stair of the SR

chetypes of the bay (the three painting walls), the tent (painting walls + ceiling) or the hood (painting walls + ceiling + glazing wall), depending on the lighting situation and direction of view. Only the floor seems uninterested in being part of the composition, an impression reinforced by the way the wall cladding haphazardly encroaches on the floor pattern. ALBERGO (SR): MIRROR The albergo of the Scuola

Grande­di San Rocco (SR) is almost an exact cube (1.2 : 1.6 : 1). The two glazed walls mirror one another while the rear wall is both the final destination and conclusion of the sequence of spaces: its steps and benches span the breadth of the room lending it a judicial character, an impression reinforced by the crucifixion scene by Tintoretto that floats above it in cinema­ scope format (2.36 : 1). While related in materiality, splendour and narrative method to the upper hall, the albergo also acts as

44  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

a counterpoint to its flowing expanse by establishing a vertical axis between the ellipses on the floor and the ceiling. The room’s surfaces are thus divided into three separate pairs that mirror one another (2+2+2), although the entrance wall can naturally only be a partial mirror of the rear wall.

Staircase of the SGE

Staircase of the SGE

STAIRCASES (SGE): VAULT  The typology of the mirrored staircase (scala tribunale) probably originated in the 14th century and can be found in a number of public buildings in Northern Italy.24 This arrangement is suitable for accessing a space from two sides of equal standing and as a means of ­access for narrow sites. It is also an efficient arrangement for exit stairs and adds an extra theatrical character for processional routes. Initially, this stair was not covered, but after it was vaulted over, its power to draw the eye up and then back down the flights was magnified. Here the side light on the landings, the cornices and side rails that follow the line of each flight of stairs and the white plastered surfaces heighten the effect while adding elegance. The stairs utilise the splay in the site so that the flights widen as one approaches the top, establishing a correspondence between ascent and light and space, and between descent and darkness and narrowness



Lower hall/staircase of the SGE

(see p 221 for details of the effect of tapering spaces). No decor­ ations muddy the purity of the typology. The floor, ceiling and long side walls form a four-sided element, a tunnel (4+2). STAIRCASES (SdC): CANOPY  The ceiling of the stairs of the Scuola dei Carmini (SdC) is comprised of 15 about 1.60 × 1.60-m-large suspended domes and three barrel vaults that unite the ensemble of flights of stairs, galleries and two-storey hallways into a single volumetric continuum (see p 221–222). Light shining through its leaded crown-glass panes scatters across the hallway, illuminating the ceiling and lending this circulation space a shimmering quality worthy of any theatre foyer. Openings in two of the cross-walls afford diagonal views across the different layers, highlighting the different directions of movement before the final flight of stairs corrals the visitors into a single stream entering the upper hall.

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Albergo, staircases  45

Lower flight of stairs of the SdC

As the different bounding walls only correspond to one another in partial respects, and only the six cross-walls form a group, the dominant unifying aspect of this space is the ceiling. The canopy is therefore the dominant architectural operation in this spatial continuum. STAIRCASES (SR): TRANSCENDING  The sparse normality and calm atmosphere of the two lower flights of stairs in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco (SR) is deceptive. On turning the corner of the landing, the doubling of the staircase width, the extreme height of the room, the inward and outward curves of the barrel vault, dome and portal as well as the tall opening framing a view of the hall ceiling, allow one’s eyes free reign. The change in colour, scale and mood, from the joyful Veronese-like tones of the dome to the dichromatic umbra and gold of the pendentives and from the rich contrasts of

46  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

the wall paintings to the sea of gold of the hall ceiling, the visitor is exposed in ever shorter intervals to ever new atmospheric impressions. Seen from the hall, the roof of the stairs and the stairs themselves appear to part rapidly, widening like a mouth agape. The viewer is powerless in the face of the expressive distortion and atmospheric richness of the stairway. The ceiling and two side walls form a gateway (3+1+1+1). As a “preparatory” staircase, it is a most effective archetype whose central architectural operation is the transcendance of boundaries. The staircase of the SR25 has even moved such luminaries as Jacob Burckhardt, not generally known for his predilection for Venetian architecture, to praise it, somewhat patronisingly, as being “of fortuitous arrangement and graceful decoration”.26

Stair gallery of the SdC

Upper flight of stairs of the SR

Upper flight of stairs of the SdC

ARCHITECTURAL OPERATIONS   Remarkably, our consideration of 21 sequences of surfaces and formations of rooms has revealed 21 entirely different architectural operations. This shows not only the many diverse ways in which architecture can set up relationships but also that almost identical programmatic requirements for similar clients in the same city in approximately the same historical period can still give rise to quite different architectural operations. These 21 architectural operations exist parallel to one another; they are not necessarily subordinate or superordinate. There will be more such architectural operations and even if their number may not be unlimited, it is certainly very high. Yet they can be classified into six basic options of architectural operations: the positioning of ­elements in space, the bounding, structure, shape and gesture of the elements and their inter­ relating.



The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Staircases  47

Axonometric of the staircase of the SGE

Axonometric of the staircase of the SdC

Axonometric of the staircase of the SR

48  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Schematic section of the staircase of the SR

Upper hall SGE: Mirror

Upper hall SdC: Bay and clasp

Upper hall SR: Hood

Lower hall SGE: Ring

Lower hall SdC: Ring

Lower hall SR: Basin

Archetypes of the lower and upper halls of the Scuole Grandi

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms ARCHETYPES  The number of archetypes, by contrast, that

a six-sided space can form is finite, and can be presented systematically in a diamond-shaped diagram (see p  217). Every archetype contributes its own immanent character to the design of a space: five-sided archetypes are typically sheltering, three-sided constellations directional, four-sided archetypes ambivalent, two-sided groups outward-looking, and single-sided archetypes self-referential and focussed. Surface constellations that include ceilings are typically sheltering, those with floors cause people to halt, at least more than other constellations that exclude these surfaces. Mirrored constellations of surfaces that are not seen frontally tend to stimulate movement. One cannot say that those archetypes using the greatest number of combined surfaces have the greatest effect on a space; archetypes with few combined surfaces or even with a single dominant surface can be just as powerful. The archetype alone certainly does not determine the character of a space. Its tone of colour, brightness, choice of materials, surface treatments, proportioning, internal subdivisions and surface divisions (for example in the archivio and albergo of the SdC) can strengthen, complement, weaken, or oppose the immanent character of the underlying archetype. Either way, the archetype is always present, informing the character of the space to some degree or other.



Through the study of sequences of identical boundary surfaces and of their combination in the formation of rooms, we have been able to identify a host of architectural operations. These, in turn, have led us to a number of archetypes for the formation of rooms. Now, we need to combine these two dimensions to examine sequences of rooms as a whole. Through this we can investigate the parameters that influence our perception of time and space in architecture, such as routes, thresholds, light and views. PROPORTIONS   The word proportion conjures up the

beauty and symbolism of the ratios of rational numbers or the bygone days of universally applicable aesthetic rules of “­correct” proportions. The relationships between the dimensions of individual rooms, as described earlier in the chapter on the “formation of rooms”, are certainly open to further ­interpretation. Here, however, we are interested in the effects of changes in the proportions of successive rooms. Encouraging movement (SGE): In the SGE, most of the rooms stimulate onward movement. To begin with, the low ceiling and the division of the lower hall through the row of columns down the centre mean that the space offers no place of rest for people to remain. The staircase, like all straight staircases, draws us onwards, an effect heightened by the view from

The dramaturgy of the formation of rooms – Archetypes  49

SGE

SdC

SR

Proportions and rhythms of the bounding surfaces in the upper halls of the three Scuole. The rhythms of both the adjoining and opposite surfaces are mostly offset against one another. Often this is due to the positioning of access or illumination on one long side of the hall as well as whether the altar zone is part of or separate from the design of the floor and ceiling.

­ elow of the underside of the mirrored section of the stair. b The constricting effect of the stairs, by contrast, results in making the two halls seem relatively wide despite their strong perspectival alignment towards the altar – perhaps the only contribution of the proportions to encouraging people to remain. In addition to the elongated proportions of all the rooms, and the noticeable changes in height, the strong horizontality of the wall treatment likewise stimulates onward movement. Discouraging movement (SdC): In the case of the SdC, by contrast, the proportions of the rooms serve to decelerate all movement. Both halls are only slightly elongated, the staircases grow wider during ascent and the proportions of both cabinet rooms are roughly cubical. The contrast between room width and length is not pronounced and all rooms are wider than tall. Only the upper flight of stairs, which narrows to a single line, stimulates more rapid ascent. Outshining (SR): Only once does the dramaturgy of the SR constrict width to heighten the sense of suspense, and that is in the lower flights of stairs. In all other instances, the principle of astonishment through augmentation is employed:

50  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

everything is larger than expected. The lower hall already impresses through its sheer size, not least because one does not suspect such a large space in the dense urban fabric of Venice. The height and width of the second flight of stairs likewise exceed all expectations and the single-aisle upper hall is 4 m longer and 2 m taller than the three-aisle lower hall. The albergo, too, as the endpoint, is too tall (more than 10 m) to be considered an intimate space. FIGURES OF MOVEMENT  Characteristic for all the Scuole­ is that the stairs lead directly from hall to hall, i.e. the lower hall is also a part of the route through the building. The flights of stairs are, therefore, the only channel-like pathways between spaces with suggested paths (see Types of paths, p 239).

Arcs (SGE): By making the main rooms accessible via their opposite corners, the circular path through the SGE takes the form of a long arc. The diagonal entry points force visitors to cross the entire room and therefore to physically experience its size. Based on experience, visitors generally traverse s­ paces in long arcs rather than narrow ones – provided they are not distracted or a ritual so demands. They are likely to pass through the upper hall and prayer room in a figure of eight

SGE

SdC

SR Linear nets of the paths through the three Scuole in floor plans and sections

before leaving the Scuola via a shorter path: the second flight of stairs and the atrio, which is a shortened counterpart to the foyer-like sala terrena. The mirrored staircase, as a connector between three spaces, permits this classical circular route. The provision of a shorter exit route is a logical consequence, as the lower hall is not a preparatory space but merely a transitory space after the initial excitement of passing through the septo marmoreo: it is too large and unimportant to have to pass through it a second time. The exit from the atrio also lies directly opposite the church portal so that the procession can continue directly across the campiello into the church.



Figure of eight loop (SdC): The SdC is accessible from the edge of the Campo Santa Margherita as well as from the­ ­Campo dei Carmini. After passing through the sculptural ­spatial continuum of the staircase, visitors enter the upper hall in the centre of the long wall, which is typical for all sale in the Scuole (apart from in the SGE) and for all saloni in the palazzi of the Venetian Renaissance. Spatially, it is not the best solution as one cannot take in the hall in one go, but has to look around. Most visitors make their way towards the altar, then pass along the paintings on the wall in a long arc before visiting the archivio and albergo. The suggested path on the upper floor is, therefore, a figure of eight.

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Figures of movement  51

Figure of movement in the SGE

Figure of movement in the SdC

Loops and endpoint (SR): The three-aisle structure of the lower hall illustrates the two main pathways through the halls: a processional route in a straight line in the middle aisle towards the altar or a circular route along the paintings on the walls. Most tourists seem initially attracted by the altar but then veer off half-way along into the left aisle to look at the cycle of paintings and take in the calm refinement of the long­ itudinal outside wall. After they have passed the altar, they reach the two stairs without having captured the entirety of the longitudinal inside wall. Because this happens half-way along the hall, it means that either some paintings are overlooked or others are passed twice. The pathways begin to blur.

52  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

After the threefold experience – pause, turn and introduction of the stair – visitors are plunged into the flurry of decoration and activity of the upper hall, their gaze veering from looking up into the ceiling, taking in the details of the carving, looking back into the staircase and deciphering the many points of chiaro in oscuro as they wander about the room. The albergo, by contrast, is quickly appraised from one or two viewpoints. The figures of movement in the SR are, therefore, characterised by a wavering between axis and loop in the lower hall, linear constriction in the staircase, free movement in the ­upper hall and a sense of calm in the albergo; in other words,

Figure of movement in the SR

by the following progression: optional paths – channelled paths – individual paths – place of rest. THRESHOLDS  Thresholds mark both a boundary and a

point of transition. As a simultaneously separating and connecting element, thresholds are not only ambivalent but also attract the most attention. Their effect is, therefore, correspondingly important and their possible means of expression diverse.

casions or in cold weather, by crimson curtains. This principle of openness is appropriate for sequences of rooms used not just for meetings and Eucharist mass celebrations but also for processions. The result is a spatial continuum despite the additive cellular structure of the Scuole, and the openings invite one to proceed to the next room. The openings are not simply wall reveals but are all, without exception, articulated as portals whose material qualities and elaborate surfaces underline the importance of the threshold and the act of passing from one scene to the next.

The internal connections between the halls and staircases are not closed off by doors or gates but at the most, for special oc-



The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Thresholds  53

Portal in the atrio to the staircase of the SGE

Inviting (SGE): The portals of the SGE do not appear as special “events” but as discreet, and beautifully detailed, team players that emphasise the connection rather than the division between rooms and allow the room, light and altar to play the leading role in drawing the visitor’s attention. The upper hall and staircase are connected not only spatially but also by their motifs: the outline of the very elegant, finely detailed twin windows (bifore codussiane,27 an arched window divided into two tall arched windows and a central oculus) of the staircase are echoed in the design of the entrance to the hall. Seen another way, the staircase window is an outward projection of the hall window, as evidenced by the presence of three further bifore codussiane in the upper hall. Enticing (SdC): The conspicuous and somewhat demonstrative portals in the SdC are one reason for the previously mentioned (see p 26) uneven treatment of the walls. At the same time, they frame unusual views that arouse curiosity: from the lower hall into the dynamism of the staircase, from the upper hall to the downward incline of the opulent stuccoed ceiling of the top flight of stairs, and through the cabinet rooms along the ribbon of windows glittering in the light. The

54  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Bifora codussiana (division of the window into two tall arched windows and an oculus) of the SGE

addition of two steps at the threshold to the administrative rooms of the confraternity (the cabinet rooms) lends them special standing and also delineates the boundary of the terrazzo floor of the hall as a self-contained basin. Summoning (SR): The two massive portals in the lower hall of the SR have the same dimensions as the altar. Ostentatiously, they summon us to pass through them – perhaps also because they appear to project into the room. As in the SdC, the flights of stairs and their barrel vaults lead directly into the halls without a landing, or even enough room for a portal. However, given the imposing view, a portal would have been redundant. The massive, single triumphal arch that frames the entrance from the hall side makes the three-axis altar seem small and stout by comparison, not least because its architrave sits more happily beneath the ceiling than the altar with its diminutive tympanum. The portals of the SR are neither discreet nor enticing invitations but summon us, leaving us no alternative but to pass through them.

The portal in the upper hall of the SR

Portals in the lower hall of the SR

Portals in the upper hall of the SdC



The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Thresholds  55

Altar in the upper hall of the SGE

Altar in the prayer room of the SGE

Altar in the lower hall of the SdC

Altar in the upper hall of the SdC

56  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

DESTINATION POINTS  Altars are protagonists. They de-

termine the orientation of a space and the direction of movement through it. Their design and scale, which can be hard to incorporate, also significantly influence the character of a room. Once again, the three Scuole Grandi reveal amazingly diverse ways of resolving the conflict between wall and object, i.e. between the need for a coherent enclosure to the halls and pathos-laden accentuation – or merely presentation – of the altar: Vanishing point (SR): The altar of the sala terrena of the SR is crowned with a tympanum and serves as the vanishing point of a via triumphalis. That the wall niche (aediculum) in which the statue of St. Roch stands appears to be in the distance can be attributed to the articulation of the pilasters of the altar as a suggested continuation of the perspective of the columns in the hall. The transition from the built to the suggested sense of depth is continuous (though not without a bend in the vanishing lines), not least because the final pair of columns in the hall are shorter as they support a deeper impost cap. This shortening of the columns also allows the base of the tympanum to appear higher than the capitals of the columns, so that the altar does not seem squeezed beneath the ceiling. This optical trick plays a major role in allowing the altar to command a self-assured position in the room. Forward shift (SGE): Almost all the proportions and details in the tall, elongated upper hall of the SGE underline its orientation towards the altar. In this case, however, the altar does not extend the perspective but obscures it, projecting forward of the wall into the room like a protagonist on stage. Its sculptural articulation and homogeneous marble treatment act as a counterpoint to the planar surfaces of the rest of the hall. Its appearance is further heightened by indirect light from the concealed side windows which lends it an almost haptic sense



of presence. The altar of the prayer room at the opposite end likewise projects into the room. Parallel layering (SR): The altar of the sala superiore of the SR is shifted forward as a separate, scenery-like “wall in front of the wall”. Despite the separate delineation and opulent decoration of the altar zone, it remains a slightly too high and too narrow set piece squeezed in between the rather close, tall hall windows and beneath the ceiling, its proportions awkward compared to those of the self-assured portal. Backward shift (SdC): If one treats one wall across the entire breadth of the room differently to the others, the three remaining walls form a bay orientated towards the altar wall. The upper hall of the SdC is the only one in a Scuola to fully exploit this approach. The constraints of the site and disposition of spaces made it impossible to set apart a distinct altar zone, as the entrance to the archivio had to be placed right up against the end wall. This problem is resolved through a device that is nothing short of brilliant: the placement of the altar in a “room off the main room” that is larger than a niche but smaller than an apse, making it possible to illuminate the altar from three sides so that it appears as a distinct bright entity separate from the subdued gold and pastel tones of the hall. It also provides an opportunity to establish a subtle interplay of near and far: while the four-fold perspective treatment of the portal motif through the successively smaller columns, half-columns and pilasters of the wall opening and altar surround project the altar into the distance, the bright illumination, especially of the Madonna col bambino, pulls it back into the foreground. Its light-coloured marble contrasts with the rich coloration of the wall paintings, heightening the impression of depth and distance through its pale colour, paler still than the sky of the ceiling paintings. The replications between the altar and hall set up a lively contrast and are nevertheless

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Destination points  57

Altar in the lower hall of the SR

perfectly balanced. The motif of perspective layering is already introduced in the altar of the lower hall, but the situation there does not permit the same masterly handling of light; the upper hall, in addition to providing light from the sides, also makes use of light from above falling golden into the upper “room off the main room”. COLOURS  Colour, while pure in itself, is also permanently subject to all manner of influencing factors. It is also a necessary property of all things. No other spatial or physical parameter requires such nuanced handling – comparable in its intricacies to verbalisation. One need only think of the numerous passages in Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time in which he attempts to capture the fleeting yet suggestive qualities of ­colour nuances (and not least those of Venice). While we will not attempt to compete with that (and who could, anyway?), we shall attempt to clarify the principles behind the successions of colours.

From isolated signal to dissonance (SGE): In the SGE, the warm shine of the red of the chequerboard floor in the lower hall is the only colour we see on the way to the upper hall. The upper hall, too, makes no attempt to overwhelm us with a dis-

58  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

Altar in the upper hall of the SR

play of colour but instead invites us, as in the rooms before, to analytically consider the dissonances between the different colour moods of the assemblage of surfaces. It is only from this point of view that the disparate qualities of the upper hall can be properly appreciated. Contrasts and connections (SdC): The contrast between the monochromatic grisailles in the lower hall and the three polychromic cycles of paintings in the upper hall is, in itself, a powerful arrangement. But considering also the colours of the other surfaces, one becomes aware that beneath the surface of this distinctive dualism, a second dramatic narrative is at play, in which one or two actors of each scene reappear in the next while the others leave the stage. The strong light grey-dark brown contrast of the lower hall is followed by a light grey-white-yellow triad in the staircase, which continues in the upper hall as a secondary chord around the frames while the warm colours of the paintings burst forth, only to be subsumed in turn by the brown and red of the cabinet rooms. Contrasts and transitions (SR): In the SR, pathos-laden maximum contrast dominates both the individual rooms as well as their sequence. The two large monochrome surfaces of the

lower hall – the limestone base and the timber ceiling – set up a strong light-dark contrast, between which the colours of the floor and the paintings attempt to mediate. The unbroken white of the first flight of stairs serves as a break, allowing the colourful, pixel-like intensity of the upper flight to burst forth as a rebirth of colour ex nihilo. The increasing darkening of the colours is highlighted by the contrasting gold and painted highlights before the gold of the ceiling of the albergo outshines everything. The surfaces transition from dominantly monochromatic to dominantly pixelated, from semi-matt to high gloss and from limestone-grey-umbra to colourfully embellished umbra-gold. As with the SdC, the separate scenes are always linked by a recurring actor from the scene before. SURFACES  Surfaces and the effect they have are deter-

mined by several parameters, for example their texture, shininess or subdivision. Typically, only one of these properties acts as the dramaturgical relationship of a surface to its predecessor. Subdivisions (SGE): Our consideration of the individual surfaces of the SGE has shown that with increasing size the bounding surfaces become thinner, composed of more materials, and more richly profiled and coloured. The increasing room size is not used for greater monumental effect but instead for subdividing and orchestrating the surfaces as bounding elements. Main and supporting roles (SdC): In every room of the SdC, there is at least one large and abstractly designed surface that allows the eye to rest from the other richly decorated surfaces. In the lower hall, it is the floor and ceiling, in the stairs, the walls, in the upper hall, the terrazzo floor and in the cabinet rooms, the ribbon windows. These surfaces prepare the ground for the cycles of paintings and rich stuccowork.



Enrichment (SR): In the SR, there is cause for new amazement at every turn: from the matt but carefully laid three-aisle chequerboard pattern of the lower hall to the intricate polished marble mosaic floors above, from the exposed timber beam ceiling, somewhat refined by the carved impost caps, to the gold-framed painted ceilings above, from the broad expanse of low-relief wall treatment to the rich and intricate wall modulation above. Although the progression begins at an already accomplished level, the impressive drama of the space is heightened through the means of successive enrichment of all surfaces. LIGHT  The direction, quantity and modulation of daylight

influence the atmosphere of spaces and consequently direct our attention and direction of movement. Changing light situations turn a simple route into a progression of stations, and only the gradually changing illumination of spaces over the course of the day turns a static room into an inviting space. Our eyes instinctively seek and expect balance. Soft graduations (SGE): Dancing light reflecting off the rippled surface of the Rio San Zuane Evangelista through the ­corner windows illuminates the shiny floor of the SGE, animating the diagonal passage through the otherwise sparsely lit lower hall. On the stairs, then, the subtle illumination of the landings beckons visitors upwards. In the upper hall, the two high rows of windows on either side ensure the room is evenly lit, with the tall, room-high windows in the corners providing additional illumination for the altar zone and altar. The prayer room has a warmer atmosphere due to the light reflecting off the six gilded lunette caps. In addition to the aforementioned parameters, the modulation of light in the SGE stimulates one to move onwards, rather than to remain.

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Colours, surfaces, light  59

Upper hall/altar niche in the SdC: Illumination of the altar from the side and diagonally from above

Triangle of tension (SdC): In the SdC, light is carefully orches­ trated to direct attention. In the halls, two contrasting qualities of light set up a tension between the ambient light of the meeting room and the luminous quality of the altar n ­ iches. This is achieved through the direction, intensity and colour of the light: downstairs, the ambient light of the lower hall is grey, while the niche is white; upstairs, the upper hall is white while the niche is gold and illuminated from three sides. From here, a glittering cascade of afternoon light streams in through the 1,400 crown-glass discs, drawing visitors out of the hall to the stairs and cabinet rooms. This tension between ambient light, luminosity and cascading light is employed both upstairs­and downstairs and acquires ever new nuances over the course of the day. Illumination (SR): In the SR, daylight is provided conventionally by a series of regularly spaced window openings. In

60  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

the staircase this functions well, illuminating the paintings on the walls and ceiling from the side. But in the upper hall, the windows need to be screened with curtains – not just to ­protect the paintings opposite from fading but also to prevent glare when viewing the paintings between them. The semi-darkness of the hall, however, also increases the hall’s sense of wonder, as the blurring of the room boundaries makes it impossible to appraise it in one go. Instead, one has an impression of how the hall must have looked like in the flickering light of candles and torches: the chiaroscuro of ­Tintoretto’s imagined spaces is manifested in the actual room. VIEWS  The composition of successive views involves not only guiding people’s direction of view but also giving order to different kinds of views. Although the Scuole offer few opportunities for overviews or downward views, as they are com-

Altar niche in the SdC: The light is coloured by the gilded ceiling

prised of separate single-storey cells, they do reveal numerous ways of developing a dramatic progression of views. Diagonal entrance view and eye-catcher (SGE): Even when the first glimpse we catch of a space is “incidental” and does not reveal much, the fuller picture only becoming apparent later, all the views that follow relate to this first view. In the SGE, however, the opening view is the one that reveals all and offers an overview, showing us the entire room while also placing the eye-catcher in centre stage. In both halls, visitors enter from one corner and are drawn towards a slot of light in the far corner (in the upper hall, this directs attention even further towards the altar). In the staircase, the long view has no endpoint, because the stairs are mirrored on the far side. In this way, by only three views from three positions, we can grasp the full extents of the building, its rooms and focal points! On our way from the entrance view to the focal point,



we delight in, and even lose ourselves in, the patterning of the floor or the capitals of the columns in the lower hall, the bends in the barrel vault and delicate cornices in the staircase, or the three-dimensionality of the floor pattern and structure of the walls in the upper hall. But the blunt directness and panoramic breadth of the initial view of each room serves to frame and gather all subsequent views. From frontal view to spherical views (SdC): The altar in the SdC is presented in frontal view on entering the room. Only the portal, visible in the periphery of vision, distracts from the frontal view, inviting the eye to peruse the extensive grisailles around the room before returning to the diagonal view up the stairs, beneath the vaulted ceiling to the dancing light of the landing window. In the upper hall, the views measure the space, passing back and forth between the walls and the ceiling and back to the altar. The paintings on the ceiling, like-

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Views  61

Archivio in the SdC: Part of the ten-axis ribbon window

wise, stimulate movement, their viewpoints distributed around the room. The terrazzo floor, on the other hand, forms a calm backdrop. In the two cabinet rooms, the views finally become truly spherical as the six sides of the rooms compete for attention with similarly strong stimuli that have only limited relation to one another. The views therefore become increasingly three-dimensional as one progresses through the building. Fragmentary glimpses culminating in a frontal view (SR): The visual mise-en-scène of the lower hall of the SR is based on the dramatic tension between the straight view along the via triumphalis down the centre of the hall, and the rhythmic, fragmentary side views between the columns. After the channelled view of the lower flight of stairs, one needs a moment on turning the corner of the landing to take in the new situation in a long, expansive view: the stairs lead one’s gaze upwards to the upper hall ceiling in the distance, then back to beneath the dome, the barrel vault and the side walls of the

62  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

stairs to where one stands. Progressing axially upwards after this first exploratory view, one’s gaze races rapidly around the sala superiore in all directions in an attempt to make sense of the immense interior. While all six surfaces of the rectangular space clamour for attention, it is the extraordinary ceiling that commands our gaze most. We survey the ceiling in spherical fashion, never settling for long in the axes parallel to the room’s edges. The albergo, by contrast, emphatically holds our gaze in a frontal view of the room-wide crucifixion scene. The floor, with its opus sectile of a mirrored dome, and the ceiling, flaunting its golden surface, do not hold back in the slightest, but the three orthogonal axes of the room coincide in the ­centre of the room, where the visitor stands and takes in the entire scene, lending the room a sense of balance. ATMOSPHERES  “The primary ‘object’ of perception is atmospheres. What is first and immediately perceived is neither sensations nor shapes or objects or their constellations, as ­gestalt psychology thought, but atmospheres, against whose

background the analytic regard distinguishes such things as objects, forms, colours, etc.”,28 argues Gernot Böhme in his seminal book The Aesthetics of Atmospheres. Atmospheres, he says, are not conjured from thin air. Atmospheres fill spaces but emanate from things, constellations of things, and persons.29 Janson and Tigges30 take Böhme’s ideas a step further: atmospheres are determined by the impression a space makes on us when we first see it, by the sensory qualities of its surfaces, by the mood it conjures within us through the combination of all permanent or transitory elements and people that contribute to it, and by the symbolic resonance of what we perceive with our senses. If we consider these parameters objectively, it is only the sensory quality of the surfaces that remains unchanged in the current context of the Scuole as museums. All other qualities no longer take full effect, due in part to the buildings’ new function, or – as is the case with their symbolic meanings – because these can only be made apparent with additional study due to today’s changed educational background. For this reason, we will only briefly consider the atmospheric qualities; the sensory qualities of surfaces have already been detailed above. In the SGE, the atmosphere changes after its ceremonial beginnings (the septo marmoreo) from sober (sala terrena) to discreetly noble (scalone) to mostly but inconsistently cool (sala superiore) and mostly but inconsistently warm (oratorio). In the first rooms, the atmosphere permeates them almost uniformly, regardless of where one is, whereas in the last two rooms the differing characters of the bounding surfaces make the atmosphere change markedly depending on viewpoints and directions. In the SdC, the mood changes from the intimacy of the sala terrena, which wavers between oppression (predominantly the room surfaces) and delight (predominantly the painted



areas), via jubilant, undulating, dazzling rhythms dissipating in all directions (scalone) to the cheerful harmony (sala superiore) and finally deep-seated restfulness of the cabinet rooms. The SR begins with measured ceremony (lower hall), then proceeds as sober restraint (lower flight of stairs) before switching to the enthusiastic (upper flight of stairs) and then demonic (upper hall), finally concluding with tragic pathos (albergo). In a nutshell, one could say that the SGE attracts attention, the SdC seduces us with its charm, and the SR overwhelms us. One can hardly imagine more diverse affective and atmospheric impressions within buildings of the same type and age. DRAMATIC ARCS  The peaks and deflections of the “cardio­ grams” shown here do not denote the aesthetic value of the respective bounding surfaces but rather the degree of attention they command. Their primary message, as evidenced throughout our discussions, is that even in the finality type of drama (for this typology see p 212), to which the Scuole with their sale superiore certainly belong, not all bounding surfaces work in unison, instead developing their own voices and dramatic narratives somewhat independently of each other. The differences in their narratives are not so much a matter of chance or attributable to the complexities of the building works, but rather an at times surreptitious, at times ostentatious means of balancing and measuring the intensity of ­attention-grabbing events. By distributing theses intensities across different representatives, they appeal to different capacities among the beholders, and stimulate different responses. Such dramatic arcs may have one, two or three high points, which may follow each other with interruptions, or build on each other; the dramatic arc may be a careful balancing act, a sudden rise, or offer repeated opportunities to catch

The dramaturgy of sequences of rooms – Atmospheres, dramatic arcs  63

Vectorworks Educational Version

Floors

Walls

Ceilings

Overall impression

captivated Threshold of self-control engaging moving palpable Threshold of attention subliminal

A. Septo Campiello

Sala terrena

Scalone

Sala superiore

Oratorio

Scalone

Atrio

Campiello

Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista (SGE)

captivated Threshold of self-control engaging moving palpable Threshold of attention subliminal

Sala terrena

Scalone

Sala superiore

Archivio

Albergo

Scalone

Scuola dei Carmini (SdC)

captivated Threshold of self-control engaging moving palpable Threshold of attention subliminal Sala terrena

Sca. 1 Scalone 2

Sala superiore

Alb. Scalone 2

Sca. 1 Sala terrena

Scuola di San Rocco (SR)

Diagrams of the dramatic of the Scuole, showing the for the different surfaces Verlauf der arcs Spannungsbögen in intensities den Scuole, dargestelltbounding nach Wirkungsgraden und

differenziert

für

die

unterschiedlichen

Raumabschlüsse

64  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space Vectorworks Educational Version

Corridoio

one’s breath. All the parameters mentioned above may be visualized in such “cardiograms”: light, views, colours. Any one of these would suffice to debunk the schoolbook theory of a universal plot pyramid. What such diagrams do not indicate, however, are the degrees and qualities of meaning supported by the individual dramatic arc.

The dramaturgy of spatial configurations Whether we find a quality of light not just pleasant but also meaningful, and whether an atmosphere resonates with us or we try to shake it off, also depends on the context we experience it in, i.e. in which framework, in which succession and at what moment in time. Ultimately, all sensory perceptions need a meaningful role to play in a given “process”, as Hans Scharoun called it;31 they need to make sense, to carry an idea. All endeavours to orchestrate a dramatic composition of space culminate in communicating a conceptual idea through the means of sensory experiences. In our effort to understand the dramaturgy of space of a building, it is not a striking expression of the iconography or social function that we seek in it – not least because museum buildings as testimonies of bygone times diverge from our present-day understanding – but a sense of conceptual coherence to what we experience with our senses, first and foremost visually. In the previous sections, we have approached this goal by seeking to identify clear architectural operations. Now we need to weigh up how these operations act together and how they contribute to communicating a coherent overall idea for a configuration of spaces – whether intentionally or not.



absence of archetypes of shelter, indicate that the focus of this building is less about indulging the senses than stimulating reflection.32 The large number of points of attraction compared with places of rest, as well as the marked contrasts in height rather than width and the strong directionality of the rooms all encourage onward movement – which, due to the corner placement of entrances and exits takes the form of long arcs of movement across the rooms, avoiding a restless back and forth. The careful control and clear direction of views is outstanding. Instead of imposing portals and exquisite materials, the Scuola employs sparse colour signals, soft light modulation and inviting portals to ensure the pace does not slow to a halt because of the retarding moment of passing through the marble wall into the first main space. The orchestration and permeability of the thin wall surfaces, which have their counterpart in the thick walls of the lower hall and the mass of the altar obscuring the vanishing point, is most apparent in the backdrop-like quality of the marble wall and the wall separating the two upper halls which, like double exposures or artificial ruins, embody different worlds on a single plane – inside and outside, completion and fragment, process and standstill. The backdrop wall and the separating wall are not the only such instances: the tenuous connection between adjacent bounding surfaces of the upper hall – which separate into three opposite pairs, the end wall separated at the corners by the tall window slots – is a further example of this spatial dramaturgy of fragility. Its dramaturgy of space experiments with breaking up the box, with the Promenade architecturale and the visual contraction of different qualities long before such concepts had a name. Its daring, inspirational qualities can only now be properly appreciated.

SCUOLA DI SAN GIOVANNI EVANGELISTA: FRAGILITY 

SCUOLA DEI CARMINI: SPATIAL CONTINUA  The spa-

The architectural operations of combination, dissolution, contrasting, punctuation and mirroring in the SGE, as well as the

tial drama of the SdC is characterised by the tension between two spatial continua: the vaulted landscape of the stairs and the

The dramaturgy of spatial configurations  65

two cabinet rooms connected by the ribbon windows on one side and the two halls on the other. The relationship between these two groups of rooms is neither antipodal nor dialectic; instead they are interwoven in their design in several ways. Their interrelationships, quality and sheer intensity render the typical differentiation in serving and served spaces obsolete. Also interwoven are the various lines of dramaturgical narrative. We see numerous examples of horizontal sequences and variations, dramatic arcs and triangles of tension, as well as finality-oriented escalation or wavy lines of approximation. Many of these features are similarly prominent so that we cannot identify one dominant principle – or maybe the polyphonic weave of dramaturgical narratives is in itself the dominant principle, as these lines do not cancel one another out but instead allow one or the other to rise to the fore in the respective situation. In the lower hall, it is the grisailles; in the stairs, the vaulting; in the upper hall, the ceiling paintings and duotonality of the light; and in the cabinet rooms, their rustic character. The SdC is not a strictly hierarchical building but rather an open work of art whose various episodes can be strung together in ever new ways, shifting the focus on different aspects. This game really comes alive and becomes plausible through the play of light: its filtering, form and colour as it changes over the course of the day, eventually transforming the dualities of the groups of rooms into a triangulated relationship. SCUOLA DI SAN ROCCO: COMPLEMENTARITY The spatial dramaturgy of the SR demonstrates, with striking clarity, the principle of linear intensification. As discussed above, it employs the means of augmentation, refinement, enrichment, brilliance, heightened contrast, division of surfaces and an unfettered use of the fictive – to name but a few – to maximum effect.

66  Basic principles of the dramaturgy of space

The drama of its interiors is overwhelming, not least because what comes is not immediately apparent but is disguised by four “ruses”. To begin with, the lower hall is so monumental and self-contained that uninitiated visitors may mistake it for the actual destination; it offers an appearance of finality. Secondly, the sober neutrality of the lower flight of stairs heightens the sense of uncertainty. Thirdly, the abruptness with which the situation changes when one least expects it, turning the corner of the stair landing between the two halls. And fourthly, the apparent madness of the dome and horizontal barrel vault that extends over the slanted floor of the expressively distorted upper flight of stair. Ultimately it is the visual deformation of the staircase that motivates the profusion of the upper hall and, beyond it, the final chord of the albergo. The drama is heightened further by the way in which the two halls relate to one another. The lower hall is a light-coloured, enclosed and tall space with a dark-coloured ceiling, in the archetypal terminology a basin, while the upper hall is a dark, sheltering hood over a light-coloured floor. In terms of their orientation and lightness, the two halls are inverted mirror images of each other. The complementarity of the archetypes basin and hood is the primary space-defining framework for the other important inversion of the Scuola: inverting the incorporation of fiction in reality into the incorporation of reality in fiction. The contrasting character of the two halls follows this principle: the unassuming rationality of the lower hall and the unrestrained rapture of the upper hall. To avoid weakening this complementarity, the unity of the staircase is broken into two: the lower flight as a neutral space, the upper flight as an extension of the upper hall. The individual operations accentuation, inversion, flow, upward alignment and enveloping, as well as the archetypes basin, tunnel, portal, hood and mirror, all contribute to complementarity as the dominant dramaturgical principle of this Scuola.

As meaningful as the different architectural operations, archetypes, dramaturgical parameters and ideas we have identified may seem, they relate here only to this building type, which is oriented towards a single destination, in this case a meeting hall, or a single point in a room, the altar. The orient­ ation of a progression of spaces towards a final destination is just one possible configuration of a dramaturgy of space, as we will see in Part Three.



The dramaturgy of spatial configurations  67

PART 2

Dramaturgical models “One has a feeling it will come to this: that the two leading protagonists will have their great finale. And then when it does finally come, the finale, it feels ever so slightly insulting to the intellect, because one would have liked to expect a little more of the film than one actually expected. Then again: can anything be more dramatic than a fantastically supercharged showdown?”33 Christof Kneer, Süddeutsche Zeitung

Introduction

Scenes

Before we attempt to trace evidence of spatial dramaturgy in architecture theory, let us first consider the arts in which dramaturgy has always­ played a central role: in music, theatre, cinema and performance.

Dramaturgy is the linking together of scenes. Scenes are entities excerpted from the amorphous flow of time and the amorphous bounds of space that focus attention, establish expectations or evoke memories. They introduce, extract or remix topics or things that we would other­wise overlook had they not been framed in a scene. As works of architecture are highly complex multimedial compositions that operate through synaesthetic dramaturgies and many different protagonists that compete for the visitor’s attention, we shall first examine the potential of scenes through selected solo appearances of individual components. Contemporary art offers many opportunities for solo appearances as “overcoming automatic patterns of perception has become a key criterion of aesthetic significance in modernism,”35 and solo appearances are particularly good at sidestepping our automatic responses. In Ryan Gander’s installation I need some meaning I can memorise (The invisible pull), made for the documenta 13 in 2012, a slight breeze – which one  initially disregards as a draught but is actually artificially generated – passes through an empty exhibition space. In

Art wants attention. To achieve this, it must either partially fulfil or exceed the expectations we have of it, or else partially ignore, disappoint or divert them. Our expectations, however, are for the most part subconscious, unclear and frequently conflicting, often right up until the last minute – always holding out for “a little bit more”, or wanting things “a little bit different”, but also “just like that”. As such, the commentary above of the penalty shootout at the end of a ­Germany–Italy football match more or less mirrors our inner condition. Thankfully, with each new experience, our personal and also collective horizon of expectation shifts, and in response also the strategies used by artists and designers to attract attention. No solution works forever, and even Hollywood has a healthy respect for the unpredictability of top or flop.34

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Anthony McCall’s Five Minutes of Pure Sculpture, moving rays of light create spatial figures within contourless darkness, and in Wolfgang Georgsdorf’s “Osmodramas”, an olfactory organ entitled Smeller 2.0 projects scents into a space according to a script. Such light, air or olfactory dramas target and pinpoint sensory responses that we rarely notice in the mixed noise of the everyday world. They turn an initial empty, intangible and somewhat puzzling moment into a conscious and pleasurable reflective reaction.

simplistic by the avant-garde – in which scenes make statements, elaborate positions or establish tensions as the expression of an intention. Instead they prefer to raise questions, facilitate communication or sow doubt. They address the five senses and our perception, or the body and its gestural expression, call roles or situations into question or reveal the production or manifestations of space or time. In all these cases, the recipient must engage with the scene to give it meaning.

Space, its boundaries, and the ways in which it can be activated (as discussed in Part One) can likewise be the subject of performances – one need only think of Bruce Nauman’s video performances and room installations. In live performances and “integrative staging” (as coined by Paul Divjak), the boundaries between the performer and recipient are eroded: “Integrative staging draws attention to spaces and objects and their potential for immersion. […] What […] takes shape are […] spaces that offer opportunities for encounters and collective creation in ­laboratory-like situations. The principal means of integrative staging are irritation – opening – movement. […] Integrative staging aims to deconstruct the ‘refined forms of meta-communication (framing, status differences, control of relationships, institutionalisation)’ (Baecker36). Evoking unease, for example, […] can be seen as a means of combating individual and social ­alienation […] The bringing together of sensory presence and discussion is a primary characteristic of the hybrid living spaces that integrative staging creates.”37 While one must also concede and consider that such “interdisciplinary experimental spaces for social utopias”38 cannot entirely transcend the immanent boundaries of a staged performance – after all, the originator of the idea or organiser always assigns the roles and sets the framework for action – this does not invalidate the innovative approach or intended effect.

The term “postdramatic”, coined by the drama theorist Hans-Thies Lehmann, has come to stand for a range of new dramatic concepts that have emerged since the 1970s. What they have in common is not just a rejection of the classical, plot-centred drama and its absolute form (i.e. self-contained theatrical world), finality (i.e. striving towards the solution of a conflict) and predominantly dialogue-driven narrative,40 but also the radical functional liberation, i.e. independence of all performative parameters. As a consequence, these parameters themselves become the focus of attention, or are alternatively linked to one another in new ways. But post­ dramatic does not mean postdramaturgical: everything has dramaturgical qualities because everything has a temporal component.

Most of the scenes mentioned up to now have a clear beginning and end, but that is not always the case: scenes can superimpose or interweave different periods of time, or may appear to loop infinitely and/or have no apparent purpose. For many people, such scenes are disconcerting39 as they do not correspond to the conventional format of classical dramas – now regarded as overly

Scenes are often tied to a specific location: how they use, reveal, subvert, or transform their concrete location is part of the performance. Where they do not relate to a specific place, such as in video performances, they are more frequently found in museums rather than in cinemas or theatres, due to the greater freedom they offer to spectators, who can move on to the next, perhaps even more stimulating art installation, and from there to the café, toilets or shops. Art happenings, especially, frequently dissipate into informal art talks. As Frank den Oudsten succinctly puts it: “The scenographer has space, the spectators have time.”41 But what if spectators have time but would rather transfer the task of giving it shape to others – even if out of convenience and even if it means limiting their freedom of movement? In such cases, spectators are better served by theatres or concert halls where the artist takes on a more active dramaturgical role, determining the order and rhythm in which scenes appear.

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Instrumental music in its pure form is another of the many variants of solo appearances, and no other art form has had such early and such great dramaturgical success than the production of sound for its own sake. While music also serves all manner of purposes in all manner of situations, it is remarkable that since the 16th century, spaces were created and time set aside for nothing more than making music and listening to it. This early protagonist of the performative arts quickly became “autonomous” (albeit in face of considerable resistance and reservations) and also liberated itself from its illustrative role alongside a text, becoming “absolute”. What makes it so special?

The drama of sound Music is “sounding form in motion”,42 semantically indeterminate and yet as “spiritualised form” a source of unbelievable pleasure. To transport a listener into a state of rapture, a composer must employ all his or her intellect: the precise measure of tension and release is so important in music because in its absolute form43 it is nothing more than this. Our experience of ­music is therefore especially instructive for spatial dramaturgy. Dramaturgical intentions and intuitions have crystallised into musical forms. These are not rigid, given norms that dictate the course of ­music but rather tendencies, or “leanings”, that inform the calculated direction of a composition. At the same time, every dramaturgical intention seeks an appropriate musical form. The specific composition can resist or underline a form, but not ignore it. Here we shall examine several musical forms with respect to their dramaturgical tendencies. These tendencies affect all genres, all levels of scale (tone progressions, periods, themes, groups, sections, movements, sequences of move­ments and programmes) and all parameters (pitches, tone durations, dynamics, timbre, tone locations). We shall consider these by looking at several movement forms, i.e. at the macro structure in which the succession of tension and release is particularly legible.

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(A) SIMPLE SONG FORM: MEMORABLE TIME  After humming a melody absent-mindedly for a while, we reach a point at which it feels aimless and baseless, in need of a new form, dir­ection or recognisable quality. People from a western ­cultural background are likely to intuitively give it a “classical” eight-bar form, beginning and ending with a tonic and reaching the dominant in the middle or shortly before the end. We might even let it take the form of four one-bar phrases that recur in succession, with the first rising slightly, the second more emphatic but sustained, the third tumbling again quickly and the fourth ending full and sonorous. The result would correspond to Frère Jacques,44 an example of the simple song form that presents a small dramatic arc on a stable ground that spans from fixed beginning and end points and gives time a clear and memorable form. (A+A+A+A…) CANON: CYCLICAL TIME  If we arrange mu-

sical cells not just horizontally but also diagonally in several voices, the result is a canon. The canon is an interwoven musical form in which the lines of melodies run into and overlap one another resulting in something slightly unstable, not entirely controllable but nevertheless immediately registrable that evokes a sense of increasingly dizzying excitement. As such, it serves as a popular parlour game. As canons can effectively be repeated ad infinitum, their tension starts to diminish after the first few cycles, and they are therefore frequently kept short. It is a classic musical example of the “law of diminishing returns”, in which, according to the scriptwriter Robert McKee, the desired effect quickly wears off when repeated too frequently.45 (A) CANTUS FIRMUS: FLOWING TIME We could, however, also sing a melody and call in three other voices to accompany us with tones that follow a less prominent theme. The result is a Cantus firmus, or fixed song. In the Renaissance, assigning the lead voice to the sonorous tenor gave the composition vertical symmetry and transparency, allowing the accompanying voices to lie both above and below the main ­flowing chant. This pleasing plasticity of foreground and background, of clearly articulated axis and muted accompaniment, of constancy

and variance can be continued for a considerable length of time without necessarily requiring the aid of an overarching development.

“countersubjects” that run counter to the main theme can develop thematic expositions of their own, resulting in so-called double, triple or even quadruple fugues.

(A+A+A+A…) MINIMAL MUSIC: SUSPENDED TIME  If we repeat the same motif seemingly endlessly in succession, we create a datum that ideally allows us to become aware of the space within and around us. The uniformity of the pattern causes us to forget time. In this even-tempered space, slight shifts in tone or register can be used not to  set contrasts or initiate developments but to effect­subtle variations in mood. Such variations reinforce the sense of unchanging continuation even more than the underlying motif, and we are so at one with ourselves and the space that any slight variations cannot distract us from our state of trance-like immersion. Examples of this include the endless twirls of dervish dancers or the 25-minute piece Four Movements for Two ­Pianos by Philip Glass. The strongest motivation for this form is a heightened sense of ecstatic awareness of the self that transcends the categories of tension and relaxation. (A+A+A+A…) PASSACAGLIA: STRIDING TIME  The trance-­ inducing technique of emphatic repetition can also be used as an underlying motif by shifting it to a bass tone. The result is a passacaglia. It provides a common bassline over which we can apply other varying voices without the composition falling apart. The insistence with which the ostinato beats its path through the most rugged of musical landscapes can be compelling and even frightening, as in the final movement of ­Johannes Brahms’s Symphony No. 4 or in the music of horror films. But the bass-­ostinato is also commonly found in a much more relaxed form in many variants of jazz and pop music. (A+A+A+A… (+B+C+D)) FUGUE: DIRECTIONAL TIME  The only truly­ cumulative and, as such, most single-minded musical form is the fugue. It begins as a single voice and intensifies and develops continually according to different voice-leading rules until it reaches a usually dramatic (or in Baroque terminology: rhetorical) climax shortly before the end, which is then often only resolved by a rapidly descending, polyphony-equalising cadence. Fugues usually have three or four voices. The



(A–B) FANTASY: UNRESOLVED TIME  A satisfy-

ing resolution is easier to achieve when tension has already been built up. The simplest means of doing this is through contrast. But simply placing a B after an A and then stopping is unsatisfactory as the second part replaces or trumps the first. A dual scheme is most suitable for uneven constructions with an introductory and main section, or for narratives such as “darkness and salvation”, “foreboding and certainty”, “calm sea and prosperous voyage”, and so on. Mozart uses this in his Fantasy in D minor for piano to dispel the initial melancholy with a light-hearted D ­major. The gloom cannot be entirely shaken as A is only displaced but not framed. The A–B pattern, due to its inherent temporal directionality and lack of circularity, has something fragmentary, capricious and even forceful about it in the realm of music (unlike in fiction) and is, as such, a favourite device of Romanticists and Modernists, who frequently prefer open ends. (A–B–A) THREE-PART SONG FORM: BALANCED TIME  Adding an A to the end of the previous

A–B pattern lends this musical form greater stability. Not only does it afford the pleasure of the switch of motifs but also the conciliatory ending of revisiting the initial motif. All minuets are composed according to this scheme, with the middle section often less lively to relieve tension46­ and allow the dancers to catch their breath. The dramatic arc rarely exceeds that of the beginning section, and there are few transitions ­between the contrasting sections or surprising developments, at most a crescendo with increase in tempo, modulation or greater dynamics towards the end. The A–B–A scheme is a simple approach to reconciling directional time with cyclical time and offers a satisfying sense of ­closure. (A–B–A–C–A–D–A–…) RONDO: RECURRING TIME  If we have ideas

not just for an A and a B but also for a C, a D and an E, we can use A as a recurring refrain to ­address later sections of the piece without disorientating the listener. To find a satisfying conclu-

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sion to such round-dance structures requires considerable talent or a final section that comes in at the end to round off the pattern. (A–A’–A’’) SONATA FORM: INTENSIVE AND EXTENSIVE TIME  The ingenious balance between

directional and cyclical time presented by the A–B–A scheme can be combined with a longerterm dramatic arc by placing the emphasis not, or not solely, on the end, but on the middle. This is what the classical sonata form does, often spanning the dramatic arc to its very limits. An astonishing variety of compositional techniques for all scales and parameters can bring forth surprisingly elastic textural forms: the themes, for example, contrast not just with each other but also in themselves; contrasts can be made smoother through the use of transitions and synthesis, or deliberately jarring; and particles of themes may peel off and develop in their own right. Through this development of themes and motifs, dualism becomes a dialectic: The Baroque­­contrasting of emotional states is replaced by nuanced, developing feelings with an uncertain outcome. The reprise, for example, is no longer necessarily a repetition of the exposition but a selection and restructuring of the material of the exposition. Given its developing forms and affective character, Charles Rosen rightly terms the classical sonata style as the “dramatic style”,47 and Theodor W. Adorno speaks, with ­regard to the music of Beethoven, of the inter­ locking of “intensive” – accelerating, unifying, finality-oriented – and “extensive” – decelerating, meandering and reflexive, lingering – temporal types.48 That the high art of balancing these sections in extended large organisms has not been lost with the wane of the classical sonata form but remains as topical as ever today can be seen in the work of the young composer Enno Poppe, most notably the 75-minute-long piece Speicher (2008–2013). (X IN A–A’–A’’) PRIMORDIAL CELL: STRUCTURED TIME  The dictum that a work of art should be motivated and not arbitrary, and that it should be legible as such, led, in part through experimentation and in part in response to this dictum, to the idea of developing the typical heterogeneity of the “listening surface” in a longer passage from a single underlying “primordial cell”. The cell de-

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termines nothing but motivates everything, and the listener senses the relationships that underlie the seemingly heterogeneous surface without consciously understanding them. Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 (based on a four-note motif) and his Hammerklavier Sonata (based on a descending third) were developed from such primordial cells.49 Ultimately the primordial cell as a large form motivates the scaling of itself: structure ­becomes form, and form structure. (X) SERIALISM: TIME MANIFEST IN SPACE 

From the beginning of the 20th century onwards, the fatigue with the success of classical-romantic dramatic arcs gave rise to a renewed interest in isolated moments that were in themselves sufficiently beautiful and surprising in appearance. While the free-tonal music of Arnold Schönberg was still very much rooted in the principle of ­development, for many listeners its most compelling moments are in its small form: the floating, nebulous, non-cadential form of the open ends are just as magical as the solidified sounds ­within the often nervously overwrought strands of development are shocking. As a consequence, these tendencies lead away from becoming and on to being: “They (the serial techniques of Messiaen, Boulez, Stockhausen, Goeyvaerts and others) were interested in sound as being and not as function, i.e. as the now rather than as a mediation in time.”50 Every individual tone should reveal its own intrinsic value with which it informs space. An individual tone can do that at specific points, as in many, often quite different works from the 1950s,51 or it can lay down several lines parallel to one another, as in many works by Morton Feldman; or it can distribute sound sources about the room to shape the space from several directions and subvert the frontal relationship between musician and listener – to mention but a few possibilities. Time, however, will never quite become space, and both remain dependent on one another, also in serial music, as “the serially organised notes do not just stand alone for themselves but are played in an order, one after the other, even though they appear as if they have been stripped of all temporal direction.”52 While serial and other classic avant-­ garde works are permeated by “breaks”, albeit measured precisely in microseconds, these too are part of a common temporal continuum. In other words: X tends towards A.

(E.G. AABXDCBXYD) ALEATORIC:

INDETERMINATE

TIME 

Whether a composer determines the form of a work using “random”, non-causal and perhaps entirely external criteria, or whether a work takes on a different form with every new performance because the artists contribute to it, e.g. by choosing the order of sections (as in Pierre Boulez’ 3rd Piano Sonata), or because the noises of the audience form part of the performance (as in John Cage’s 4‘33“), depends on the degree to which the composer is open to chance and indeterminacy without allowing the piece to degenerate into a completely arbitrary, non-recognisable form in which anything goes, and which risks ultimately negating the work itself. Chance and indeterminacy are by no means entirely new phenomena in music, as well into the 18th century every opera group created their own anthology from several works of a composer for the evening. Likewise, Mozart’s three-movement ­piano concertos were not originally the “closed works” we know today: if one transposed them into different keys, one could and indeed did combine them differently as desired. (In light of current performative practice, several “closed” works have since been opened up to give them context and to improve critical reception.53) However, only with the use of aleatoric techniques did chance and indeterminacy become constituent means of composition. Even this highly abbreviated consideration of musical arrangements and developing forms reveals an astonishing picture of the rich means of shaping the experience of time. Whether architecture merely has a temporal component or whether it can be considered a temporal art – an art that shapes the experience of time – will depend on whether it can offer a similarly rich range of means of shaping time as music.

Theatrical and ­cinematic devices Spoken dramas are more semantic than tonal dramas. The spoken word can be experienced in an isolated, disembodied form in a radio play, as a reading presented in person, or more physically as a theatre play. In classical dramas, other means and effects are brought into play but largely to help transport the spoken word. Many techniques used in classical plot-centred  dramas, and in film, have been in use for so long that we take them for granted and therefore tend to overlook their optional and manipulative essence.Therefore, it is worth taking a closer look at even the simplest means of setting an agenda. THEATRICAL DEVICES  The key terms and main ideas discussed in this section draw loosely on the work of Manfred Pfister in his seminal book The Theory and Analysis of Drama.54

Segmentation in scenes: Almost all dramas of reasonable length divide their narrative into scenes. Scene changes characterise, motivate and interpret changes in time and place, between persons or levels of speech – and at the same time invariably refocus our attention. Their length, rhythm and the kind of scenes inform the character and effect of the drama. Strong contrasts between scenes are characteristic for Shakespearean dramas, while the “endless ­melody” of Wagner’s musical dramas causes the scenes to run together into one another. The concept of liaison des scènes, on the other hand, links together scenes by including at least one character from a scene in the following scene, as seen, for example, in classical French dramas such as Racine’s Phaedra. Sequential combination of scenes: For better comprehension and not least for technical, ­financial and organisational reasons (i.e. set changes), theatre productions typically exhibit a chronological structure. The retrospective “playwithin-the-play” (as in Shakespeare’s Hamlet) or the forward-looking “dream inset” are longstanding exceptions to this rule, and are therefore immediately understandable. Selection and narrative mediation: It is the ­producers of dramas who choose what will be presented in a scene or communicated just as



Theatrical and ­cinematic devices  75

spoken narrative. In the Grand Opéra of the 19th century, acts frequently ended with a spectacular crowd scene (closing tableau), but in a bourgeois tragedy the opposite is the case, with the inner conflicts of the figures being played out in dialogue. Typical ways of informing us of events that have happened off-stage include the messenger’s report, a report disguised as an interrogation or the view from the wall (teichoscopy) in which an actor describes what is happening ­behind the stage. Successive transmission of information and discrepant awareness: The audience often knows more than the figures on stage, as these are not party to every scene. This advance information heightens our sense of anticipation (“Will he fall for the trap?”), increases our sense of empathy (“If only I could warn him…”) or of Schadenfreude (“He’ll get his comeuppance…”). False information can likewise be used to deliberately mislead the audience (to their later delight) by offering only apparent advance informa­ tion. And partial information, while sometimes frustrating, encourages the audience to reflect more actively on the motives behind the figures’ actions. Perspectivation: The act of selection already establishes a perspective on the action to be seen, and almost every transmission of information likewise conveys a perspective: the author communicates his or her view of things through the figures, or else camouflages, conceals, questions, debates and alters it. Episodes: Strewn into the drama as apparently isolated incidents, they can distract, establish reflexive distance, lead us in another direction, provide a breather or, as seen especially in dramas that only come together right at the end, further heighten suspense through their apparently innocent appearance shortly before the ­final resolution. Direct appeal: Spectators, on the whole, willingly immerse themselves in the actions on stage, but from time to time the figures can appeal directly to the audience themselves. In monologues (in which the figure apparently only talks to itself) or in brief asides within a dialogue, a figure turns to the audience to enlist them as an accomplice (as seen, for example, in Shake-

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speare’s Richard III or Frank Underwood in the political thriller TV series House of Cards). Alongside such direct appeals within the inner communication system of the drama, there are also external communication methods such as prologues, epilogues or interludes. When actors “step out of their role”, the “external communication system”55 between action and audience breaks into the internal system: the suspension of the ideal unity of character and performer forces the spectator to step back and reflect, and from here it is only a short step to questioning the audience and encouraging the audience to improvise and engage with the action as co-­ performers. CINEMATIC DEVICES  In film, the repertoire

of available devices shifts considerably because the stage becomes a wall and spatial depth is flattened onto a screen. Not only time but also the protagonists, space, light and sound are represented through a medium. The resulting shifts affect four key aspects: Mediated perspective: In film, the eye of the camera is always between ourselves and the action taking place. It directs our view even more rigidly than the proscenium stage does, but also mobilises us, metaphorically speaking, to adopt different distances to what we see, for example for a panorama, long shot, tracking shot, panning shot, vignette, zoom or close-up. Changes between different scenes can be effected as sudden jump cuts, as seamless switches (so-called match cuts – in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest of 1959, Roger Thornhill’s rescuing hand draws Eve Kendall from the steep face of Mount Rushmore directly into the sleeper car couchette), smooth transitions, wipe cuts, split screens, fade-ins and fade-outs. Montage: Montage stems originally from circus performances and big-city variété theatre but in film this “mise-en-chaine”56 is not an option but an obligation, as Sergei Eisenstein argued convincingly: it is necessary not just for mechanical reasons (the maximum length of a film reel) or for informative (where is something?) or associative (a close-up of a hand brandishing a knife and a terror-struck expression denote a murder) reasons but also to have emotional effect: “We convinced ourselves that a change in camera position is the most compelling element of film. It

is very easy to present a murder on stage […] but to show the same murder on screen in an uninterrupted scene impresses no-one.”57 For the 45-second murder scene in the shower in Psycho (1960), Alfred Hitchcock employed some 78 different camera angles.58 In terms of Gilles ­ Deleuze’s taxonomy of montage techniques, he identifies a range of compositional approaches for silent films that have since become widely recognised: he characterizes the American school by “synthetic composition”, the Russian school by “dialectic composition”, the French school by “quantitative composition” and the German school by “intensive composition”.59 About the time that sound first began to feature in films, the so-called sequence short or planséquence was perfected in which scenes were arranged as a series of pans within a single continuous shot following a moving camera. Like the sequencing of scenes in a single take using the means of changing depth of field, this method is classed as a so-called “inner montage” technique.60 Manipulation of time: Film offers greater flexibility in the handling of time as it is no longer subject to the technical and financial constraints that made linear narratives necessary, and the difficulties in understanding flashbacks and projections in time can be resolved using the techniques of montage or by historical treatment of the film material (e.g. by giving sequences another colour cast). Film can interrupt, reorder, rewind, shorten, extend or pause time sequences.­“As you know, there’s no relation whatever between real time and filmic time”, remarked Alfred Hitchcock in avuncular fashion when interviewed by the young and somewhat effusive François Truffaut.61 Suspension of synchronicity: Finally, film has the capacity to systematically separate its means of communication, most notably image and sound, making it possible to blend and reposition different realities with respect to one another. The asychronicity of image and sound tracks reveals entirely new possibilities for manipulating and communicating information. That the means and devices of theatre and film inform one another, switching back and forth between the two media, can be seen on an ongoing basis in both theatre and cinema. “Theatre



remains one of the key realms of resisting social fragmentation and the parcelling of time, a primary requisite of which is theatre that ‘takes its time’,”62 this statement by H.-T. Lehmann can be applied equally to film. An example of this is Russian Ark (2002) by Alexander Sokurow, a cinematic journey through the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg in a single 96-minute Steadicam sequence shot that, through the means of the ­unbroken elastic flow of images, interweaves externalised inner worlds and internalised exterior words acoustically and visually. A continuous take of this kind has only been possible since the age of digital film, making Eisenstein’s montage technique no longer a technical necessity (as it was in the 20th century) but just one of many ­different creative options available in the 21st century. COMICAL EFFECTS  As everyone knows, theatrical devices such as advance information, the insertion of occasional apparently unrelated episodes, or an actor stepping out of a role can be extremely funny. A study of comedy films63 identified 20 basic types of gags: situation comedy (i.e. embarrassing situations), small cause–great effect, great cause–small effect, complicated objects, transformation of objects, misconduct, the art of destruction, anti-gags, running gags, delayed gags, late realisation, chain reactions, cake fights, physical deformations, playing with danger, disassociation effects, comical imitation, inappropriate behaviour, false expectations and real surprises, and language gags.

Especially effective methods include, on the one hand, the run-up and somersault, or the heightening of a humorous point through reduction, acceleration and one or more twists. These techniques have been described, with reference to the German satirist Jan Böhmermann, in this way: “[…] those who find him ‘just not funny’ in such moments, as one often hears, fail to grasp the double twist of his punchlines: first a feint, then a twist. They fail not only to see just how vulgar actual misogyny is, but also how humourless moralising about it is, too: that both lack originality is the whole point of his satire.”64 And, on the other hand, to make something funny, one must systematically exploit all the inner possibilities a situation offers if it is not to be a one-off number or just for effect without cause. This can be illustrated by two of Charlie Chaplin’s

Theatrical and ­cinematic devices  77

scenes: in the boxing scene in The Champion (1915), a handful of standard slapstick boxing routines are choreographed together, which while amusing in their acrobatics also quickly become silly. In addition, the fight scene is interleaved with a parallel scene in the audience in a way that the intervention of the dog, which ­allows Charlie’s ultimate victory, does not seem like a deus ex machina, a sudden apparition from nowhere. The boxing scene in City Lights (1931), on the other hand, systematically enlists the help of all the available situational factors of a boxing ring (the ring, referee, ropes, gong, break, towel, audience, points…) to support the fate of the underdog. In the space of just 4 minutes, 14 of the 20 archetypal gags are linked together, layered, and interleaved – much like a boxing match itself. The comedy and perfection of such carefully constructed dramaturgies not only provide much mirth in the moment, but also an inner smile that lasts far longer. TENSION AND SUSPENSE   Konrad Paul

Liessmann has described “Suspense [as] the expectation of the unexpected.”65 If we are to believe the advertising and consciousness industries, exciting, stimulating experiences are something we need every day. While that may seem trite, it is, quite rightly, an important criterion of the experience of art. But excitement, tension and suspense can take many subtle and complex forms, and not just the extreme sensations associated with love, death and murder. If suspense were just a question of “Whodunnit?”, then the Greek tragedies would never have existed, as the stories were already familiar to audiences, for example through Homer’s epic tales. The audiences of the dramas of antiquity were obviously mostly interested in how the author interpreted the material. Anticipation of the outcome, or “what tension”, was, therefore, not the only kind of tension in dramas at that time and was eclipsed or augmented by tension arising over the course of events, or “how tension”. For Alfred Hitchcock, a “Whodunnit” was out of the question; his films were about suspense rather than surprise and shock: “The conclusion is that whenever possible the public must be informed. Except when the surprise is a twist, that is, when the unexpected ending is, in itself, the highlight of the story.”66 In Hitchcock’s films, suggestion is a medium of information.

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In addition to the concepts of “what tension” and “how tension”, one can also identify two further forms: “whether tension” and “how-so tension”. “Whether tension” arises when the temporal length and structure of a work of art (or size of a building or accessibility of its parts) is unclear, raising the existential question as to whether it will continue or not, an effect that can be heightened through the device of apparent or faux endings. This is, of course, only an option for open dramas, experimental works, long-term constructions and especially in participative scenographies. And once the effect has been recognised, the tension shifts from the “whether” to the “how”, even when revisiting the situation (e.g. “Why did I think the film ended here when I last saw it?”). The “how-so tension” is the tension that arises through the attempt to discover how a static experience, a picture for example, can exist when obviously unresolvable in the work itself. In the history and theory of art, this corresponds to what gives an image its inner tension; beyond images, it also applies to ideas, and to questions raised. All the mentioned four types of tensions are stimulating for the recipient. These four motivators of subjective states of tension can be effected through different means. Among the most obvious are identification with one or more of the figures and the degree of risk involved (“a matter of life and death”). Another “classic” method is the need to accomplish something under pressure, especially as time is running out: “Few things are more effective at heightening tension than shortening the time available. There is never enough time.”67 In addition, the two following structural aspects can be used to carefully manipulate the long-term and the short-term dramatic arcs within it.68 Firstly, the appropriate degree of future-oriented information69 provided, and its ongoing adjustment, because to generate tension, the audience needs to be able to imagine several possible – worrying as well as desirable – directions of development. Shocks and surprises along the way are not enough: “Suspense always depends on the existence of an element of tension between complete unawareness on the one hand and a certain level of anticipatory expectation based on certain given information on the other.”70 As new information becomes available, certain hypotheses can be excluded and others arise. Every

drama therefore consists of numerous shortterm dramatic arcs that do not, however, resolve the overall long-term dramatic arcs (even if they temporarily displace it) but also contribute to upholding it.71 And secondly the informational value of an event72: the lower the probability of an event occurring, the greater its informational value and the greater the suspense potential it affords. But regardless of how brilliantly these events – with their higher or lower probability of occurring, their greater or lesser credibility, higher or lower predictability and greater or lesser logical consequence – are rhythmically arranged and perfectly timed, they leave us untouched if they do not have a “dramatic situation” as their starting point. This term was coined by the dramaturge and teacher Bernd Stegemann in his description of drama as requiring the presence of a concealed­dual internal structure (“Doppelbödigkeit”).­What, then, is a “dramatic situation”?

The dramatic situation Bernd Stegemann’s definition of the term “dramatic situation” draws on G. W. F. Hegel’s definition of situation and collision in his Lectures on Aesthetics, which he held between 1817 and 1829. For Hegel, situations in which a drama can arise are those in which an unresolved contradiction in the “general world condition”73 flares up, setting in motion an action that in turn causes a reaction which – and this is crucial – is just as “rational” and “legitimate” as the preceding action. It is through the “collision”74 of these two equally valid principles (i.e. not a simple opposition of good and bad, truth and lie, etc.) that the “gravity”75 and contradictory nature of reality is revealed to bring forth a new condition. Based on this, Stegemann elaborated the following idea: “Hegel’s understanding of situation brings this model of a collision in a common world around a common subject into dialectical interplay. In his idealised aesthetics, it is the competing intentions that give rise to the common world as a paradoxical construction. […] It is an existence that ‘simply is not how it should be.’ […] Only when the two (world and situation) arise in interplay with one another, can one speak of a situation in which drama can occur. Simply creating a conflict fails to embody the drama within it, just as inventing a world in which conflict occurs. The latter is simply a milieu as wrapper, the former a dispute without consequence as the world remains unaffected by it.”76 With respect to the figures involved in the drama, he says: “Every character must have an opposing and a connecting will with respect to their opposite number. This rule comes as close as possible to the dialectic of the dramatic situation. […] This description encompasses the fundamental Doppelbödigkeit, the concealed dual basis of dramatic situations. A simple opposition without the second level of common interest will not lead to a dramatic situation.”77 How, then, can we develop dramatic situations? From the perspective of the architectural interest of the reader, it would seem helpful, as before with the tonal dramas, to imagine them as geometric figures and to examine the potential for tension and suspense that each figure bears within it or can produce.



The dramatic situation  79

POINTS  The dramatic situation of opposing

and connecting will can be enacted in archetypal clarity with just two figures on stage. As Samuel Beckett demonstrated with his pairs of figures in Waiting for Godot and Endgame, the drama can be further heightened by restricting the actions of the two people. When very little can happen on stage, the tension in the interplay arises out of the diminishing expectation that something could still happen, the nagging question of why nothing is happening and the increasing fear that something might indeed actually happen that could unsettle the perverse acquiescence to a situation that we as the audience – in implicit agreement with the characters – have now become accustomed to and wish to maintain. In this tragicomic situation, even the smallest of changes becomes an event of monumental dimensions. The “whether tension” is here in essence the main dramatic arc, which is repeatedly reiterated by the rituals and clownery of the short-term dramatic arcs. Space and time condense to a point in such plays: Waiting for Godot forms a closed cycle and therefore does not move from the spot. Endgame on the other hand, ends with the exit of Clov, the antagonist, while Happy Days recedes in several steps and Krapp’s Last Tape comes even closer to the final goal, i.e. death. In all these, time has always passed, and is passing; never does it stand still. Although these dramas may be points, the points are loose and have ragged edges. CIRCLES  In many dramas, the heroes often embark on a voyage to a world unknown, where they are initiated into secrets, and after a few testing experiences return home reinvigorated and as heroes. This triadic model of separation, initiation and return is the success story of numerous plots, and not just myths, sagas and fairy tales but also of films (for example Toni Erdmann by Maren Ade, 2016, although here with a critical tragicomic twist) and especially of Hollywood blockbusters. In his bestseller The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), the American mythologist Joseph Campbell draws this narrative model – what he calls a “monomyth” – as a circle with a horizon that marks the dividing line between the known and unknown world.78 A prerequisite for all hopes and fears that develop over the course of the drama is the spectators’ identification with the hero. Without this, the “monomyths” are merely chilling ballads but not dramas. But the

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hope we tease out of the fears, in which good triumphs over evil, is a pious hope from childhood times that does little to (en)lighten the world. SPIRALS  If one takes Campbell’s circle literal-

ly (as too many trashy dramas too, unfortunately), neither the hero gains experience nor does the world he left behind change in the meantime. The filmologist Michaela Krützen undertook a detailed analysis of numerous Hollywood films and developed Campbell’s circle into a multitrack spiral that can represent internal and external transformations,79 therefore replacing “initiation” with “trials” and “return” with “arrival”. In addition, she notes that in film, unlike in epics, the initial separation is usually motivated by a dream-like event from the character’s past life (a “backstory wound”).80 SHAFTS  If the past – “Guilt is the dramatic temporal dimension per se”81 – has accumulated into enough of an ominous mass, the question that defines the degree of tension is how deep one has to bore into this in order to regain a firm footing. Usually, the “successive revelation of information”, the subject of the struggle between opposing and connecting wills, in such backward-looking, so-called analytical dramas is structured in such a way that the frequently scandalous dimensions of what once happened in the past – of which one had no clue at the beginning – are revealed bit by bit. Instead of offering a solution to the initial problem, the extent of the problem expands successively. As with investigative journalism, the viewer’s worst fears and expectations are systematically exceeded, provoking disgust, shock and outrage in the viewer. Short-term dramatic arcs not only maintain the long-term suspense but intensify it with each new piece of information. Such dramas are focused entirely on the ending, that is on the final clarification of what happened before the beginning far back in the past. Sophocles’ Oedipus, most of Henrik Ibsen’s dramas, as well as Robert Altman’s film Gosford Park (2001) or Thomas Vinterberg’s “Dogma 95” film Festen/The Celebration (1998) are examples of such analytical dramas. Something fatal has such a strong effect because “a deed done, is naturally, as being irrevocable, much more terrible; and the dread that something may have happened, affects the mind quite differently from the dread that something may happen.”82

III Climax and peripeteia

X= Departure

Z= Return

Y= Initiation

V Catastrophe

Plot pyramid according to Gustav Freytag

Departure

Climax Turning point I

Unknown world

Trial

Phase model according to Michaela Krützen

Dramatic intensity

Familiar world

Turning point II

IV Falling action with retarding moment

I Exposition

“Monomyth” model according to Joseph Campbell: Departure – Initiation – Return

Arrival

II Rising action with tension-­ building elements

1st act Beginning

Kiss-off 2nd act

3rd act

End

Plot curve according to Peter Hant

points, gaps result that are left to the imagination of the viewer: “The hero’s development ­continues between times and between places to exceed the boundaries of the work, putting it into perspective.”83 Such structures, through their very form, conceive of the unknown as something that is disconcerting, hard to grasp or trivial. They predominate in the passion plays of the medieval age, and resurfaced in the work of ­Chekov84 and in Strindberg-style and expressionist station dramas, and to this day are manifest in many auteur films due to the doubt and distance that their fragmentary structure makes possible. They tend towards maintaining a constant level of suspense, or regular wavy alternations, always focusing on the passage of the plot rather than the outcome, not least because the outcome is invariably open and not always at the end, and because the individual episodes are interchangeable, thereby maintaining the same distance to the end. Dramas with an interrupted line pattern are typically mosaic-like in their composition and therefore successively paint a picture. One can see them as a precursor to postdramatic structures. PYRAMIDS AND ARCHES   For all of the

ORBITS  Michelangelo Antonioni’s films steadfastly refuse to explain the psychological condition of the characters, or to structure the plot direction towards a (re)solution. While the dramatic situation is present from the outset, the predominant direction of movement towards the ultimately unfulfilled resolution (without which the outcome is inconceivable) is that of a slow orbit, always at a distance. It informs the movements of the figures, the course of the plot, the sparse dialogue, the themes, the camerawork and montage technique. But these movements are actually just a code for immobility. The dramatic situation remains locked away in the emptiness of space, time revolving around it, or rather standing still. INTERRUPTED LINES  If the course of a plot

(or the depiction of time/s and space/s) is not continuous but made manifest in unconnected



aforementioned structures, a turning point in the drama is not an absolute necessity. But if one is desired, then it must be well prepared,85 because it must paradoxically be both motivated as well as surprising, and over and above have significant consequences. This is already elaborated in the earliest theoretical treatise on occidental dramaturgy, Aristotle’s Poetics: “This [the effect of horror and woe] happens most of all when the incidents are unexpected and yet one is a consequence of the other,”86 and later again “[…] In the drama the result is far from answering to the poet’s expectation. […] Such an event is probable in Agathon’s sense of the word: ‘it is probable,’ he says, ‘that many things should happen contrary to probability.’”87 Aristotle called the point at which a change from good fortune to bad happens “peripeteia”, and the change from ignorance to knowledge “anagnorisis”. The different threads of a plot come together at this point, and it serves in turn as the basis for the ensuing resolution. While “Greek tragedies do not follow a prescribed external pattern and are not composed of precisely defined individual parts,”88 and although the so-called Aris-

The dramatic situation  81

totelian unities of time, place and action do not actually originate with Aristotle (but were attributed to him during the Italian Renaissance89), the unity and integrity of the plot are nevertheless a central aspect of its dramatic theory: the plot has a dramatic situation as its clearly defined starting point, which requires action by the figures in order to reach a resolution of the initial problem at the end. In 1863, the then incredibly successful writer Gustav Freytag – tired of the epic, expansive historical dramas of the time – took Aristotle’s fragmentary material as a basis for constructing a pyramid of five parts and three moments representing the classical dramatic structure in his still worthwhile book The Technique of the Drama. The tension of the rising action is built up through action and counteraction, while a large part of the falling action is a product of the tension between the spectator’s fear that things must go awry, as ever more implausible or unjustifiable, and the hope that things could still turn out right in the end. The author has a final opportunity to play with the spectators’ hopes and fears in the retarding moment, or “moment of final suspense”, in which the final outcome of developments may be cast into doubt, raising the prospect of a good ending.90 As attention is hardest to uphold towards the end, Freytag recommends keeping the falling action as short as possible, making less use of diverting episodes than in the rising action.91 Consequently, the pyramid is not symmetrical but its point is shifted towards the end (in classical dramas after the third of the five parts). In addition, the tension in such closed dramas does not rise continually but exponentially.92 Factoring in these two asymmetries, the scriptwriter Peter Hant redrew the pyramid as something that looks more like a ski slope. In addition, Hant also recommended an addition to the problematic “exposition” phase,93 adding a “hook”, a moment of surprise, to catch the attention of the audience (for example in To Be or Not to Be, Ernst Lubitsch, 1942) as well as a kiss-off to offer the audience “a chance to recover”,94 especially after plots containing a very late climax. INTERWOVEN THREADS   If a plot is not only, or not necessarily, driven by the interplay of protagonist and antagonist but also develops a second, ostensibly separate (significant) story­ line, one soon begins to wonder how they relate to one another and whether and how they might

82  Dramaturgical models

converge, adding a further element of tension.95 Their intersection may constitute the dramatic situation itself (for example Masculin Féminin, Jean-Luc Godard, 1966), may facilitate the resolution (The Great Dictator, Charlie Chaplin, 1940), or represent the turning point for at least one of the two threads, or even motivate the retarding moment in which the parallel storyline appears to endanger the situation already reached in the main storyline (e.g. in The People vs. Fritz Bauer, Lars Kraume, 2015). Narratives with multiple threads, also called polymyths, offer much more complex possibilities than conventional main and parallel storyline schemes – especially in the medium of film with the possibilities it offers to interleave chronologies and suspend synchronicity – and consequently leave much more open. As such, they represent a highly attractive narrative alternative to the traditional pyramidal dramatic structure. Contemporary examples ­include the films Inherent Vice (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2014) with its undulating drama­ ­ turgical structure, Cloud Atlas (Lana and Andy Wachowski/Tom Tykwer, 2012) with its mirrored symmetrical pattern of interwoven episodes, or Babel (Alejandro Iñárritu, 2006). Older examples include plays by William Shakespeare, especially his comedies in which parallel or intersecting storylines present the same topic from the viewpoints of different social strata – and The Soldiers (1776) by Jakob Michael Reinhold Lenz,96 in which two complementary threads alternate, a collective thread and a private thread.97 In general, the tension in polymythical narrative forms arises from the interplay between constancy and variance, and therefore a directed, at times even formulaic contrast, which the pure form of closed dramas sometimes consciously avoids. Volker Klotz, in his study of closed and open forms of drama (the extraordinary success of which gave him cause for wonder98), presents a comparison of the ideal-typical qualities of theatrical techniques and concludes with the statement: “Unity of action, unity of space, unity of time and a few protagonists characterise the closed drama, according to the principle of a part as the whole. Variety (dispersion) of action, variety of space, variety of temporal qualities and a large number of figures characterise open dramas according to the principle of a whole made of parts.”99 While such ideal types of theatre can be theorised, they can rarely be staged in such

pure form: real dramas are bastardised variants of these, even those by Samuel Beckett, and especially those by William Shakespeare.

social compositions and uses, will they become places of work or places to visit that one gladly returns to over and over again.

REPEATED EXPERIENCE   The structural

Before we examine the potentials of these maxims as manifest in contemporary examples, we first look at what the discourse on architecture can add to our examination of spatial drama­ turgy.

form shapes our experience not only during the performance but also afterwards. On leaving a theatre, we are usually pleasantly bemused and our attempts to recount to others the complex tangle of narrative threads we have just seen resolved on stage are often somewhat confused. The confusion is often created by four main general reactions competing with each other in ourselves: –– we recognise the lesson to be learned (for example in a Baroque drama), –– we feel encouraged, animated, or inspired (for example in a heroic drama), –– we reflect pleasantly or disappointedly on the artistic aspects of the experience, –– we continue to reflect on issues raised by the performance (particularly in the case of a problem play). Where the first reaction dominates, there is little need to reiterate the experience, as once grasped the sensory experience lacks its original potency. If the second aspect outweighs the others, a repeat experience is inadvisable as the “what tension” no longer functions and we see through the dramaturgical device, perhaps even feeling slightly embarrassed for having been taken in. Where the third reaction dominates, we look for reasons to explain our responses and relate them to others as general principles. As we are never quite able to explain either adequately, a repeat visit is generally instructive. And the same applies to the fourth reaction, as through our speculations on the worldly issues raised by the play, we also question how the play is constructed and how it conditions our experience. The messages that buildings send are not as clearly codified as those of words, and if a bulding’s heroic gesture is also self-serving (e.g. the setting of a record), it is by definition frequently trivial. As many buildings are visited daily by the same visitors, the dramaturgical aspect cannot focus on “what tensions” and other one-off ­effects but must concentrate on cyclical “how tensions”. Only when interiors respond with different atmospheres to different times of day and year, different lighting conditions or different



The dramatic situation  83

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse Architecture as a setting in stone for processions and rituals, as a mediator of the transition from public to private, as a controller of access and conditioner of behaviour was, from the very beginning, in need of dramaturgical rules and effects. For a long time, however, the scripts on which these rules and effects were based remained unwritten. Implicit knowledge (what ­Michael Polanyi, 1958, called “tacit knowing”) built up over years through intuition, practice and evaluation, experience, introspection and discussion, had always existed to a greater extent than explicit knowledge of dramaturgy – as witnessed by the architectural creations of ancient civilisations. In this section, we sift through a number of key texts from Western architectural discourse in search of aspects and suitable building blocks that can contribute to formulating a dramaturgy of space. Our intention here is not to explain each and every written work, nor to discuss their general historical and critical contribution – both of which could fill books of their own written by experts in the field of architectural theory. Instead, our aim is to better understand the terminological tools of the respective authors and their usage. Our criterion for selection is that ­either the recipient of architecture as envisaged by the author is someone who moves around in the buildings reviewed, or that the author reflects on the effect of spaces in terms of what the visitor experiences before or after the visit. In cases where reflections are restricted to merely static or scenographic aspects, or the focus lies on figurative or intuitive aspects rather than ­terminological ones, we have not considered the approach here. We have also excluded texts that focus on (built) space in general – as is the case with many well-known works by Bachelard, Bollnow, Dürckheim, de Certeau, Merleau-Ponty, Debord, Ströker and others – choosing instead to concentrate on texts that have an actual work of ­architecture as their focus, which can serve as a basis for our own investigations in the following parts of this book.

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25 B.C.  Ten Books on Architecture – Vitruvius

Aside from a few remarks on the effect of light – the “agreeable look” of stone with bevelled edges (IV, 4.4), the eastward orientation of temples (IV, 5.1), the vertical axis between the bath basin and light in thermal baths (V, 10.4), and the arrangement of functions according to their orientation with respect to the sun – and some other comments of little consequence (VI, 2.2–2.4) on the deceptive impression of our senses and how ­appearance depends on the standpoint of the viewer, Vitruvius’ proposals are driven by pragmatic concerns and rules of proportion that are either anthropomorphic or else rational whole numbers. He did at least proclaim (in I, 2.6) that “magnificent interiors” (interioribus magnificis) should be preceeded only by “elegant entrance-­ courts” (vestibula elegantia) and not by a “low, mean entrances” (humiles et inhonestos). Although the motivation behind this is to merely accord sufficient “propriety” (consuetudo), these remarks represent a first flicker of spatial dramaturgy. Eurhythmy, on the other hand, which is one of Vitruvius’ central categories, is merely “beauty and fitness in the adjustments of the members” (commodus aspectus) (I, 2.3). Architecture is therefore the art of painters and engineers but not of time and space. Had the only architectural treatise to survive from antiquity not been Vitruvius’ but a work from the later Roman imperial era, spatial dramaturgy might have had an entirely different status in western theory, especially during the Renaissance. 555  On Buildings – Procopius

The same would also apply here had Procopius’ book on the Emperor Justinian’s building activities been more fully appreciated earlier.100 The combination of monotonous elaboration and panegyric praise for his ruler was almost certainly as tiresome for contemporary readers as it is today, but Procopius seems to have been aware of this and wrote (I, 1): ‘“For ‘o’er a work’s beginnings,’ as the old saying has it, ‘we needs must set a front that shines afar.’” And this he achieves with his magnificent description of the Hagia Sophia (532–537), where he not only describes its material composition but also attempts to capture its spatial impression. Not only does he ­relate how the Hagia Sophia uniquely unites contrasting tensions within it (“it seems somehow to float in the air […] yet actually it is braced

Hagia Sophia, view from one of the conches



with exceptional firmness”, p 19) but he also describes the underlying characteristics of the sublime long before the time of Edmund Burke and Immanuel Kant: “[…] marvellous in its grace, but by reason of the seeming insecurity of its composition altogether terrifying. […] One might suppose that they were sheer mountain-peaks. […] All these details, fitted together with incredible skill in mid-air and floating off from each other and resting only on the parts next to them […] so the vision constantly shifts […], for the beholder is utterly unable to select which particular detail he should admire more than all the others. But even so, though they turn their attention to every side and look with contracted brows upon every detail, observers are still unable to understand the skilful craftsmanship, but they always depart from there overwhelmed by the bewildering sight” (p 22–23). While Procopius does not mention how the space reveals itself gradually as one moves about, he wanders with the eyes along its domes, arches and edges, returning repeatedly to the image of the gaze passing restlessly, lost in the detail of the room. While vivid descriptions of the experience of such a wondrous building were typical in the ekphrasis (the descriptions of works of art, often made as speeches at the inauguration of a building), and therefore expected by the audience, in this case the author makes no recourse to the standard phrases used elsewhere. Ultimately, he speaks of the principle futility of trying to understand art and its effects. Through this loss of control, people discover something about themselves. Procopius’ account is the oldest known to me that does not relate just the pleasure of looking but also the inability of the all-dominating visual sense to comprehend everything. And another of his observations has proven true to this day: “And this does not happen only to one who sees the church for the first time, but the same experience comes to him on each successive occasion, as though the sight were new each time. Of this spectacle no one has ever had a surfeit [...]” (p 29). A characteristic of every good dramaturgy is that its effect does not wear off once one has rationally understood the work (the “what tension”). A renewed consideration of Procopius’ text would be an opportunity to reappraise the value of the ekphrasis as a form of expression, not just for festive occasions but also as a means of elucidating a sensibility for spatial dramaturgy.

1452  On the Art of Building in Ten Books – Leon Battista Alberti Leon Battista Alberti has so often been praised as well as criticised as a proponent of a somewhat “strict style”, advocate of the overcomplicated study of proportions, pioneer of the hegemony of sight over the other senses,101 creator of a definition of beauty of dispiriting rigidity102 – i.e. as the anti-dramaturge par excellence – that it is a matter of honour to redress the balance with a few careful observations. On the one hand, Alberti’s descriptions of temples are exceptionally precise and offer a critical commentary of contemporary as well as antique concepts of the role of light in creating spatial atmosphere: “The awe that is naturally generated by darkness encourages a sense of veneration in the mind; and there is always some austerity about majesty. What is more, the flame, which should burn in a temple, and which is the most divine ornament of religious worship, looks faint in too much light. For this reason, surely, the ancients were usually content with a doorway as the only opening. But for my part, I would prefer to make the entrance to a temple thoroughly well lit, and the interior and nave not too gloomy. I would place the altar, however, in a place of majesty [= a darker place] rather than of elegance” (VII, 12, p 223). At the time, neither the modulation of light within a single space nor the darkening of the altar zone were the norm. He also noted the contribution of artificial lighting and scents: “But I would wish there to be a certain majesty to the lighting of a temple, a majesty that is singularly lacking in the tiny, blinking candles in use today. They have, I do not deny, a certain charm, when arranged in some form of pattern, such as along the lines of the cornices; but I much prefer the ancient practice of using candelabra with quite large lamps, which burn with a scented flame. […] It is recorded that the amount of balsam requested by the princes to be burned at public expense in the great basilicas of Rome every feast day was five hundred and eighty pounds” (VII, 13, p 229–230). And, on the other hand, the universal man forgets all his stringency on arrival in the country: “Let all things smile and seem to welcome the arrival of your guests. Let those who are already entered be in doubt whether they shall for pleasure continue where they are, or pass on further

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  85

to those other beauties which tempt them on. Let them be led from square rooms into round ones, and again from round into square, and so into others of mixed lines, neither all round nor all square; and let the passage into the very innermost apartments be, if possible, without the least ascent or descent, but all be upon one even floor, or at least let the ascents be as easy as may be” (IX, 2, p 639).103 Here Alberti dreams of a bungalow, and indeed in the same book he advises avoiding stairs and multi-storey buildings wherever possible.

Villa Cornaro

1570  The Four Books of Architecture – Andrea Palladio For Palladio, on the other hand, the stair was an object of study. The door to the stairs should be easy to find, but only once the visitor had already seen the most beautiful rooms in the house. This is the only time in his long treatise that Palladio introduces the aspect of the right timing as a design criteria. In addition, stairs should lead into a spacious room, and themselves be “well lit, spacious and comfortable to walk up, […] since they, as it were, invite people to ascend them.” (I, 28, p 66). His use of “as it were” reveals how uncomfortable Palladio was with verbalising spatial character, gestures and feelings. When recommending open spiral staircases, i.e. with a void in the middle, he cites the advantage of being able to see all and be seen by all without revealing whether for pleasure or for the purposes of control.104 To the direction of views he comes only once, recommending that the largest and most beautiful rooms should be the focus of attention, not the smaller secondary spaces (II, 2). That this level-headed master of spatial creation should choose the staircase, an element that was considered a secondary space in the ­Renaissance, to offer us a glimpse into his box of tricks speaks volumes. 1770  Observations on Modern Gardening – Thomas Whately 1779  Theory of Garden Art – Christian Cay Lorenz Hirschfeld 1834  Hints on Landscape Gardening – ­Hermann Fürst von Pückler-Muskau With the advent of the English Landscape Garden, new means and phenomena such as vignetting, conceal and reveal, artificial naturalism, optical illusions of depth, the as-if, situative and transitory parameters, variation and contrast,

86  Dramaturgical models

novelty, asymmetry, follies, transitions, alternations, surprises, the picturesque, changes in perspective, scenic progressions, extension of time, connected surfaces and more entered into the aesthetic discourse of the day. The English Garden precipitated a spatial revolution that continues to this day in ever new forms, and with it ­numerous treatises on the subject throughout Europe. One of its first proponents, Thomas Whately, ­undertook a systematic and finely differentiated morphology of many of its stylistic devices and effects, grouped according to “ground”, “woods”, “water” and “rocks”. The purpose of all design was to respect the genius loci and create the gre­ atest possible variety in a park while maintaining its unity, and to perfect the art of transition to such an extent that changes between variations and contrasts were never abrupt and almost ­without noticeable interruption: “But ground is seldom beautiful or natural without variety, or even without contrast; and the precautions which have been given, extend no further than to prevent variety from degenerating into inconsistency, and contrast into contradiction” (p  16). The art of developing distinctive sceneries lies in the careful application of means: “we take more notice of one difference, when there is no other” (p 17). Entire passages from Whately’s morphologies read like a description of a symphony – one need only swap out a few words – and his elaborations on “prominence and recess” along the edge of woodland could apply equally to monumental impact in general (XIX, p 42–43). The direction of views and density of moments of incidence depend on the size and intended use of the spatial design: on horseback, groups of trees are only seen from afar, but in a park they are also a tactile space, and in a garden solely a tactile space. As plausible as his rules may seem (“if such hints deserve the name of rules”, p 20), Whately is also aware of their limits: “never to suffer general considerations to interfere with extraordinary great effects, which rise superior to all regulations” (p 21). A so radically casual interpretation of the age-old maxim  “no rules without exceptions” would not have come about prior to the new era of sensibility, and likewise the value accorded to sensory and sensual character as opposed to mere visual beauty. Whately’s morphology is consistent and precise; what it lacks is general terms and concepts for larger landscapes that

“1. They should be installed to lead naturally to the best viewpoints. 2. They should trace a pleasant and functional line. 3. Where they lead through green areas that can be seen from long distances, they must divide these areas into picturesque forms. 4. They should never curve without an obstacle or visible reason for doing so. 5. Finally, they should be technically sound; always firm, even and dry” (p 127).

Stourhead garden plan according to the plan by Fredrik Magnus Piper of 1779

exceed the realm of a single scenery. Hirschfeld goes further than Whately in his description of the atmospheric character of scenes – albeit using often rather naive means – by structuring gardens as “pleasant, airy and lively”, “gently melancholic”, “romantic” and “sublime”. Pückler-Muskau adopted much from Whately and only elaborates further on the topic of paths. In his view, English Gardens made too little use of paths, proclaiming that “pedestrian promenades must have a functional relationship with each other so that they provide many separate, un­ designed walks, so to speak, but are linked in such a way that one can switch back and forth among them” (p 120). His approach called, therefore, for a network of paths that offered different options. As far as the arrangement of paths were concerned, his main rules were:



1780  The Genius of Architecture; or, The Analogy of That Art with Our Sensations – ­Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières Beginning with Claude Perrault’s dictum (1673) that the classical rules of proportion should not be blindly adopted but only if rationally reasonable, discourses began to arise in the 17th and 18th century in France105 that on the one hand praised practicality, comfort and appropriateness (culminating in a wave of style guides), and on the other placed greater focus on the sensitivity of the individual, highlighting qualities of character and expression. Both of these discursive threads were brought together by Le Camus de Mézières,106 who elevated character from the property of an individual space to a guiding principle that reflects the status and profession of the client, addresses all senses and should inform the entire design from the facade to the scent of the bouquets of flowers. Inspired by the English garden, he conceived of the French Hôtel as a successively more imposing sequence of rooms with a consistent mood: the facade should not promise more than the interiors were able to ­fulfil, the vestibule should have the same tonal character as the salon, but the antechamber should not pre-empt the salon in its opulence, and so on. His treatise is the first to promote the idea of spatial dramaturgy, and he was aware of it (p  1). His description, however, is of individual rooms as quasi static found spaces, not as a scenery unfolding in time and space: he devotes elaborate attention to the arrangement of light (p 62, for example) only to all but disregard the orchestration of views, or to discuss routes from an ­almost purely practical perspective. Given the level of detail he lavishes on something as mundane as the stables, it is surprising that he has little to say about staircases (despite his almost certain knowledge of the well-known staircases in Fontainebleau or Chambord). By declaring the

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idea of “progressive order” (p 45) the single most important dramaturgical principle, he voices his preference – despite all his nuanced discussions – for a harmony devoid of contrasts (p 49), of surprises or alternation.

Newton’s Cenotaph (detail)

1793  Architecture, Essay on Art – ­Étienne-Louis Boullée Although the colossal stairs and halls of his architecture unquestionably slows the process of movement, Boullée does not emphasise processional striding movement, although he does place accent on the desire to move: by obstructing it! The unbelievable nature of the night sky in the Cenotaph for Isaac Newton both stimulates and prevents movement: “[The sphere’s] curve ensures that the onlooker cannot approach what he is looking at; he is forced as if by one hundred different circumstances outside his control, to remain in the place assigned to him […]” (p 107). The physical experience of gravity as well as the romantic principle of unfulfilled desire become the (spatial) programme. “The spectacle of inconceivable space” can also be seen in tree-lined avenues and grids of Quincunx trees, in which it appears as if the trees “seem to move with us as if we had imparted life to them” (p 91–92). The phenomenon of motion parallax described here gradually became more of an issue the larger the designed landscapes became and the faster the speed of movement, and with the advent of rail travel it became a much-debated aspect in the 19th century. The sense of boundlessness or the sublime could therefore also be achieved just as easily by anchoring the viewer in an expanse of space as mobilising the viewer to move through a rhythmically structured space. 1869  The Power of Space in Architecture – Richard Lucae In his lecture at the Sing-Akademie in Berlin to an audience of mostly educated laypeople, Lucae confidently sidestepped the predominant question of the day in architectural circles: “What style should architecture be built in?” Instead he named form, light, colour and scale as the primary factors that determine the power of space in architecture, “which style only influences to a very small degree” (p 70). The form qualifies the general aesthetic impression, light influences its character, colour its mood and scale – depends on ourselves as “all that we perceive with our

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senses affects us, within their own contrasts, only in relation to ourselves” (p  81). The interweaving of objective description and subjective observation that characterises phenomenology is elaborated with a light touch in his descriptions, especially those of the Pantheon and Crystal Palace. As he describes the different effect that emptiness has on a theatre auditorium or a church, or the different impression a railway station has on those arriving and those departing, he incorporates quite naturally the significance of context and the standpoint of the respective users into his considerations. 1888  Renaissance and Baroque – Heinrich Wölfflin “Architecture [of the Baroque] had become dramatic; the work of art was no longer composed of a series of independently beautiful and self-contained parts. Only through the whole could the individual part gain value and meaning, or a satisfying conclusion and termination be brought about” (p 70). Despite his view that Baroque was able to incorporate discordant elements and resolve them at another point or in the overall appearance (p 76), Wölfflin barely makes any mention of movement in space. The method of comparing individual motifs allowed Wölfflin to determine the characteristic qualities of an epoch­­but not the inner relationships within a work, between rooms or in their reception, so that his verdict on Baroque motifs is often disparaging. An exception is his account of Il Gesù in Rome: “[one] is drawn forwards, as if under a spell, towards the light […] and the dome itself only comes into being as he advances […]” (p 92). The only extended descriptions of sequences comprised of multiple elements are strangely the cascate, the waterfalls in the gardens of the Aldobrandini and Conti villas (p 157–158). Otherwise, his descriptions are concerned primarily with dualistic contrasts, for example between lively facades and calm interiors or dark naves and bright domed spaces. Wölfflin accords greater praise to the Baroque in his later writings. However, in all his works, including his Principles of Art History (1932, German original 1915), his elaborations and definitions of paintings are generally more convincing than those of architecture. He does not develop his definition of ­architecture as “the art of physical mass” (1888) significantly further, and the progression of spaces therefore plays only a modest role. Never-

theless, Wölfflin’s writings, including his architectural considerations, offer a broad initial foundation in the field of Einfühlung (empathy) and aesthetics and formal analysis.107

Sequence of squares in Lucca

Sequence of squares in San Gimignano

Despite their very different layouts, the sequences of the spaces result in both cases from the arrangement of the squares to the left and right of the main route.

1889  City Planning according to ​Artistic Principles – Camillo Sitte The vacant centre and closed wall frontages of squares along with their orientation according to the profile of the main building (“deep squares” in front of churches, “broad squares” in front of city halls) are among the central principles the author elaborates in his study of urban spaces in history. He is deliberately non-dog­ matic in his approach to rules of proportions and in his awareness of the irrelevance of irregularities, arguing that one’s memory determines which characteristics remain most striking and a comparison with reality reveals how much we misjudge size and proportions. Hew regards the Baroque square, enclosed stage-like only on three sides, as a creation in its own right, but the most magnificent of all urban squares in his opinion is the cluster of squares that results from concealing monumental structures partially, resulting in “three squares and three town tableaux, each one different, each one a closed ­harmonious entity in itself” (Chapter VI, p 192). “The special effect that results from walking about from one square to another [is that] visually our frame of reference changes constantly, creating ever new impressions” (Chapter VI, p 197). Here, not the ideal view but the sequencing options becomes the pinnacle of artistic city principles. 1893  The Essence of Architectural Creation 1896  On the Value of Dimensions in Human Spatial Constructs 1897  Baroque and Rococo – August Schmarsow In his inaugural lecture in 1893 at Leipzig University, Schmarsow postulated that “Every spatial creation is first and foremost the enclosing of a subject” (p 472) and that “the spatial construct is, so to speak, an emanation of the human being present” (p 473), and concludes: “The history of architecture is the history of the sense of space” (p 482). Baroque and Rococo begins with: “Architecture is, in its innermost essence, the shaping of space” (p 5) and concludes in the chapter on Michelangelo with the words: “His architecture encompasses […] the unmistakable



beginnings of a great and comprehensive poetry of space that requires the temporal sequence of experiencing the individual spaces one after another; it is a relative of poetry and musical composition at a large scale.” At the time, those were revolutionary sentences! In 1893, Schmarsow qualifies “the natural law that regulates [all spatial] creation”, namely “the axial system of coordinates”, as follows: the dominant coordinates are the vertical axis of the upright gait and the axis of depth indicative of the direction of our free movement, while the dimension of width is basically only required to just exceed the minimal measure of “the span of our arms”. Where the axis of depth and width are more or less equal (as in a square or circle), the more important the upward gaze becomes, and therefore the vertical axis of the space. With words such as “extension”, “expanse” and “direction”, we attribute to the dimensions of a room “a sense of movement” akin to our own, so that we no longer confront rooms as “cold, crystallised form”. Only when we step out of the archetypal “four walls”, does a spatial construct become “a body outside of ourselves” that appears all the more independent the more dominant its vertical axis is. Where a space exceeds the minimal dimensions, wrote Schmarsow in 1896, our senses of sight and touch structure the space in layers and the objective axes of the space begin to shift with our subjective axis of view and movement: first through our eyes as they “rove” along and up the walls to measure them, then by turning one’s head to determine the breadth axis (of the space) as the axis of depth (of view), motivating, for example, the artistic piercing of the side walls (p 114) as well as the passage through a composed sequence of spaces, that through the “succession of mental images […] fills the inert presence of form with life […] evoking analogies with causal relationships […] enticing us through its poetic interplay with our imagination”. In its temporal experience, it is “comparable only with music and poetry” (p 119). In this sense, height is not only a measure of proportion but also of growth, breadth not only characterized by symmetry but also by the unfolding of space, and depth is not only defined by built rhythm but also by reversible movement. It is the relationship between the three dimensions that shapes the character of a space (p 120).

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Height, depth and width axes on Capitoline Hill

Using this set of tools, Schmarsow describes Michelangelo’s design of the Campidoglio, in which the master builder anticipates “the approaching wanderer”, as a masterly handling of axes and their intersections: from the “slowly ascending approach” of the central axis one eventually reaches “the level of the palace […] with its bell tower towering over the space. At the centre of the square, where the equestrian monument stands between the two focal points of the ellipse, the three dimensions undergo a transformation; the axis of depth, which we followed to this point, now gives way to the axis of breadth which reveals the entirety of the composition, and breadth gives way in turn to the axis of height that clearly dominates this configuration of the ensemble before coming together again in the direction of depth, the life axis of the entire space” (p 71–72). In the three-dimensional design of space, therefore, he places focus not on the combination but on the redirection of forces. And this redirection is not only presented but forms directly before

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and within the visitor (Schmarsow speaks of ­Bildungssphäre, sphere of emerging formation); it comes into being within a single room or enclosed space: “In place of harmonious proportions, there are now progressive” (p 110). This is remarkable as “architecture itself is able to accommodate transitory relationships arising through growth […] only to a very limited degree” (p  110). But it does, for example, in the space beneath and within the dome of St. Peter’s: “[…] beneath an unsatisfying striving, a dark urge to grow and unfold that draws one in but does not lose itself in breadth, does not get bogged down in the details of depth, but simply pushes upwards […] Therein lies the difference to the lofty striving of Gothic architecture: the numerous individual figures of a Gothic building […] always point upwards, tapering as they reach upwards indefinitely. […] Here we have only one height, and one body of considerable girth and weight […]” (p 98). In Schmarsow’s interpretation of Michelangelo, different forces (and with them also different at-

Succession of movement-stimul ating elements of the Capitol Square  1: As one approaches, the axis of depth tilts into the vertical, marked by the stairs and bell tower. 2: The sculptures form a diamond, the walls around the square a bay. 3: The sculptures form a gateway. 4: The axis of width becomes an axis of depth. 5 /6: Three-dimensional articul ation of the axis of width and dramatisation of changes in height.

mospheres!) can follow one another, not only in a sequence of spaces, but also within one and the same interior. Where harmony was previously the measure of beauty in architectural compositions, in Schmarsow’s new concept of architecture as an art of space and time, it is the play of forces that determine its beauty. 1899  History of Architecture – Auguste Choisy Why Sergei Eisenstein called the Acropolis “one of the oldest films”108 and Le Corbusier elaborated his concept of the Promenade architecturale using the Acropolis109 can be attributed to the fact that both proponents of the avant-garde read the same chapter of Auguste Choisy’s 1,400page monumental history of architecture. In the chapter “Le Pittoresque dans l’Art Grec” (Vol. 1, p  409–422) he shows how the apparently free ­distribution and orientation of the structures of the Acropolis follows a precisely calculated sequence of four perspectives: first the frontal view into the concave arms and rhythmically structured halls of the Propylaea, followed by the cen-



tral perspective of the gigantic statue of Athena, then the three-quarter perspective of the Parthenon and finally, diagonally opposite, a shifted view of the Erechtheion. In each perspective, there is only one protagonist which is so presented that the other protagonists are only just perceptible at the periphery of one’s field of view or are concealed: the weighty plinth of the statue obscures the view in the second perspective of the Caryatids, and so on. In this way, each scene is calm but the indistinct, momentary or partial view of what has been seen at the edge of the scene stimulates onward movement. Each scene demonstrates the careful balance of the masses. According to Choisy, the Greeks preferred the diagonal view, reserving the majestic frontal perspective for especially imposing moments. As the entrance to the Parthenon is from the rear, the path traced by Choisy is not merely an arbitrary choice. Although more detailed analyses of the Acropolis have since followed, and Choisy does not consider how the scenes interlock along the path or how they are perceived while moving through them, his clear view of the most impor-

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  91

Acropolis

Propylaea

Statue of Athena

Parthenon

Erechtheion

The four main perspectives of the Acropolis according to Choisy

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tant moves represents a milestone in the consideration of spatial dramaturgy.110 His book is also revolutionary in its exceptional sectional axonometric representation of the examples. His Acropolis storyboard is the only occurrence of this method in both volumes – the eye can wander more freely around an axonometric than a cartoon. 1914  The Principles of Architectural History: The Four Phases of Architectural Style, 1420–1900 – Paul Frankl Similarly to Wöfflin and Schmarsow, Paul Frankl developed his concepts and observations primarily through an exploration of the polarity between the architecture of the Renaissance and the Baroque (and in turn of the Rococo and Classicism). “To be a whole and to be a part is the highest collective polarity. It is the first and only polarity that presents itself differently four times according to the analysis in the four elements” (p  186). In Frankl’s terminology, these four elements are spatial form, corporeal form, visible form and purpose. The corporeal form appears in the Renaissance as the “radiation of inherent forces” and in the Baroque as the “channelling of external forces” (p  140), as “constrained fragment, defeated, dependent upon and threatened by external forces” and as “in itself […] incomplete and transitory” (p 130). In the Rococo, this ailing “channelling” of forces transforms into “the subordinate polarity of companionship with the external forces” (p 140). The space-­ forming principles are divided into “additive”

and “divisive”. Referring to the space formed of “additive” spaces, Frankl undertakes a rigorous analysis of the rhythmic possibilities of coordinated ancillary spaces, which he calls “aligned”, and with subordinated ancillary spaces, that he calls “grouped” (p 8): e.g. groups of rooms with a series of coordinated ancillary spaces and spatial series with grouped ancillary spaces (p 43). The aversion of the Baroque to addition led to “spatial interpenetration and peripheral fusion” which “gradually incorporates the in themselves balanced spatial groupings […] ever more into the longitudinal pull of the series” (p 40). Addition is replaced by internal forms such as galleries, bridges, lunettes and so on which obscure the contours of a space: “The less interesting the contour, the stronger our perception of the space that fills the contour and of its continuity” (p 47). From this preference for continuity emerged an awareness of the continuity between the interior and exterior, of the idea of a universal space, the interior is only part of something larger, which ultimately made the means of “obstructing orientation” a legitimate and welcome device. This made it possible for a built idea to exist “not just once” but “many times; from the allure of its appearance we infer that ever more awaits us”. The mobilisation of the viewer becomes unavoidable. For the buildings of the Renaissance this was not yet the case: “The eye takes in the situation at a glance. The image – the architectural image – is complete from all viewpoints. There is no temptation for us […] to try out all viewpoints [as we can see] at a glance […] that no surprises are

St. Michael’s Church in Hamburg

MAXXI in Rome by Zaha Hadid



waiting around the corner” (p 144–145). For Baroque buildings, on the other hand, it means: “This extreme lack of clarity gives to the whole composition a quality of restless allure; […] we attempt to clarify the image by moving closer to it” (p 148/ 152). On the excesses of the Rococo, he says: “The impossibility of guessing from one view the appearance of the next and the feeling of confronting a crowded succession of surprises becomes characteristic of the architectural image” (p 155) and beforehand: “the essential thing is that we are not seated before a stage on which the ballet is being performed but are encircled by the dance” (p 152). It is not the illusory movement of the body in space, but within each individual image that Frankl is referring to here. As such, the elevated standpoint is again accorded higher status in the Rococo: “In these extreme cases, the third phase [= the Rococo] is the absolute polar opposite of the classic examples of the first phase. In the first phase [= the Renaissance] we always see (cum grano salis) the same architectural image from an infinite number of partial images from one viewpoint. The impression of many images […] is here augmented into the impression of an infinite, inexhaustible number of images” (p 155). The impact of the terms and concepts elaborated by Wölfflin, Schmarsow, Frankl and others more than a hundred years ago has extended far beyond the realm of classical art history and has proved inspirational for architects right up to the present day. When Greg Lynn, for example, says “A more pliant architectural sensibility values alliances, rather than conflicts, between elements”, and “The supple geometry of Thompson is capable of both bending under external forces and folding those forces internally”, concluding with the question: “How can architecture be configured as a complex system into which external particularities are already found to be plied?”,111 he is not all that far from Frankl’s description of the “channelling of external forces” in the Baroque or the “companionship with the external forces” in the Rococo. And when Patrik Schumacher declares “seamless fluidity”, “continuous differentiation” and the “elegance of ordered complexity”112 as the hallmarks of parametricism, as seen most vividly in Zaha Hadid’s architectural creations, then one thinks of Frankl’s expression of “movement moulded into space” in the sacred buildings of the Baroque.

1919  Spatial perception – Paul Klopfer “Seeing is tactile wandering with the eyes” (p 150). As long as there is no obstruction in the way, our gaze wanders from front to back and from bottom to top. It comes to rest when it finds a “restful image”, a “frontal view, ideally symmetrical” (p 152), in which the central axis is usually only implied (as seen in a Gothic church with two towers, for example). If no such image comes into view, we attempt to give this “frontal tactile image” stability, by finding a “basic dimension” within it that is a product of the even “visual steps” we take to appraise the image. The side walls are “spatial tactile images” that direct our view forward to the frontal view and either distract our gaze, slow its progress, or cause it to jump forward where the side wall is interrupted. Framing devices and coulisses become “factors that defer the view into the distance” and artfully arranged sequences of tactile images (for example along curved alleyways) lead the “searching and peering” view ever deeper into the distance until it finally comes to rest on a vertical “fermata” such as a tower. If the restful image no longer lies entirely in the field of view of a stationary gaze, the eye searches onwards until it finds a new restful section – such as a detail – within the view of space. 1924  Toward an Architecture 1957  “Talks with Students” – Le Corbusier Over and over again, the author speaks of architecture as drama: “The purpose of construction is to make things hold together; the purpose of architecture is to move us” (p 19). Once moved, we are then willing to explore its connections and enjoy it “in consonance with the laws of the universe” (p  17). Architecture as “the masterly, correct and magnificent play of masses brought together in light” (p  29) can, however, only be achieved when this play occurs according to a rhythm: “Rhythm is an equation: Equalization (symmetry, repetition) (Egyptian and Hindoo temples); compensation (movement of contrary parts) (the Acropolis at Athens); modulation (the development of an original plastic invention) (Santa Sophia)” (p  50). In an effusive passage, Corbusier describes the modulation of size and light using the example of the Green Mosque at Broussa, emphasising the need for opaque walls, small threshold spaces and successive views (p 181f), before moving onto his own designs for houses to illustrate the principle of equal sizes,

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  93

and the Acropolis to describe the arrangement of oppositions. This is achieved using axes as “lines of direction” and the clever placement of bodies outside the axis so that the volumes and the surrounding space are transformed into an interior space: “In architectural ensembles, the elements of the site itself come into play by virtue of their cubic volume, their density and the quality of the material of which they are composed, bringing sensations […] wood, marble […] near or distant sea, sky. The elements of the site rise up like […] the walls of a room” (p  191–192). Nevertheless, the spectacles described are still comparably static. The wall is still more important than the path and the terminology of the Promenade architecturale is not yet born, and its “peripatetic” potential – i.e. one’s perception while moving – is barely even mentioned.

Villa La Roche

Space-time diagram according to Fritz Schum acher

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Le Corbusier first mentions the term in 1929 in his description of the Villa La Roche113 in his Oeuvre complète. Corbusier’s well-known elevation of the path to a primary characteristic and means of ordering architecture is elaborated in his lecture Talks with Students held in 1942 and published in 1957: “An architecture must be walked through and traversed. […] Equipped with his own two eyes and looking straight ahead, our man walks about and changes position, applies himself to his pursuits, moving in the midst of a succession of architectural realities. He re-experiences the intense feeling that has come from that sequence of movements. This is so true that architecture can be judged as dead or living by the degree to which the rule of movement has been disregarded or brilliantly exploited” (p 45). His remarks amount to an explicit criticism of classicism and its over-estimation of the floor plan and centre. While Le Corbusier did not expound this as a doctrine (like his Modulor) describing how to walk through architecture, he did apply the somewhat problematic concept with masterly skill in his own work. 1924  The Concept of Time in Architecture – Paul Zucker “A building becomes architecture when people move within or toward it following a purposeful intention” (p 309). His definition of a “purposeful intention” is both broad and precise, namely the locomotive tracing of an original pattern of use: “If I enter an old church […] it makes no difference whether I just trace the movements in

person, for example to observe something within the building, or whether I do something there, such as praying etc., if my locomotive actions are identical with the original pattern of use” (p 309). With this, Zucker declares the appreciation of architecture from a single, static viewpoint as obsolete. It offers only “decoration” and “images”; it “views” but does not “use”, making the spatial construct merely art and not architecture. For Zucker, one could conclude, the aspect of space, and therefore architecture, only exists in conjunction with the aspect of time. Time is for him (unlike for the “psychologists” he criticises) not just time as experienced but an immanent category of architecture, and as the relationship between the spatial effect, purpose and time can be “quite variable”, Zucker hoped that his definition of architecture would offer fresh impulses for historical research. The “concept of time of individual epochs”, must be determinable, for example, through “a comparison of increasing intensities, the paths and changes in direction of Renaissance and Baroque staircases […]” (p 310). Zucker’s ideas offer a sound grounding for a “historical psychology of architecture” as presented by Regine Heß in her dissertation Emotionen am Werk,114 as a means of undertaking a historical and critical study of concepts of spatial dramaturgy. 1926  The Design of Buildings – Fritz Schumacher The effects of “built works of art” were categorised by Fritz Schumacher into intellectual, sensual and spiritual. “On naïve consideration, they [the different kinds of effects] appear to act in mysterious, confused unison” (p  29/ 30). From simple examples to complex progressions, Schumacher lists the effects of the proportional and rhythmic structure of surfaces, of dynamically changing light and dark, of colour and of material and haptic qualities for the senses. These effects then multiply in the work of architecture, but are not bound within a “constant affective image” but change “constantly within specific boundaries” (p  34). In addition, the volume of the architectural body serves only as separation (“the physical shell of the building represents the entire spatial termination”) between the “subordinate” and the “superordinate” environment: “Architecture is the art of doubled design of space by means of designing solid volumes” (p 37). Because this body–exterior triad of interi-

or space–body–outer space can only be experienced through movement in time, Schumacher then goes a step further than his own definition. Time requires of the viewers that they contribute to the creation of space (p 41): “The effect of time unrolling as we move means that we carry the visually incomplete image of the organism of architecture within us and combine the images we experience when moving, consciously or subconsciously, with the respective visual image” (p 40). How we see in space and time is therefore always constructed and reflected, going beyond protention, primitive intention and retention. Schumacher explains: “Thereafter follows the power that lies in the redirection of movement. […] It is not the imperceptible guidance of people within a specific space that he has to consider, but the arrangement of a succession of spaces with their movement-inhibiting and movement-­ propelling aspects, their points of concentration and neutral areas of peace and quiet. In addition to changes in light come changes in level and stairs so that a capable designer can reveal the land of his fantasy to the visitor” (p 41f). Teatro Marittimo

Hall in the Smaller Palace

Domed hall adjoining the Piazza d’Oro

Three variants of concave and convex spaces in Hadrian’s Villa



No other theorist or writer-architect, not even Le Corbusier, has so clearly and lucidly demonstrated the central artistic contribution of dramaturgy to architecture. It is unfortunate for us that after such an impressive foray into the very heart of architecture, Schumacher then turned his ­f­ocus to more historical rather than systematic studies. Perhaps this was because he was of the opinion that movement cannot be induced through “terminology, but only through graphical fix points” (p 38). The much more successful major works of the early 20th century, such as Sigfried Giedion’s Space, Time and Architecture (1941), Architecture as Space (1948, English 1957) by Bruno Zevi or European Architecture (1942) by Nikolaus Pevsner, by comparison, have far less to say about spatial dramaturgy. 1950  Hadrian and his Villa at Tivoli – Heinz Kähler The Romans did not live in space but more specifically adjoining space, as all fittings were placed along walls or within them, according to Kähler (p 95). The conflict between the open and closed surfaces of walls was therefore primarily resolved through the treatment of the wall: initially by dividing the wall into a solid plinth and painted panels that gave a suggestion of depth,

and then by breaking through the wall and “backfilling the room” (p 99). In the first phase of the Villa Hadriana, the dramaturgical potential of this method of backfilling was explored by placing a large window opening in the central axis of the so-called library, resulting in a visual axis that revealed the neighbouring space through a contrast in brightness and the concealing of the walls receding into the distance, allowing it to appear suspended in the distance; movement, however, was restricted to small side doors (p 104–). In the teatro marittimo the view even passes through eleven successive layers of space on the far side of a line of water. In the second construction phase, the concave spaces were surrounded by inward-facing partial rings around their perimeter and a fountain was placed in their respective centres, forcing the inhabitants to wander restlessly about them. For Kähler, this reflects the broken character of ­Hadrian. A secondary effect of this is that moving around the spatial axes along the curved lines of movement emphasises the diagonal prospect, in the process highlighting the dynamic quality of the separate volumes and spaces. 1977  The Dynamics of Architectural Form – Rudolf Arnheim “Clearly, there are no fixed bounds in either space or time for any object” (p 68). In contrast to platonic tradition, the art historian and gestalt psychologist Rudolf Arnheim understands the space that we perceive not as a container of bodies but as a force field strewn with antagonists. His intention is to describe and understand the design potential of visually perceived forces of attraction and repulsion between bodies that are subject vertically to gravity and aligned horizontally with the horizon and the horizontality produced by the human impulse to move. Furthermore, his interest is to understand and explore the balancing of centrifugal and centripetal ­forces, for example at intersections or cylindrical spaces to determine the “visual weight” that an element has through its position, the changeover between figure and ground or the reciprocal rivalry between two adjoining areas. “Every visual object comes about as a configuration of visual forces. This configuration is the visual object […]” (p 45). He illustrates this by explaining the expanding and restraining forces in a domed space: “A concave boundary yields to the forces it has itself generated. It provides the expansive

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  95

hollow space with a maximum of freedom, but at the same time this expansion derives its power from the resistance of the boundary. […] A cupola responds by closing in on the interior space and compressing it from all sides in a gripping pincer movement. The strength of this restraining force reflects the strength of the expansion it contains” (p 98–99). The same occurs in a cubic room, just at a lower tension level. The task of the architect is to give sensible rhythm to the different levels of tension: “Things follow one another and change space while they change position. A building in which nothing is designed for sequence is a depressing experience. […] Physically, of course, all spaces persist in rigid immobility; but visually the occupant must not be smothered by the stagnancy of an assemblage of containers, tied together by corridors that convey no progression. […] But a temporary narrowing of the path can also act dyna­ mically, by generating the tension of constriction, resolved into new expansion. […] Any passage from a corridor to the sudden expanse of a room quickens the visitor’s experience with a small visual shock. […] Strict control by a narrow channel is not the only means of guiding locomotion. Propelled by a sufficiently directive impulse, the walker may find himself traversing a room whose main axis he crosses at a right a ­ ngle. Suddenly without support, he enjoys the freedom tinged with anxiety of being on his own, a sense of power and adventure” (p 156–157). But as Arnheim explains elsewhere, large squares often provide an “architectural partner” (p 87) in the form of a fountain, obelisk or similar. For Arnheim, there are two classes of buildings: those that are primarily “visually comprehended form” and remain largely unaffected by our pattern of movement, which he calls “shelters”, and those that appear to be the product of movement through them, which he calls “burrows” (p 148). The first kind of spatial formation corresponds, so to speak, to individually formed printed letters, the second to the uninterrupted flow of handwritten letters (p 151–152). This offers a revealing interpretation of the nature of architecture, as most buildings combine features of both approaches: printed and handwritten letters. Furthermore, our perception of architecture also depends on how we use it: a

96  Dramaturgical models

room, for example our study, may, after a period of absence, appear much smaller than we remember it because we see a visual overview of it, while when we use it, we explore it through a pattern of linear locomotive movements. 1999 | Choreography of the Architectural Space | Wolfang Meisenheimer “Architectural space becomes experienced space primarily through the movement that the designed space suggests” (M, 4.12). It is “gesture”, “virtual scenery”, “space awaiting a possible action”.­In his text-and-image essay, he classifies the “forms of expression” of this space-time phenomena into two complementary pairs: the elementary gestures – “places” versus “paths” – and the complex sceneries “still scenes – rooms of rest” (those that “displace time from space”) versus “animated scenes – rooms of unrest” (in which “space disappears in the flow of time and exists for the power of the moment” (M, 3). The author proposes applying terms developed by the dancer José Limón to describe bodily tension  – alignment, succession, opposition, fall, weight, recovery and rebound, and suspension – to understanding architecture, as its “compositional concepts – for example those of Borromini – are de facto choreographic” (M, 4.12). 1988  The Paths of Le Corbusier – Elisabeth Blum 2010  Le Corbusier and the Architectural Promenade – Flora Samuel With his coining of the term Promenade architecturale, Le Corbusier brought the idea first sown by Le Camus de Mézières to fruition, namely his call to design the interior of a house like a garden as a space for contemplative wandering. Although Le Corbusier did not make any clear references to the English Landscape Garden, his description of the Villa La Roche, as already mentioned on p 93: “In this house occurs a veritable promenade architecturale, offering aspects constantly varied, unexpected and sometimes astonishing”115 – could almost equally have been written by Thomas Whately. Without doubt, the Promenade architecturale has more in common with the English Landscape Garden than with any other spatial concept. In both, the linking of picturesque scenes is its purpose. For Le Corbu­ sier, his Promenades served not only as instruments to create contemplative situations for those promenading; they were also intended as

Villa La Roche

Villa Stein

Unité d’Habitation in Marseille

objects of contemplation themselves. They are so eventful, didactic and peppered with visual “hooks” that they never fail to captivate those following them anew. They not only give, are not only background, but also take, demanding and focusing one’s attention. This is what makes them so different from the spatial configurations of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, Hans Scharoun or also Louis Kahn, whose scenes and structures are more homogenous and – once they have reached their “pitch” – continue on calmly in the background. The Promenade architecturale, on the other hand, makes maximum use of its design possibilities in all respects – whichever architectural parameters one takes, Le Corbusier is able to tease out nuances and extremes from all of them, orchestrating sharp contrasts but also with a sense of playfulness. If one recalls the key characteristics of English Landscape Gardens, then one has a good idea of the Promenade architecturale. Elisabeth Blum and Flora Samuel in their two books devote considerable attention to Le Corbusier’s relationship to the path, to being on one’s way and the ideological background of his path designs. The path for Le Corbusier is always about initiation, about setting a process of consciousness in motion, a Promenade de Conscience according to Blum (p 24). From these two books on the Promenade architecturale, we can derive the following characteristics: Opening irritation: The first view of a house and the passing of the threshold on entering is always accompanied by an irritating signal that takes the visitor by surprise, is disconcerting or even shows them the “cold shoulder” as Colin Rowe has said of the cold north wall of the Monastery of La Tourette.116 Extreme changes in scale are the very least one can expect. The intention is to make visitors receptive to new ­experiences. Switching and rotation: Elisabeth Blum describes, using the example of Villa La Roche, how the typical concave bay-like entrance situation, in which a “speaking” front wall attracts attention supported by the side walls, is inverted repeatedly at both a small scale (stair landings, ­library) and a large scale (the two halls) by flooding the front wall in light but otherwise leaving it “silent” and making the rear wall “speak”. This switching of the walls’ roles accords greater importance to the respective indecipherably ­ ­enclosing side walls, causing the visitor to turn



in space, revealing new discoveries and inviting the visitor to reorder his or her impressions of the elements and directions with respect to themselves – much as Schmarsow described for the Campidoglio. The overlaying of rotating and frontal gesture, which for Colin Rowe117 epitomises the Corbusian concept of space, also encourages movement, specifically centrifugally towards the edges of the space. The effect on visitors (and perhaps also on the residents) is both disarming and bewitching, even on encountering the situation again. Framing: Differing slightly from the idea of phenomenal transparency presented by Rowe and Slutzky (see p 225), Samuel sees Corbusian spaces as being formed less by staggered walls as by hierarchically arranged frames: “A heavy frame creates a full stop in space, an event or a ritual. A minimal frame creates spatial flow – a unity between the frame and that which is being framed” (p  49). To expand on this, framed views do not just highlight special moments and carefully link prominent and intimate spaces (for example the library and hall in Villa La Roche)118 but also function as views onwards and backwards that negate the spatial and temporal isolation of the individual moment, allowing the visitor to determine where they are in time and space and order the elements (frames, rhythms, sliding windows) around them. Compression: Not just visually by means of the views forwards and backwards, but also physic­ ally, two contrasting, mutually exclusive situations – for example the channelled path and the spreading path (Blum, p 50) – come together in a single space (e.g. the gallery in the Villa La R ­ oche)­ or wrap around and/or transgress the respective opposite (vertical or horizontal) boundary between two spaces. They suspend the idea of successive spaces to produce rich moments of activity and simultaneity; they tauten the dramaturgy. Finality: Along the entire Promenade, Le Corbu­ sier eschews the use of any material refinement, as Samuel notes: “There is no crescendo in ingenuity, complexity or richness of materials as you move up through the building” (p  57). At the same time, in Samuel’s eyes, the Promenade architecturale is linear and finality-oriented. The destination of the Promenade is the light, the moment of becoming one with the universe, which

Tracing spatial dramaturgy in architectural discourse  97

ideally culminates on a designed roof terrace with the sky as ceiling. Here, the house is little more than a transition between earth and sky, a kind of dramaturgical Jacob’s ladder.119 That is by no means self-evident in a domestic house whose primary purpose is still the sheltering of people, and whose everyday paths are usually a network of paths as opposed to a line. Samuel structures the key moments of the path to the terrace, i.e. to salvation, in the phases “Threshold – Sensitising Vestibule – Questioning – Reorientation – Culmination”. Her five-stage dramatic model (p 66–67) is a free adaptation of Freytag’s pyramid (see p 81).

98  Dramaturgical models

In our case studies in the third part of this book, we will see that architecture in particular is capable of other dramatic structures than Freytag’s classic approach, that the aim of the spatial dramaturgy of an interior – if one is necessary at all – does not have to be the open sky, and that a spatial dramaturgy can succeed without the need for didactic, initiating gestures. At the same time, this foray demonstrates that developing a systematic spatial dramaturgy from the history of concepts would likely be a much more cumbersome undertaking than relying on unbiased observation through on-site visits of built dramaturgies.

PART 3

Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture “Generations of singers have sung this song before you. Generations of musicologists have pored over it, interpreting the meaning of every note and every syllable […]” “Yes, those are all contributions to a discussion. But there is no ultimate truth. In the end, not even the composer knows precisely what he meant.”120 The singer Christian Gerhaher in conversation with Eleonore Büning

Introduction EXPERIENCING THE WORK  In Part Three of this book,

we examine the direct experience of the spatial dramaturgies of 18 contemporary works of architecture. The act of exposing oneself to a work means imposing conditions for oneself in which the study of a work can go hand in hand with one’s experience of it. The resulting analytical descriptions are actually reports – accounts of an attentive experience of the building. As each case has its own characteristic flow, the reports do not explicitly follow the structure of sequences of surfaces, formation of rooms, sequences of rooms and spatial configurations which we used in Part One of this book to analyse the dramaturgical principles of space. Instead we experience each selected work of architecture unreservedly and see where it takes us. For this, some vague form of professed “inner impartiality” does not suffice. Instead, we should be as uninformed as possible when we visit the building. This self-imposed restriction conditions us and allows us:

102  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

–– To refrain from interpreting the work as a solution to the many urban, functional, technical, political or programmatic problems or tasks but instead consider it purely as the manifestation of a conceptual idea that reveals itself gradually through the senses and reflection. Even when an “informed” architect knows that the massive concrete beams in the roof space of the Exeter Library are light blades, and that much has been written about Kahn’s approach to deflecting light, their function is not immediately obvious from the floor of the hall, at least not to the full extent, so that they appear at first erratic and oversized – perhaps even intentionally so, because they provoke us into exploring the rest of the space over time. –– To see the work not as a representative of a normative aesthetic, but rather to uncover the inherent aesthetic principles of the work, instead of making it fit preconceived notions. How generally applicable (though never universally applicable) the principles may be, only becomes apparent through comparison in Part Four. –– To avoid seeing the work as a representative of an epoch or movement. Such attributions have the tendency to close one’s eyes to the building’s individual character. In the case of the Venetian Scuole Grandi, as well as in some of the contemporary examples, this would be confusing, because they are so pluralistic that precise attributions would always require additional explanations or need to be constantly relativized. As such, they are of little help. –– To avoid interpreting the work as the manifestation of intended effects. Declarations by the artist serve, at best, as a means of personal affirmation or self-questioning, but very often they are used merely as self-stylisation, as myth propagation, to focus the attention of juries and readers, to prejudice judgement and to acquire a chunk of the market. In our case, we are interested in the actual effects, not intentions of effects.

–– To attempt to see the work independently of advertorial and informative paratexts.121 This approach does not claim, nor even intend, to make the respective work appear in an entirely new light, but it does make it apparent whether a received opinion – whether just a vague prior awareness, a well-known interpretation or the architect’s own declared intention – measures up to the actual experience, or whether its effect has worn off over time and is merely restated hearsay. An example: after finishing the manuscript, I read Konrad Wohlhage and Jürgen Joedicke’s account of the experience of the interior of the Berliner Philharmonie, which they describe as being epitomised by the sense of intimacy experienced by each and every individual in an audience of 2,200 people. Joedicke additionally underlines this with a quote stating that the intimate experience was expressly intended by Scharoun as an essential prerequisite for the musical experience. For us, however, the proof lies not in the evidence of a second opinion but in one’s own “naïve” experience of the space. The credibility of such descriptions lies in the emotional response of the subject. Even if it may not be possible to expose oneself to a work of architecture in completely pure terms, that does not invalidate this approach. The reader will judge to what extent it is valid. TEXT, DRAWINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS  Text and drawings complement one another: the text relates the perspective of the experience while the drawing communicates an objectified, synoptic ordering of the building. As such, the drawing “knows” more than the visitor and shows in simultaneous visual form what a visitor pieces together successively. In almost all cases, we have drawn unfolded 30 degree axonometric drawings so that all the bounding surfaces can be portrayed easily. As our accounts of the visits focus exclusively on the publicly-accessible, “served” spatial sequences, the “serving”



parts are generally shown opaque as physical mass (a poché) without inner structure. As a result, the drawings exhibit a high degree of similarity, although we have not explicitly enforced schematic rules for better consistency: the degree of detail, colour, rays of light, articulation of surface and line, positioning of the section lines, positive/negative reversal, angle of projection and much more have been chosen to best communicate the individual characteristics of each work and its respective key message. Like the text, the drawings are not intended as rational abstractions but as summarising concretions. The combination of text and drawing helps the reader follow the path of movement, direction of view or changing proportions. The photographs we use are “fished” from the passage through the spaces. Alongside the text and drawings, they represent the third pillar in communicating the experience of space. They do not correspond directly to the text, nor do they present a “truer” picture. Every medium has its own rules, capacities, manipulations and limitations.122 A camera sees, frames and captures space differently to the human eye. Photographs also want to be viewed autonomously, and are extraordinarily powerful at exerting their will.123 But while we have not chosen photographs explicitly for documentary or illustrative purposes – the image in the age of electronic pervasiveness has largely been liberated from solely serving such purposes – we have also refrained from using photographs that stand predominantly for themselves, that are too self-contained, regardless of how striking or brilliant they may be. Instead, our guiding principle has been to work with the correspondences between these three forms of expression, respecting their individual inherent qualities, fundamental differences and incompletenesses that leave room for imagination, as is the case with any dynamic correspondence.

Introduction  103

18 REPORTS  All the selected case studies are public build-

ings for several reasons: firstly, they are generally open to the public with few restrictions; secondly, transitions between rooms and thirdly changing atmospheres typically play a prominent role; and fourthly, their public function implies that their design is grounded on more than idiosyncratic ideas and personal preference. These four factors do not coincide in such a way in public wide-span halls, sacred buildings or housing. Public buildings, in our context, mean buildings that ­offer a service for the education, welfare or mobility of a commu­nity or society in general, regardless of who they are run by. Our selection begins with buildings from the 1960s, as the upheavals of that decade still serve as a basis for contemporary architectural practice. It is too early to restrict ourselves exclusively to examples from the digital age, especially as this part of the book is concerned with the reception and not the production of space. We elected to exclude conversions and extensions to existing buildings – reluctantly: it would have been so appealing to study Castelvecchio or the Querini Stampaglia! – because otherwise the dominant aspect in most cases would have been the collaging of different time periods. The chronological order of the reports has no underlying reason other than that it proved to be the order in which each individual work retains best its respective autonomy. Despite the above criteria, the selection is subjective: it is ­neither a shortlist of canonical buildings – that would need to include 100 other equally fantastic buildings! – nor a hit list of the author’s favourite architects – plenty more are missing! It does not aim to bring hidden jewels to light – and why should it when, as Hegel says, what is familiar is often not understood precisely because it is familiar – and it is also not critically assessing – it is the author’s opinion that one can learn better from successful rather than unsuccessful examples. It is not doggedly encyclopaedic as there are (thankfully) more than

104  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

18 public building types, but also not politically correct, partly ­because researching other representative countries and continents would have exceeded the available resources, and partly because the idea of presenting global architecture in just 18 case studies is illusory. Finally, it does not aim to highlight the latest trends but simply aims to present a series of convincing examples that offer an opportunity to identify different conceptual approaches to the dramaturgy of space that are practised today. That despite all these provisos, there is a disproportionately large number of museums has two reasons: firstly, wandering and looking is an elementary part of the design of such buildings, and secondly, we wanted to explore, for at least one building type, a range of solutions in order to demonstrate – to ourselves as well as the reader – that there is no predetermined correspondence between a building function and its spatial dramaturgy. At the same time, for those building types addressed only in one report, the reader is ­given enough material to attempt their own interpretations of other similar building types: for example, after our detailed consideration of the Berliner Philharmonie, the reader will quickly be able to identify the characteristic dramaturgical concepts of other concert halls, such as the Lucerne Culture and Congress Centre (1998) by Jean Nouvel, the Parco della Musica in Rome (2002) by Renzo Piano, the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles by Frank Gehry (2003), the Casa da Música in Porto (2005) by Rem Koolhaas, Szczecin Philharmonic Hall (2014) by Barozzi Veiga, the Philharmonie de Paris (2015) by Jean Nouvel or the Elbphilharmonie in Hamburg (2017) by Herzog & de Meuron.

BERLINER PHILHARMONIE, BERLIN, GERMANY Hans Scharoun, 1956 – 1963

Developing variation

Built in a kind of no-man’s land near the Berlin Wall, this concert hall offered to a post-catastrophe urban society, for whom history had become a ­burden rather than inspiration, a place to come ­together anew.

Foyer

PLACES IN FLOWING SPACE: THE FOYER I  On entering the foyer of the Berliner Philharmonie for the first time, it is so overwhelming that one Piranesi-perspective seems to follow the next, indiscriminately jostling for our attention. But this is not the case: the flow of space always brings us to identifiable locations, places that, in the following description, we have given the names concourse–street–plaza–gallery– wall–cave–passage–loggia–tent.124

106  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Proceeding from the broad, low concourse of the ticket booth lobby, which is arranged at an angle to the main hall, streets head off, flanked by the desks of the cloakroom and a rhythm­ ic and playful pattern of columns. The low ceiling is perforated towards the hall, affording views across of the overlapping levels and skylights. After about 30 m, the street opens onto a broad plaza roofed over by the slanted, stepped and folded ­underside of the concert hall, which appears to be supported

Axonometric of the foyer showing circul ar route Gallery, centre left Loggia, centre right



Developing variation  107

“Stair cave” in the foyer

“Plaza” in the foyer

“Cluster of stairs” in the foyer

108  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

only by a slender, V-shaped pair of columns as the outside wall to the rear is painted black and perforated by luminous red glass blocks, recalling the rose windows of cathedrals. Offset from the position of the fold in the ceiling, the floor is raised by two sets of two steps, heralding the beginning of the ascent to the hall. From the expansive gallery level, one can look back down over the plaza – or step outside onto the terraces and into the garden, two spaces that have little direct relation to the interior as they are screened by the walls of coloured glass. The hinge between the street, plaza and gallery is a spiral stair, the only one of its kind in the entire building. Its counterpart at the other end of the plaza is not a monumental staircase but a swarm of three slender flights of stairs that continue to the left as a wall of stairs and to the right as a stair cave. The first flights of the stair wall, which thrust energetically into the far corner of the space, are open to the plaza, while the reverse flights are hidden behind a wall slab. The flights in the stair cave, by contrast, wind upwards in angular loops. After the dramatic ascent via one of these many mountain paths, the scenery becomes calmer, leading along a passage with only one stair, one gallery and one bridge, and a few folds in the ceiling and bends in the wall. The passage leads to a space that is the atmospheric counterpart to the large gallery, the only room in the foyer that looks outwards: an elongated glazed loggia with an almost private atmosphere. Continuing onwards, the ring closes in an area that we saw earlier from beneath as the low ceiling of the streets. The poly­ gons that we saw partially through the openings in the ceiling fold to form an elongated tent roof, glazed on one side. Inside this tent, in a kind of reprise, a second back-and-forth of stairways criss-crosses to and from the hall doors, again one route leading along the wall, the other spiralling down as a deep stair cave. They lead into the hall, onto the gallery or via the spiral staircase back to the foyer plaza. None of these areas are clearly delineated but flow into one another in a spatial continuum. The conscious blurring of the boundaries between them makes it hard to gauge the size and extents of the foyer. And because it is accessed at right angles to the axis of the concert hall, it does not lead via the quickest route to one’s seat but invites visitors to saunter slowly about the foyer. The numerous different possible paths, of differing acceleration and deceleration, and differing excitement and sedateness give visitors ample time to make the transition from the urban realm into the celebratory space of the concert hall. BRIDGING THE VOID: THE FOYER II  The relatively limited, almost minimalistic palette of materials, colours and forms helps unify the general impression. Bright and luminous colours are used only selectively: for example, for a few coloured glass-brick surfaces echoing the rose window, and in the strips of inlaid ceramic mosaic125 in the slate flooring. The

Axonometric of the foyer and auditorium



Developing variation  109

View of Blocks B, C and D

remaining walls are white and vertical, the concrete hall walls are left exposed to show the imprint of timber-shuttering and the external walls are coated with a smooth plaster. The ceilings are likewise white, and the carpets of the bridges and stairs are of a pale green. Slabs of black, silver-grey and greygreen slate lend the flat floor a stony sheen and are laid to emphasise the directions of movement. Where they overlap each other, for example where the flights of stairs project into the room, the rectangular slabs are sliced into parallelograms and trapeziums. The figures of movement that cross through the foyer, like the variety of spaces described above, offer a more varied experience. No constructional variant has been spurned to make them possible: whether hung from the ceiling or docked onto columns, whether supported by pillars or resting on slabs of wall, whether cantilevered from the wall or slung between two levels, we see galleries, tunnels, flights of stairs, bridges and walkways all around us. The many figures of movement include paths that fork or contract, paths that join or cross one

110  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

another, that rise and fall, that are stacked, layered or shifted parallel as well as those that turn and twist in serpentines and spirals, rings and bends. Despite the numerous variations, the figures appear “self-evident”, never contradicting the specific character of their location, and often underlining or even creating it. Parallel shifts, for example, occur repeatedly in the plaza of the foyer, serpentines in the caves, stacking in the wall zones, and forks and rises and falls in the transitional zones. Even in the furthest corner, the architect contrives ­fanciful situations – galleries looking down from dizzying heights – to ensure that these, too, are perceived as part of the spatial continuum. The greater the discrepancy between the walk­able areas and the visible space, the more sublime it seems. Of course, none of these figures of movement are new; they are familiar to us all. But how often do we see so many in one place that they characterise the space itself ? Although the figures recur, our curiosity is sustained as – unlike the architectural vocabulary – no two configurations of paths are the

View of the wedge and supporting wall

View from Block E

same. None purports to be the dominant element, as a traditional monumental staircase would, and movement continues because the central spatial element – the plaza – and the foyer as a whole, can only be properly comprehended from multiple perspectives. With twists and turns, with paths that alternately channel, then scatter, the foyer prepares visitors for that decisive moment, the peripeteia, when they make that all important final step into the concert hall. ONE AND THE OTHER: THE AUDITORIUM  Each of the approximately 30 entrances to the auditorium celebrates the moment of entry in a different way. The entrance to Block A frames the supporting wall opposite as a rugged cliff, while those to Blocks E (the block that most resembles a balcony) and F open funnel-like into the hall. In many blocks one emerges from a trench-like stair canyon, in others one descends from above via stairs, and in a few one arrives “on board” via a walkway. From some entrances, one’s view is drawn gradually along walls and rows of seats down to the



View from Block D

stage, from others one first sees the opposite blocks 30 m away or the underside of the ceiling. The cheaper the seats, the more spectacular the view into the depths of the valley basin. The auditorium in its form and structure has a dialectical quality, which accounts for a large part of its special fascination and differentiates it from most similar buildings around the world. Despite the placement of the orchestra in the centre (though not the geometric centre) of the auditorium, the hall is by no means a centralised space but, like only the Hagia Sophia and a few sacred spaces from the Baroque period, a both centrally-­ oriented and longitudinal space. Beginning from a wedgeshaped wall at the rear, a fold-line in the floor extends the length of the auditorium, interrupted only by the orchestra ­podium, marking the longitudinal axis. Together with the transverse creases in the ceiling, it forms a delicate system of crossing axes. Between the fold in the floor and the creases in the ceiling, the polygonal tiers surround the podium, their irregular distribution diminishing the sense of centrality. One’s impression of the space – whether axial, cross-axial, rotational

Developing variation  111

View from Block D

K H

G E

E

F

F

G

A

B

D

C

C

D

or central – depends on where one sits and the direction of view. While at first glance, the auditorium looks like a concave shell, this is likewise not entirely the case. On the one hand, the light colour of the seating and ceiling is offset against the dark colour of the wall panelling, and on the other, the tiers do not surround the podium harmoniously and uniformly: instead they resist its pull (Block D), point inward but not at the centre (D, E, F, G) or they constrict (Block E) the space, only to extend it again further up (Block G). The massive walls between D and E thrust towards the podium as if trying, along with the wedge, to do all they can to counter the sense of concave centrality through their convex gestures. They are, together with the coloured glass walls, the most visually prominent walls in a building otherwise predominantly defined by the floors and ceilings. They exceed even the white parapets of the terraces that divide the sea of the audience into separate waves of differing steepness. Just like the blocks, some rows of seating are not strictly oriented towards the p ­ odium but look over other sections of the audience. Seeing other spectators, and their reactions, heightens the sense of joint experience and one’s own emotional response. Thanks to the interplay of concave and convex gestures, and the terracing of the audience into individual blocks, many views across the auditorium are composed of a foreground, middle ground and background. Rather than being lost in a mass of spectators, each visitor feels addressed individually, and cannot say for sure whether the room is large or small. Instead of being intimidating, the room is both sheltering and radiating, emanating warmth in long, easy breaths. The dialectic fusion of all these antithetical moments – longitudinal versus central, shell versus slits, centrifugal versus centri­ petal, concave versus convex, mass versus individual – is either restricted to the auditorium or else handled similarly in the hall and the foyer. More fundamental for the building, however, is the dialectic between the auditorium and foyer. MOVEMENT SPACE AND MOVING SPACE: FOYER AND

Floor plan of the auditorium showing the arrangement of the seating blocks

112  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

AUDITORIUM  At the threshold between the foyer and the auditorium, the movement space switches to moving space. Despite the many stairs and folds in the ceiling, the foyer, as a whole, is an upright space. One moves through it but the space itself is immobile, like an assemblage frozen at a moment in time. The auditorium, on the other hand, gives the impression of being in motion: it is as if the shell of the hall is afloat around the immobile listener, like a boat or whale belly amidst the waves. How this pleasant sensation comes about – the ­impression is more or less pronounced depending on location and direction of view – can be explained, at least partially. A floor appears to sway when incline and counter-incline meet, as is the case here along the longitudinal fold-line of the auditorium. In addition, the floors and rows of seats are tilted in two axes, so that they do not project aggressively into the room but mediate smoothly between the different directions,

avoiding all orthogonal references. This two-way incline also gives every seat its own height, strengthening the sense of joint experience. On top of this, the rows of seating are also arranged at an angle to the direction of the blocks, leading to pointed forms with tapered profiles or sawtooth cut-outs in the front parapets. Additional dynamism results from the non-parallel arrangement of the upper and lower edges of the cantilevered volumes. Likewise, the angular placement of the blocks to one another does not reinforce a sense of continuous movement, but rather of movement and counter-movement in the space. During the interval and after the concert, the foyer switches from being a place of anticipation and acclimatisation to a place of reflection and review. Previously, concert hall foyers addressed this, if at all, either through didactic allegorical imagery on the walls and ceiling or through a rather uninspiring

ambience of refined cultivation. This foyer instead inspires both reflective musing and communicative discussion. It offers a space of resonance for the space of celebration and refrains from forcing its own ambience on the visitor. Lux and lumen levels vary little, and all in all the lighting design is ­unobtrusive. In the same spirit, the changes in atmosphere result less from the palette of surface finishes, colours and lighting than from varying densities and configurations of the elements as well as the sizes, proportions, forms and gestures of the space. The resulting almost ascetic design allows both rooms to be experienced as the framework, container and background for the musical and social event as well as self-­ referential architectural design. In the design of the auditorium and of the foyer, the architect has quite obviously resisted the naive temptation to either ­express the range of voices in a symphony or to reference tra-

Auditorium seen from Block D



Developing variation  113

Foyer in daylight

Stair constructions in the foyer

Stair constructions in the foyer

Stair constructions in the foyer

114  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ditional stereotypes for festive buildings. How then, does he realise his avowed aim to give a building an idea appropriate to the activities the building serves, to what he calls its “process”? How does the design of the Philharmonie relate to the process of making and listening to music? “PROCESS” AND SPATIAL STRUCTURE  To supply an

image able to sustain the mental resonance of the music – such would be the quality of a space that corresponds to the “process” of making music. Does the Philharmonie achieve this? For stirring symphonies ranging from Beethoven to Shostakovich, that is certainly the case, and there can be no better auditorium than this, due to their structural – and therefore also dramaturgical – similarity. This music and this hall are both characterised by the constant transformation of their forms, perspectives and illuminations, and a strong sense of self-referentiality among their respective elements; all in all, transition prevails over constancy. For this to resonate with us requires the right measure of challenge and ­reassurance, of the novel and the recognisable, of variety and unity.

Because symphonies are composed, and also appreciated, from multiple perspectives in space and time, they are never fully comprehensible, making them all the more narcotic. The same goes for the architecture: in the foyer, the resonance space, it is the places, the forms of movement, and the threshold situations that permit never-ending variations, while in the celebratory space, the auditorium, it is the seating blocks. In a symphony, the thematic motifs ultimately lead to the dissolution of the central theme into forms of equal standing, thereby overcoming the conventional formula of exposition– development–recapitulation in favour of constant development – a phenomenon labelled since Arnold Schönberg as “developing variation”.126 The “developing variations” of the building of the Philhar­ monie are entirely free of formalism not because the architect refrained from developing a defined formal canon, but because the forms are not replicated from one element to another: the stairs do not taper like the balconies do, the external walls are not tilted like the ceiling of the auditorium, and so on, so that the forms do not become dysfunctional. In other words: it is not the elements that are varied, but the spatial situations they sustain and the interactions with the visitors that they inspire. In the sense of developing variation, the Philharmonie is indeed a symphony in architectural form. The analogies with the extremely advanced construction that a symphony constitutes are specifically expressed – and not through didactic or pedantic means but rather by offering an intensity of experience for our visual faculties as a symphony does for our aural faculties. Here, the use of structure and spatial gestures achieves a more convincing result than an atmospheric work of architecture could. The symphony is frequently invoked as a metaphor for architecture, but that it is most compellingly manifested in a concert hall is more chance than inevitability. That this metaphor is so often amiss and ill-considered is perhaps because, ever since the first performance of Ludwig van ­Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 in 1804, in which the classical romantic symphony with its characteristic interplay of intensity and transitional structure shocked the audience of the day, there has been no building, and certainly no concert hall, that has matched its qualities. Not until 1963, that is, when the Berliner Philharmonie opened to the public.

Volumetric representation of the auditorium, foyer and service area



Developing variation  115

SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURE, YALE UNIVERSITY, NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT, USA Paul Rudolph, 1958 – 1963

Tones and overtones

The Yale School of Architecture found its way into architectural history books through black-andwhite photographs of the building, which in the eyes of both classical modern as well as postmodern proponents made it a paradigmatic example of all that had gone wrong in architecture,127 as well as through the architect’s imposing sectional perspectives. These portray the interior as a dramatic spatial continuum rising to lofty heights. The actual interior as built, however, has been less widely discussed, although every self-respecting East Coast architect holds it in high regard. What can it tell us about the dramaturgy of space?

“Jury pit” in evening use

Fire safety regulations, the “upgrading” of the building from its original, naturally-ventilated design to a conventionally air-conditioned building, the fire in 1969, its changes in programme (which a structure of this kind should naturally accommodate!), the doubling of student numbers over the last 50 years and the relocation of certain functions in 2008 into the adjacent extension by Gwathmey & Siegel, have since ­given the building a different structure to what the drawings suggest. Presently it consists of two double-height halls with perimeter galleries arranged above each other, sandwiched between three single-storey levels. The layout of the floor plan

116  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

is ambiguous: it can be read alternately as a four-faceted ring or as a linear three-aisled structure. Each floor is a different variation of one of these two options: in the exhibition gallery, the centre with the two-storey hall extends out into the side aisles, in the library the centre is occupied by stacks of books, in the studios the floor of the centre is lowered by two steps to form an arena for jury reviews. On some floors it is the parallel arrangement of the side or cross-aisles that dominates, on others it is a diagonal order, due to the raised platforms or lowered bays in the corners. Despite the size of the studios, there are, therefore, also sheltered spaces. Because the ring-

YALE_HASTING_HALL_STAND:13.5.1016 LARS WERNEKE

Lecture hall

Structure of the floor levels: Ring structure vs. three aisles Bottom to top: Lecture hall, library, exhibition gallery, administration, design studios 1–4



Escape stair with galleries

Tones and overtones  117

Staircase

118  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Bench in the staircase

form of the building structure is never fully closed, these variations, as well as the corner access, ensures the space is always in flux, although it generally flows more easily through these mostly level spaces than the street view of the steep reefs outside would suggest. INGENUITY AND PARODY   Perhaps more exciting than these, in themselves somewhat academic, variations in the plan, are the lengths the architect goes to enliven the escape stairs: in place of the usual dumb landings, the architect has fashioned ingenious treasure chambers. They contain reliefs, sculptures, casts and models from numerous different epochs – e­ xhibits of the kind that every architecture school once had. Ingenious, too, is the artificial illumination in concealed



Couch in the transition space between stairs and design studios

Tones and overtones  119

­ iches and its counterpart, a side window with a view. A furn ther ingenious turn is the shifting-back of the landings from the wall, turning them into small galleries. With unabashed elegance, benches with orange pile upholstery invite one to take a seat and enjoy the escape stair as a space for meditative downtime. The most captivating of these miniature architectural set ­pieces, however, is the lecture hall in the basement of the building. Narrow boat-sized stairs lead down to a sea of bright orange textile divided into three by two concrete parapet walls that reach forward like the arms of a swimmer. Although no larger than approx. 22 × 11 m, the room has boxes and balconies as if equipped to host an opera. What it lacks in flexibility, it makes up for with atmosphere and quirkiness. The audience sits either on long elegant benches – no individual seats here – arranged down the central raked section, similar to a traditional lecture theatre; or on the single row of seats on the main balcony, which seems like a fragment transplanted from a big-screen cinema; or in one of the level side aisles, the seats arranged in pairs behind each other like in a bus; or on one of the three (!) single seats in the side balconies, each reached via an own fire door, lending them the status of a VIP box. As the audience takes their seat, they unwittingly become part of an almost ironic scene. Just as the hall gently mocks personal vanities, it also parodies architectural self-importance. Left and right of the screen, two dark-painted casts of ionic capitals sit atop metal rods as if impaled on them mid-film, like something out of Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator. Such is the unabashed good mood of the auditorium that an unsuspecting speaker will inevitably feel suddenly obliged to give his words another last-minute double check.

Lecture hall

A MONTAGE OF TONES AND OVERTONES  The device

Ionic capital in the lecture hall

120  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

of furnishing rooms of different kinds with the same palette of contrasting colours and materials typically aims to give successive rooms a consistent underlying tone, but all too often it can end up levelling everything and eradicating all tension. At the Yale School of Architecture, the opposite is the case: the underlying combination of beige concrete and orange textiles acquires ever new overtones in different situations. In the lecture hall, the orange textiles are like the comfortable lining of a movie theatre; in the staircase, the orange seats are a dash of pop-art in the archaeological caprices; in the jury pits, the ­orange floor marks the arena (which doubles as a badminton court when the professors are away); in the terraced office floors, it has all the disarming optimism of a corporate headquarters from the heyday of the International Style; and in the faculty lounge, together with the fireplace and leather sofa niche, it contributes to the relaxed atmosphere of a club lounge. What’s more, these overtones, and their esprit, multiply as they swing from one scene to the next. What unites them all is a touch of the dandy, a nuance that the colour ­orange brings with it.

This elegant yet history-conscious understatement also characterises the treatment of the concrete: Cary Grant now meets Augustus. Depending on the light, angle and distance of view, the grooved and channelled surfaces can look like miniature geological formations, encrusted like Roman ruins or soft as a fur. Their texture is no less delicate than the silky-smooth ­finish of the fair-faced concrete beams. All the references, citations, parodies and atmospheres of the building ultimately derive from the functionalisation and semanticisation of this single contrast of colours and materials. The Yale School of Architecture is an example of the dramaturgical strategy to successively elicit a highly colourful palette of overtones from a single tonal combination.128 The base

tone serves neither as a banal elaboration of corporate identity nor is its potentially striking quality (peaceful versus lively, hard versus soft, light-absorbent versus light-reflective, absorbing glances and reflecting them, etc.) indiscriminately applied to all situations. Instead, the variety of situations (review, meeting, lecture, study…) allows the overtones (trendy, elegant, casual, comfortable, melancholic) to ring through and resonate back into the respective situation, and furthermore to waft over into the other situations. The experience is so enjoyable that one cannot help but break into a smile at the next surprising situation, and even into laughter in the buried underworld of the lecture hall.

Lecture hall



Tones and overtones  121

NEUE NATIONALGALERIE, BERLIN, GERMANY Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, 1962 – 1968

Four protagonists

The Neue Nationalgalerie adjoins the Landwehrkanal but is situated so high above its surface that one does not see its reflection in the water. Despite its position next to the Potsdamer Brücke, at a transitional point between well-defined urban blocks and the open urban landscape, its self-referential centrality means it does not serve as a mediator. It is placed so close to Potsdamer Straße that visitors see only part of it – for a normal angle of view of approximately 55 degrees, the 65-m-wide roof would require a forecourt 70 m deep, and for the 110-m-wide podium, a depth of 120 m in order to see it all at once. This view could be had from the terrace of the State Library opposite, were it not for the constant traffic between them and trees planted on the left and right that obscure the view of the cantilevered roof. Lacking the view of the roof overhang on either side, we do not see the much-vaunted temple frontage of the building but merely a serially repeating facade.

Podium

To put it bluntly: the Neue Nationalgalerie sits unhappily in its urban surroundings – begging the question as to whether it is, then, even relevant from the point of view of spatial dramaturgy? One rushes up the steps to the podium129 and even much earlier, from far away, one has seen already its most dramatic moment – the most sublime steel and glass pavilion in the history of architecture, so magnificent that most assume all the remaining rooms of the gallery serve this space. These assumptions, as we shall see, are short-sighted: the four main

122  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

spaces of the Neue Nationalgalerie together form a precisely calculated drama in which each act is almost entirely dominated by a different protagonist. The protagonists use their moment on stage not for self-presentation but rather to explore the possibilities of space, direction, views and movement, which is only possible because each is an agent in its own right. THE PODIUM: THE FLOOR  The podium is reached via three flights of steps, of which the main stair is exceptionally wide, the stair from the canal of incidental elegance and the stair from St. Matthew’s Church surprisingly imposing. Once on the podium, the problematic urban positioning is forgotten. The scale and expanse of the building radiates throughout. Floating over the ground of the surrounding city, the podium, with its horizon of heavy coping blocks, pushes the backdrop of the city into the distance, reducing it to a silhouette without depth or ground. On this podium beneath the

Axonometric



Four protagonists  123

expansive sky, other visitors become individual, clearly-delineated outlines. This is the first space of the gallery, defined only by a single bounding surface, the floor, over which the view to the horizon passes. It is a primordial space, a temenos or temple enclosure, that sets the scene for all that is to come. THE HALL: THE ROOF  If the pavilion had equivalent en-

trances on all sides, the podium space could be crossed from outside to inside to outside in any direction. But as discreetly as the entrances and fire exits are sewn into the glass curtain walling, they nevertheless denote the front, back, and sides of the pavilion with the podium as a ring around it. The longitudinal direction implied by the steps of the main stairs contin-

Sequences of sections

124  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ues into the main hall – which is simultaneously entrance hall, stair hall and exhibition hall130 – while the symmetrical positioning of the fixed room elements undermines the idea of a universal space, instead establishing three notional aisles within the square of the hall. The central aisle is free of elements and thanks to the doubling of the revolving doors, descending stairs, wooden boxes, marble shafts and fire exits, neither of the side aisles is more privileged than the other. While the steel strings of the stair slice through the floor, the wooden box stands on the floor, and the marble shafts stand upright and reach towards the ceiling. The treatment, vertical arrangement and materials of these elements articulate a gradual heightening of importance along the longitudinal

axis, which however is marked only at certain points, and therefore remains subtle. As a result, almost all exhibitions work around the axial orientation of the figures and the three aisles rather than emphasising them, and visitors stroll around the different parts of the pavilion rather than striding through it (not least because the position of the stairs near the entrance forces everyone to turn back). More than anything, though, the axial orientation will always be dominated by the ceiling, which floats as a vast slab 8.40 m high, oblivious of the elements and directionality beneath it. The ceiling has no direction. It is frameless and black. Canti­ levering out at its edges, it forms simultaneously the roof but still appears paper-thin as only the underside of the 50-cm-

Hall



Four protagonists  125

Gallery

wide flanges of the I-beams catch the reflected light from the floor while the webs disappear into dimensionless darkness – from which, in turn, spotlights descend, invisibly suspended within the grid. The roof, the undisputed protagonist of the second space, reinforces – through the decomposition of grey to black, the emphatic tracing of the grid and the open, ­column-free interior – the theme of the absolute surface already established by the podium. The vast dimensions and sheer height of the ceiling represent a far more heroic gesture than the raising of the podium out of the ground as a defined smooth surface. Despite the horizontality of both surfaces, one’s gaze does not remain trapped in the horizontal between floor and ceiling but is also drawn upwards to the sheer beauty of the high ceiling. That the ceiling appears to float freely, perceived as an independent plane, is enhanced by the placement of the cruciform columns towards the outer edge, far removed from the glass curtain wall.131 In addition, soon after entering the hall, the lower half of the column shafts are obscured from view by the extending walls of the wooden boxes. Given the beauty of the cruciform columns, this may seem like a design error, only partially excused by the ability it offers to group stairs and box

126  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

into a single figure. The reason for this, and its relevance for the drama of the space, first becomes apparent on descending the stairs. The wall extensions block the view outwards, becoming the front wall of the staircase. In this way they introduce the group of vertically enclosed spaces to come in the floor below. As the internal stairs are simply a means of descent, their diagonals are concealed from general view through their enclosure in surrounding walls. THE GALLERY: THE WALLS  With the podium and hall,

the horizontality and sense of expansiveness is exhausted. The base level inside the podium begins with a contrasting space that is neither inspiring nor exciting: a low, flat hall arranged crosswise with the proportions of approx. 8.5 : 4.8 : 1 that is also dimly lit and therefore comparatively dark. The galleries open off this hall: along its long walls, a cabinet room and a crypt-like quadratic room with four pillars,132 and along its short walls, two wide corridors that each turn a corner. Here too, the three-aisle arrangement recurs, this time in combination with the idea of a round tour, so that a flowing space defined by walls is created (this characteristic is analysed in Part Four, Parameter 4.3, “Body-space relationships”).

Its most powerful moments are the apparently enclosed quadrants, which progressively open up as one proceeds through them. Such rooms, too, require daylight, here provided by a glass front wall that extends the entire breadth of the building, towards and along which the gallery spaces are oriented. The gridded ceiling and carpeting of the galleries recede into the background. Nevertheless the even, noise-absorbing warm grey of the carpet serves as a base that anchors the paintings and sculptures in flowing space, despite the opening of the stabilising bounding walls. In this gallery, it is not the singular surfaces of the floor and ceiling that set the scene but the plurality of the many walls on which the paintings are mounted. In every space, new openings between the walls ­offer glimpses of what is around the next corner. The gallery is like a maze with white, room-high hedges from which the eye plucks the artworks. It is the first and only series of rooms in which one’s view is solely horizontal and movement is actively, or optionally, channelled, especially in the side aisles.

THE GARDEN: THE ENCLOSURE  The maze needs a tran-

quil space as a counterpart, and the low, wide garden provides it. Arranged perpendicular to the main axis, it is an enclosed garden and necessarily so: another dominant horizontal element alongside the podium and flat roof was out of the question, and the perimeter wall corrals the many vertical surfaces of the gallery into a single final enclosing end wall. The main axis down the middle, which is flanked in the main hall and obstructed in the flowing space of the gallery, is crossed by a water basin in the garden. Water, plants, sky, sculptures and reflections in the glass wall soften the hardness of the granite surfaces. The five-sided open space of the garden is the anti­ thesis of the five-sided open space of the podium; its opaque walls the antithesis of the glass walls of the upper hall; the clarity of its enclosure the antithesis of the boundary-subverting flowing space of the galleries; its centrally placed entrance the antithesis of the two symmetrically arranged entrances to the hall; and its long, closed wall the antithesis of the almost plateau-wide stairs to the podium. The garden is the counterbalance and endpoint for the sequence of spaces.

Garden



Four protagonists  127

Repeating and changing properties in the four spaces Plateau

Hall

Gallery

Garden

Accentua­ tion pattern

Serial number

Frequency

Floor

Roof

Walls

Perimeter wall

ABCD

1

6×

Alignment of the DSB

Horizontal

Horizontal

Vertical

Vertical

AABB

2

2×

Material of the DSB

Granite

Steel

Plaster, drywall, paint

Granite

ABCA

3

2×

Colour of the DSB

Grey

Black

White

Grey

ABCA

3

Floor material

Granite

Granite

Carpet

Granite

AABA

4

2×

Wall material

–

Glass

Plaster, drywall, glass

Glass, granite

–ABC

5

1×

Ceiling material

(Open sky)

Coffered steel

Suspended ceiling

(Open sky)

ABBA

6

2×

Number of rooms

Singular

Singular

Plural

Singular

AABA

4

Spatial gesture

Stretched

Upright

Subdivided

Enclosed

ABCD

1

Action

Expand

Float

Stagger

Surround

ABCD

1

Spatial directionality

Centrifugal

Centrifugal

Meandering

Centripetal

AABC

7

Spatial flow

Radiating

Radiating

Flowing

Collecting

AABC

7

Room type

Podium

Pavilion

Labyrinth

Apse

ABCD

1

View

Far

High

Near

Bounded

ABCD

1

Figure of plan

Square

Square

Rectangle

Rectangle

AABB

2

Access

Stair

Glass door

Stair

Glass door

ABAB

8

Entrances

1 (+2)

2

2

1

ABBA

6

Figure of path

Individual paths

Individual paths

Optional paths

Suggested path

AABC

7

Antagonists

Upstand

Freestanding elements

Pillars

Ivy

ABCD

1

Figures

Benches

Blocks

None

Patches

AB–C

9

Atmosphere

Monumental

Monumental

Concentrated

Contemplative

AABC

7

Dominant Spatial Boundary (DSB)

Identical properties share the same background tone

128  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

4×

Stripped plinth during renovation in 2017

FROM SPACES TO SPACE  In the accompanying diagram, we summarise the dramaturgy of space: after the setting out of a plateau follows the act of roofing over, then the subdivision and finally the enclosure of space. The roof holds a central position, the enclosure a lateral one. Space is bounded first by horizontal surfaces, then by vertical ones. This successive bounding of space draws our gaze first into the distance, then upwards,133 then to what lies directly opposite, and finally to the boundary, the horizon of the opaque perimeter wall and the sky. In terms of movement and posture, this sequence stimulates us to wander around the expanse of the first two spaces – additionally looking upwards in the second space – then one is attracted from one situation to the next in the galleries, before being invited to take a seat in the garden, on the only permanently installed benches in the entire building (although the coping stones of the plateau also function as seats). The changes of material likewise follow a slow, staggered progression. While the white ceilings and walls of the stair hall set the scene for the galleries to come, its floor is paved with the same grey granite of the upper hall.134 In fact, the grey of the floor mediates throughout – between the black of the roof and the white of the ceilings and walls. The grey granite shifts into the vertical on the internal face of the garden perimeter wall, underscoring its absolute finality. (Viewing the exposed podium during renovation works in winter 2016–2017, the concrete of the wall structure with its rhythmic pattern of formwork holes was as convincing, if not more so, than the granite facing. The steel pavilion appeared even more sublime against the backdrop of the concrete.) While the roof of the hall is the most dramatic moment of the entire building, it would be merely a singular event were not the three other spaces also dominated by a single main protagonist. This concentration on one single aspect is the fundamental monumental rhythm that underlies this drama and that this drama defines. It also expresses four ideas of spatial



composition to which Mies van der Rohe has made both fundamental and signature contributions: figure and ground, universal space, flowing space and the courtyard house. In this sense, the Nationalgalerie is his legacy. But aside from this, and from all aspects of authorship, it also exemplifies even simpler possibilities of defining space. It does not explore the picturesque, dialectical or intellectual attraction of combining archetypes such as hood, gate, cave, etc. but the overwhelming power of the elementary: floor, ceiling, walls and perimeter wall. The separation of bounding surfaces into individual elements is a fundamental principle that, through the ideas of Frank Lloyd Wright and Theo van Doesburg and the concept of the exploded box, became part of the vocabulary of modernist architecture. In this building, however, the deconstruction of the box is neither refuted nor propagated: instead, the individual elements are placed one after the other in carefully controlled fashion to maximise their effect. Their sequence, orientation, arrangement and spatial definition are so simple, that they can be drawn in the air, as stage or movie directors are wont to do, with just a few hand gestures. The astonishing richness of rhythms, correspondences and complementarities this produces can be shown, as done here, in the form of a matrix.135 In their simultaneity, i.e. when shifted together, the four protagonists would constitute a compact block, a point in time and space. In succession, as here in the Neue Nationalgalerie, they enable time to flow and circulate while still allowing the four spatial types, the three aisles, the two levels with their two open and two covered skies, to be understood as spaces within a space, as incorporations within a single all-encompassing space. In this way, the notional separation of spaces from an imagined body becomes the embedding of the spaces into the cosmic space. In this mental image, the consecutive is made concurrent again, becoming a unity that encompasses multiplicity.

Four protagonists  129

THE PHILLIPS EXETER ACADEMY LIBRARY, EXETER, NEW HAMPSHIRE, USA Louis I. Kahn, 1965 – 1971

Welcome – overview – appropriation

Large stretches of New England are still characterised by a puritanical passion for perfection that holds all metropolitan patina and decay at bay. In the historical town of Exeter, the eight-storey cube with partially windowless openings, rough-worn, irregularly fired brickwork, weathered teak infill and an entrance hidden beneath a stocky colonnade must therefore seem almost like an eyesore. Bearing little resemblance to the neat, small brick town houses, it has more in common with the factory buildings in Lawrence Station that one passes by train on the way to Boston.

Ascending stairs to main hall

WELCOME: DYNAMIC SPACE  On passing through the prosaic entrance, one is met with a welcome that could hardly be more emphatic or more jubilant: two mirrored staircases, outlining a circle, arc upwards, drawing one’s gaze up along their solid outer balustrades into the heights and depths of a space in which vast segments of circles swing in and out of view, intersecting in ever new patterns with each step one takes. This opening gesture welcomes, accompanies, encloses, exhilarates and entices, an effect heightened by the elegance of the travertine lining of the stair and directional wall that greets one after passing through the brick colonnade. In terms of its gestural quality, material elegance, dimensions,

130  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

spatial structure, brightness and views, the entrance contrasts with the facade and colonnade. That the space is compressed and small compared with the hall visible beyond, is a further incentive to hurry on up the stairs. OVERVIEW: VISUAL SPACE  At the top of the stairs, the scene acquires a sense of order: four large oculi, each with a diameter of 12 m, are cut out of exposed concrete walls, which are held together in a quadrant by a vast diagonal cross of ­storey-high beams below a coffered ceiling with nine squares. The library’s catalogue, information and lending desk, reading chairs and bookshelves are grouped around the empty atrium which, through its combination of travertine, exposed concrete and oak wood, balances a sense of refinement, sublime magnificence and comfort. The view of the ceiling, however, seems disappointing. The diagonal cross seems oversized and the various funny shapes produced by the sun glancing across it are an irritation that, together with the sterile linear lamps under the gallery ceilings, detract from the sense of the sublime. The nine squares of the ceiling, too, seem less of a homage to Palladio than a pragmatic coffered

Axonometric



Welcome – overview – appropriation  131

Oculi seen from the 1st floor

132  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ceiling, and, as with all tower interiors, the underside of the ceiling can only be appreciated at the cost of neck strain. This unnatural posture cannot have been intended (however often this view is photographed), and the lines that our eyes follow seem to circulate within the walls’ surfaces, rather than focusing attention on the roof. Looking around the hall, the ordering principles become clear. However, the role of the reader and the book is still unclear: the hall is empty, a critique and recoding of the central reading rooms of 19th-century libraries. It is clearly not a space for reading. But is it sufficient to define it ex negativo, i.e. through what it is not? It is a fountain of light, but only for marginal purposes; it is a reception space, but also a circulation space; it can be used for events, but only occasionally. But more than any of these, it is pure architecture, an absolute space. Although most users pass back and forth through the hall, sensing it in passing more than stopping to consciously appreciate it, they know it is there, its compelling visual quality creating a sense of togetherness. The meditative image of the stylised concrete masks and gentle light from above fills the emptiness. The formal devices, likewise, seem at best questionable: how are we to understand the cross and oculi? Geometrically, symbolically, as part of the construction, or from a phenomenological standpoint? Two factors contradict their appraisal as geometric figures: the clearly marked construction joints in the exposed concrete do not align with the vertices of the circles, and the circular hole is not arranged mid-way up the wall but lower down. This makes the arches over the oculi seem heavy, the sections beneath them very slender. The result is a less static and more elastic system of order. Thankfully, the Exeter Library is an open access library and not a cathedral, so that we can get up close to this modern interpretation of the rose window.

Cavities

APPROPRIATION: HAPTIC SPACE  The upper stories are each structured in three rings: the inner galleries from which readers can cast their gaze downwards into the hall; the ­middle­zone with the bookshelves, and the reading bays, the so-called “carrels”, adjoining the windows. The reader shuttles back and forth between the brick bays of the outer ring, the concrete columns of the middle zone and the high wooden lectern-like shelves of the galleries; between the even light of the hall and the segmented rays of light of the outer ring; between space, mass and back to space; between pondering (galleries), searching (shelves) and assimilation (carrels). Each of the rings has its own materiality and atmosphere. The external ring is additionally subdivided into main floors and gallery floors, around which the carrels are arranged as small reading cabins for concentrated study that recall the motif of Saint Jerome in His Study. Zones for teamwork and discussion are the exception.

Oculi seen from the 3rd floor



Welcome – overview – appropriation  133

View down into main hall

Light blades and deflected light

A BRIEF PHENOMENOLOGY OF THE ARC OF A CIRCLE  In stark contrast to traditional rules of architectural organisation, the stair towers do not open onto the interior but instead present us with a frontal view of the narrow edge of the diagonal corner columns of the hall. This thin line divides the view and subsequent direction of movement into two symmetrical halves. The impression beyond, however, is quite different from floor to floor, each revealing a different sliver of the arcing circle, and therefore presenting a different gesture. On the first floor, the segment arcs towards us in a sail-shape, before disappearing behind the horizontal balustrade and resurfacing again on the far side. The upswinging gesture remains open but no vertex is visible (if one accepts the low gallery ceiling as a horizon and does not lean unduly far out over the balcony). Everything appears to float and swing, offering momentary glimpses of slivers of intermediary spaces. On the second floor, the horizontal vertex of the arc is at eye level. The narrow section of wall fuses with the corner column, resulting in a column with a y-shaped plan that appears neither to be going up nor down. Without the extending arc to lead the eye, the fragments of the other circles on the other side seem far away. The corners and the entire galleries are calm and balanced. On the third floor, by contrast, one is surprised by the taut energy of the “segmental arc” as it projects

134  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

away from the corner into the room as if shot from a bow and arrow. As one progresses along the gallery, they direct one’s gaze not upwards with the arc but downwards into the room. They appear heavy and laden with gravity, the 6.50-m-high section of wall above resting on its shoulders. On the fourth floor, finally, the circles rise only slightly like half-open eyelids. From both the upper galleries, the hall has a festive quality. This is not only due to the change in gesture and metaphor – from a sail to a vault – but also in the changing quality of light. The crossing beams, their purpose unclear from below, function – as it is well known – as light blades that direct incident light downwards. This makes sense to protect the books against direct light and still provide the users with natural daylight. But the way in which they modulate the light means that only one or two of the four walls actually reflect light, heightening the contours of the room and lending it a sense of serenity unperturbed by patches of light. Only on the light blades themselves does one see such slivers of light, but here, as before with the view from below, it does not relate to an architectural operation: a circular opening is not a pointed opening; it does not draw one’s view over the top of the circle. Those who look up at the ceiling are, therefore, glancing inside the box of tricks instead of appreciating the magic.

SPIRITED ORDERING PRINCIPLES  What makes the or-

dering principles come alive is that they are not forcefully-­ authoritarian but interdependent: the smaller aspects make apparent the purpose of the larger ones. The inner galleries, for example, not only provide access to the rows of bookshelves but also help us comprehend the qualities and mode of operation of the oculi and light blades. This interplay appears spirited also in the measured and localised presence of the participating elements. Where the forms are monumental and expressive, as in the hall, the light is shapeless; where incident light is rhythmic and animated, as in the reading zone, the forms are restrained. And finally, a further factor is that the ordering principles do not attempt to control and contain the forces at play but reveal how they pass smoothly from one aspect to the next. This applies equally to the placement and proportioning of the openings as it does to the detailing of the frames and their infill panels, to the joining of the constituent parts, large and small, as well as to the layering of materials both vertically and horizontally. Details that elaborate such principles include the del-

Cross-section through the three ring zones



icate embedding of the slate treads in the concrete steps instead of on top of them, or the treatment of the oculus: here it has less to do with the ideal form of the circle as it is does with the changing tension of the arc of its curve in which the heavy wall above bears down on the curve and in return its weight is borne below and reflected back in an upward swing. This example clearly reveals why Louis Kahn cites another unsurpassed master of in- and out-swinging movements, namely W. A. Mozart, as chief witness of his understanding of order.136 Ultimately, we find this architecture so engaging because its articulation of forces resonates directly with us, reflecting the tensing and relaxation of our own muscles.137 A further reason why we respond so directly to its signals is that it follows the traditional plot of domestic hospitality: the sequence from a welcoming, dynamic and transitional threshold space (the entrance and stairway) to a room that provides a visual overview (the salon) and finally to a haptic space that we can appropriate (the things and actions). Rarely have such elementary rules been so artfully – but not artificially – applied to a public building as in the library in Exeter.

Reading carrels

Welcome – overview – appropriation  135

UNDERGROUND RAIL PAVILION, FEHRBELLINER PLATZ, BERLIN, GERMANY Rainer G. Rümmler, 1967 – 1971

Index and excess

Entrance pavilions are built wayfinding systems. Hurried commuters take notice of the verbal and numbered signs, but the building design also at least subconsciously influences the users’ orientation, speed of movement and state of mind. We demonstrate this by describing a route – also traced in the axonometric drawing – through the Fehrbelliner Platz underground railway pavilion in Berlin.

Ascending stairs

BUILT FIGURES OF MOVEMENT  Passengers arriving by train and from the underground distribution level see a large drum above them floating over the stair landing and cutting into the side walls. This, and a canopy roof that tapers to a point, signal that they are entering a complex force field. The thick red borders of the entrance canopy direct one’s gaze and impulse to the tip of the roof. On the right-hand side, a volume in front of the roof comes into view shortly before a second, closer volume obscures it. The eye follows this to the point where the traveller must change direction to see the other end of all these staggered elements. The interior’s bounding surfaces therefore condition the traveller to hurry up the stairs and once at the top, to turn 180°. Here too, as the next endpoint comes into view, the ceiling transitions into a rounded canopy that, as before, directs one’s view and movement in a broad arc to the left in the direction of the street. Through these means, the passage is perceived as a large S-curve composed by the ceiling and walls.

136  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Stepping out of the S-curve onto the pavement, we see the next endpoint of the building – a tall “spool”, around which everything winds – before a series of staggered, tangentially placed volumes shift into view between the traveller and the spool. As one proceeds onwards, turning at the end, it becomes clear that the drum seen earlier over the stair landing extends upwards into a clock tower.138 ARTFUL DEVICES  The path through the building demonstrates in an exemplary manner five fundamental architectural devices that define the drama of the spaces:

Announcement: By using the ceiling to announce and in­di­ cate the direction of movement before the actual space comes into view and walls to constrict the space of movement, changes in direction can be effected in a small space. The ceilings and walls work in relay using visual and haptic means, in which the latter put into effect what the former have already indicated.

Axonometric showing the path taken through the station



Index and excess  137

Interleaving: By showing first the more distant element, and then bringing the closer element into view, the sequence of views and sequence of steps are interleaved. This phasing creates successive moments of deceleration, surprise and renewed acceleration. This can be seen in the situation between the stair and passageway (1-3-2) as well as in the situation from passageway to external wall (1-2-5-4-3), as the storyboard shows. Metamorphosis: The division and merging of sections of wall means that they appear alternately as a plane, volume or skin. Transition: The transitions between taut directional walls and dynamic rounded corners create a continuous surface that ensures the energy of movement is continually propelled forward seamlessly in a kind of relay. Ambivalence: The red tiled walls throughout blur, relativize or invert the boundary between inside and outside. As with a hedgerow garden, the compartments flow into one another.

Storyboard of views along the path taken

The passage through the interior is both a generator of movement as well as an index. It celebrates a certain excess, that little bit extra, by doing more than is absolutely necessary – but it also does it in an illuminating way. The rhythm of the interior closely matches that of the traveller: the arriving passenger first sees the underground station through the fixed windows of the carriage, zipping past as a horizontal film strip to the acoustic rhythm of the track joins and the visual rhythm of the vertical edges. In the station pavilion above ground, this same rhythm recurs in the breaking down of closed wall surfaces into separate offset wall sections. Step by step, they come into view, measuring subconsciously the travellers progress. They not only suggest the impression of speed, they also stimulate it. RED  Generator, index and excess – the pavilion is all of

these, but only due to its lining of red mosaic tiles, hard and shiny. The shade of signal red – not too yellow and not too blue – seems to attract from afar, and repel from close up. No other colour and no other degree of shine would have given the relay team of the walls such a strongly directional and accelerating effect. In front of the stiff manifestations of National Socialist administrative architecture on Fehrbelliner Platz, this supple, fire-red dragon of a station looks like it was sent over from Swinging London into West Berlin’s British Sector, as an object lesson of a built figure of movement.

138  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

View back

Passageway

Shot of street view



Reverse shot

Index and excess  139

ABTEIBERG MUSEUM, MÖNCHENGLADBACH, GERMANY Hans Hollein, 1972 – 1982

Revue in fragmented space

The Abteiberg Museum lies next to the Romanesque minster and a Baroque priory on a prominent hillside site whose topographical qualities gave rise to the founding of the abbey, and with it of the city more than 1,000 years ago.

Entrance level

Just a few steps into one’s descent, still in the belvedere, one finds oneself turning through 180° – and not for the last time in this tour of hills and caves. Throughout this expansive ­museum, one encounters such “pivot points” where the direction changes sharply and the otherwise elastic, loosely sweeping space is pulled together, as if with drawstrings, to a point ­usually marked by a circle or cylinder. Here, at the entrance, a narrow stair gulley opens onto a circular platform already within the museum so that one arrives with one’s back to the main direction of the museum and the ticket desk immediately ahead, or just behind. Looking around, the platform offers us half a dozen views of interior spaces, their different lighting atmospheres wafting over to us alluringly: subdued diffuse light from the shed roofs of the temporary exhibition rooms, cold light from the neon ceiling lights, golden sunlight streaming in through the glazed wall of the entrance hall, warm light from the artificial lighting of the corridor and ­ticket desk, next to it bright, glistening light from a glazed “canyon”, and cinema-esque darkness in the cave-like audiovisual room.

140  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

FRAGMENTED SPACE  The bewildering choice of different spaces and options makes it immediately clear that this museum is comprised of different fragmentary pieces through which one picks one’s way, and not of neutral spaces with a defined path or circuit through them. Instead, it invites visitors to use their own initiative, proclaiming freedom of choice, and employing the devices of discovery, surprise, confusion and ultimately exhaustion. They can relax outside in the garden, or in one of the four fitted sofas, which here too catapult visitors into different worlds: the domestic floral sofa in front of the lecture hall gently mocks the enlightenment-seeking middle classes; the leather sofa nestled into an angular marble block is chic coolness; the wine-red curved bench cites ­Viennese coffee house banter; and the soft couch with a view of the minster co-opts relaxing couples into being part of a scene from a travel brochure. In amongst this quartet of sofas, one can sense the presence of Freud, Loos and the sofa-cen­ tric German comedian Loriot, but Panton and Wright and Scharoun are likewise sewn into their seams.

Axonometric



Revue in fragmented space  141

Hollowed blocks

Stair blocks, temporary exhibition galleries and “rice terraces” descending the slope

142  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Ceilings above the cubes

Overlap of entrance level/cubes

What makes this fragmented space so unexpectedly dynamic is only apparently its spirit of anything goes. In reality, its order is only dissimulated by interrupting the stairs at such opportune moments that visitors find themselves stopping to look around at every turn and landing, and, before they know it, head off into a new group of spaces. Nowhere else does the passage of space and of time diverge so markedly. One wanders back and forth as if stepping in and out of parallel plots. In the interests of better clarity, we will interpret the different situations in terms of their spatial characteristics, of which there are four groups: levels, halls, block and caves. THE LEVELS  Despite the decorative neon-light ceiling and

the dense grid-like forest of columns through which one passes diagonally, the low, expansive entrance hall and the largely identical garden level are dominated by their white marble floor. Here, visitors tend to cluster in small groups, exchanging spontaneous opinions, rather than quietly looking at art. It is, as Joseph Beuys proclaimed, a space to keep art, not to



exhibit it (his Revolutionsklavier from 1969 is part of the museum’s collection). The levels are interspersed with stairs, vistas and sections of wall, though none are dominant or monumental, and its spaces make no pretensions to the sublime, not even where the hall meets the exhibition spaces and extends 10 m up. As these floors have no point of rest of their own, the works of art placed on the ground assume this role. THE EXHIBITION HALLS  The array of square exhibition

halls is entered diagonally by cutting room-high slots in the corners of the room (Hans Hollein’s so-called “clover-leaf ­circulation principle”). Unlike the two other levels, the exhibition halls with their white, neutral backgrounds are primarily for paintings and wall installations – which in this museum can only mean that the floor and ceiling of the exhibition halls define the moods of the space in different ways. After all the “expensive” marble of the levels, the “cheap” industrial floor on the top floor comes as a surprise, and together with the shed roof and large-format paintings by the likes of

Revue in fragmented space  143

Glazed vault

Ribbed dome

Coffee table

Couch in café

Light bulb

Bar in café

Apsides

Stage

Thematic variations of the circul ar arc motif (see also p 233, “Transposing correspondences”)

144  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Domed rooflight

Entrance desk

Bay in café

Sculptural hall

Cylinder

Audio-visual room

Three-quarter circle

Narrowing-widening stairs

Circular podium

Entrance mat zone

Stair and couch

Wall with bitten-off section

Bridge

Coffee table

Waiting area



Concave stair

Hole in wall

Museum attendant’s seat

Revue in fragmented space  145

Gerhard Richter or Sigmar Polke, it evokes the atmosphere of factory ateliers of the kind these artworks were probably painted in. On the middle floor, the marble floor and two ringshaped ceiling rails for spotlights make it possible to place and illuminate exhibits as required on the floor or walls. The light grey carpet of the lower ground floor, together with the gridded suspended ceiling (already frowned upon at the time of the museum’s opening) places the expressionist paintings in a semi-Miesian, semi-office interior atmosphere, which contrasts markedly with the burning hot desire for freedom of the paintings, making them stand out dramatically. Passing through these three variants of top-lit rooms is like a gallop through the liberation of the arts and their places of production and presentation in the 20th century. Lower level

Transition to lower level/cubes

THE STAIR BLOCK  Most visitors will not pass through the three exhibition hall compounds in turn, as semi-circular and angular steps at the edges of the split-level floors invariably succeed in enticing one into another part of the levels or into crossing to another area. There, on the hillward side of the building, the belvedere and entrance channel continue onwards to a stair block that leads the visitor into ever more dizzying situations. The tower form of the stair is not immediately apparent as its flights are offset to one another and thus concealed from one another, resulting in a whole territory of intermediary and residual spaces. The motif of the circular landing seen earlier recurs in ever new variations. It slices into the stair block, creating convex and concave curves moving upwards and downwards without one being quite sure where they came from. For example, a fragment of a circular landing is augmented one floor lower down by an apse at right angles to the room, which then serves a corresponding cryptic purpose. In the staircase, as elsewhere in the museum, the tectonic and graphical motifs and themes have been carefully and meticulously orchestrated. The spaces wrested from the block proceed directly on to those wrested from the hill in a play of subtracted forms: roofed over by segmental pyramidal roofs or enclosed by wavy lines like an Aalto vase, with and without gallery. But while the room forms vary, the materials of the marble floor and white walls remain consistent, ensuring spatial cohesion. THE CAVES  Although the white of the walls is never ster-

Audio-visual room

146  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ile, its atmosphere changing constantly with the quality of light – from skylights and sidelights, natural light and artificial light, shed roofs and domes, spotlights, fluorescent tubes, naked light bulbs and wallwashers – the architect chose to stylise those rooms with special functions in bright pop-art colours: the lecture hall with green-white spring colours, the children’s room with Orangina-coloured orange-blue, and the small cinema in the black-red of a nightclub. The cafeteria is a veritable whirlwind of disassociation and surrealism: the round tables – mostly of white plastic – are distributed loosely

about the space, but occasionally a blue table bites into a bend in the wall, and elsewhere a fancy green marble table is supported on two vast chrome exhaust pipes that extend out of the tailgate of a couch. The large regulars’ table in the bay ­window is covered with a layer of light beige marble-effect ­linoleum that looks suspiciously similar to the PVC tiles on the floor, whereas the bar counter is real marble. Photographs of marble appear again on the Formica door panels of the toilets. What should one make of this battleground of the beautiful, the false and the all-too-authentic?

–– The self-assurance with which the exhibition areas exercise restraint and the caves open exhibitionism next to one another, without contaminating either, is compelling.

REVUE IN FRAGMENTED SPACE  This museum has no particular peripeteia or moment of catharsis; it is neither heavy and sombre nor delicate and light-footed; and no single element dominates or exudes sublime grace. What it does have, however, is an air of relaxed nonchalance, and a fair portion of wit, a clever retort always up its sleeve. The museum is what one could call a revue. A revue is characterised by flat hierarchies, by loose relationships between its parts, that are relatively interchangeable in order, by their rich colour, intensity, polish, brilliance, elegance and tempo. In the early 1980s, architecture finally embraced the re-appropriation of history, brought about by a renewed openness towards built historical references. All too quickly, however, this movement degenerated into a farcical play of forms, and fell into disrepute. So, what makes us keep coming back to this revue 30 years later? Why do its dramaturgical concepts – its irritations and exuberant spatial diversity – continue to f­ascinate us time and again? Why has this ensemble of disjointed fragments stood the test of time? Here, an attempt at an ­answer:

–– The richness of the development of themes and motifs, ­especially of the circle, lends the individual moments a sense of inner coherence.

–– The evocation of other worlds is not merely erudite citation, nor merely symbolic or emblematic, but always atmospherically charged. –– The laconic approach to infusing and combining everyday aspects with deeper meaning sidesteps all delusions of epic grandeur (despite the underlying epic structure of parallel plots).

–– The cleverness with which large-scale spatial sequences are augmented by smaller-scale pockets of space also gives smaller works of art their own presence. –– The adroit skill with which the presence of an order is concealed makes space and time for personal discovery.

This collection of fragmented spaces can only achieve this by not subscribing to a higher overall dramaturgical structure, but instead venturing – and taking the considerable gamble – to be purely a revue, both in form and in content. And ultimately, it manages just that: by ensuring that its presentation of art is not arbitrary, it proves to be a dazzling revue of exciting decades of spatial experimentation and the liberation of the arts. On the one hand, as a collection of specific spaces, it stimulates artists to produce specific installations that enter into a symbiosis with the space. And on the other, it refers to the context of the production and the reception of the works of art. It provokes the production of art, and it reproduces, symbolically, the conditions of its production and reception. These are the central themes of this revue. Conceived only four years after 1968, this antithesis to an art bunker still manages to evoke those brief periods in history when utopias seemed within reach and plurality free of ideology seemed possible; those moments in which one could pay homage to both Mies and Venturi at the same time, and when marble and plastic could sit together at the same table. This building has the inventiveness and relativistic independence, the temerity but also the timidity of such epochal moments. It puts postmodernism to shame that this libertarian moment passed by so quickly – in Germany producing little more than a single building.

–– The impudence with which high-brow and low-brow, taste and kitsch, vulgarities and pretension are pitted against each other, leaves no visitor unscathed. Homeric laughter rings in the air.



Revue in fragmented space  147

THERMAL BATHS IN VALS, GRISONS, SWITZERLAND Peter Zumthor, 1986 – 1996

Transcending the station drama

Vals lies in a mountainous region of Rhaetian ­Switzerland in a side valley at a height of 1,250 m. Situated in close proximity to a white hotel building from the 1960s, the thermal baths look from above like a grassy plateau veined with strips of glass and from below like a group of stereotomic sawn blocks of rock on a carpet of green grass.

Gallery between changing rooms and bathing area

THE SPACE  The thermal baths building has no entrance; visitors enter from the hotel via underground corridors painted black. From this delaying moment, one progresses to the prologue: a long tunnel onto which four water spouts pour water continuously down the concrete walls, painting semi-circular patterns of iron deposits on the slate floor, their sedimentations denoting the accumulation of time as a memento mori. From the changing rooms lined with polished red mahogany one steps directly out onto a gallery affording a general view of the large pool. As one proceeds along the ­gallery – like a film camera on a dolly – large slate blocks, some longitudinal, some at right angles, pass in front of one another, offering momentary glimpses of the meadow opposite and the occasional hayloft and rocky outcrop strewn across it (see

148  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Storyboard on p 226). Parallel to the gallery, a stair with long, shallow steps leads gently downwards, slowing one’s pace, perception and pulse with each step. From the gallery, one can already see that the building is oriented around a central space in which a square basin lies surrounded by an inner ring of four blocks arranged in windmill fashion, a perimeter walkway and a second outer ring of blocks. As all the blocks are slightly offset to one another, they form ever new constellations when walking around, framing images anew in different ways: sometimes they lead downwards, push into space or obscure the view; sometimes they direct one around the corner or enclose a space before, a few steps later, revealing a new opening. This play of concealing and revealing recurs again and again. Naturally, the inner

Axonometric



Transcending the station drama  149

s­ urfaces of the external walls also shift back and forth like the internal blocks, even though the outer surface of the thermal baths is a perfectly cut rectangular solid. The space therefore gestures not only inwards but also reaches outwards. In addition, the space pushes into the body of the thick blocks, transforming them into walled containers of small pockets of space. Only once, when in the pool, is a block in front completely unobstructed, the glazing positioned to its left and right, halting the spectacle of flowing space for one brief ­moment. The space also follows a second ordering principle of parallel strips: after a service zone follows a gallery and stair, then the pool zone, and at the front a zone with loungers. The superimposition of rotational and parallel arrangements, the cut-out in the cube resulting from the outdoor pool – the antagonist in the configuration – and the careful balancing of centripetal and centrifugal forces through the measured placement of the blocks gives ever new impulses to the experience of wandering around the baths. As such, the paths between the stations in this drama are never merely intermediary spaces or interim periods. THE POCKETS  The blocks with their narrow entrance pas-

Central pool

150  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

sageways offer no indication of what is within and thus have a secretive quality. It takes a moment to muster the courage to enter. After the sombre prologue and the central hall, one expects, here too, that the stillness of the layers of slate would be celebrated. But the tall, tower-like pockets of space turn out to be remarkably communicative. They are not afraid to tap into conventional synaesthesia – the 14° pool has blue walls, the 42° pool red concrete walls – or to evoke images of a particular milieu – as with the golden drinking fountain with its brass cups on chains and walls clad with vertical panels of slate reminiscent of the ashlar stonework of town houses – or to conjure up, with black covered walls, the atmosphere of a recording studio in which one hears Fritz Hauser’s wonderful sounding stones composition Wanderungen (wanderings)… or to resort to the cliché of a grotto-romanticism in those pockets where underwater spotlights cast a play of flickering light over the rough wall surfaces… or alternatively to employ exaggeration: the showers are surreally high with taps like machine wheels and gigantic swivel arms with a ball as knob. “Hot” and “Cold” are engraved legibly in brass panels, two of the very few signs in the building. The showers are a homage to the times in which pleasantly warm pressurised water was a novelty, a symbol of utopian hope, and at the same time a humorous dialogue with assemblages of the kind produced by Max Ernst or Neo Rauch, in which riddle-like arrangements obscure the reason and purpose of communicative pipework. All these pocket conversations heighten one’s appreciation of the utilitarian aspects: the clock pillars, handrails, towel rails and outside doors, all made of brass, and the exceptionally elegant and comfortable mahogany loungers.

THE LIGHT  The thermal baths building is a Miesian flow-

ing space. The dissolution of the closed box into a system of walls with continuous ceilings and floors creates circulation and surprise not using changes in atmosphere or decoration but through changes in direction. But what makes this dramatic interplay of flowing space and the space-harbouring blocks even more fascinating for bathing guests (ironically seeking relaxation) is a third factor that is common to all works of architecture, but is only rarely quite as compelling as it is here: daylight. The usual, changeable light shining over the edges of ceilings in sharp lines diagonally across the walls does not project far into the interior due to the depth of the walls, and has little atmospheric effect. Instead, it is light entering via narrow slots in the ceiling that modulates a semi-dark interior, throwing certain parts of the blocks into sharp relief yet without creating glare. There are four main lighting situations: –– If the slot is arranged freely in space, without meeting a block, it functions as a clear delineator of direction. –– If the slot ends at a cross-wall, the light spills down the wall in a cone, growing gradually softer. –– If the slot meets the corner of a block, it emphasises the ­corner line, heightening the contrast between the two sides of the block. –– If the slot lies along the edge of a wall, it washes down the wall highlighting the textural relief and colours of the slivers of slate, emphasising that wall in relation to the other walls in semi-darkness. The slots of light divide the ceiling into a collection of exposed concrete slabs, diminishing their sense of weight, especially as at these points the blocks appear to extend up through the ceiling. Light also becomes a metaphor of water, for example where a hard, long line of light meets the cross-walls and spills down like a mountain stream over a rock face. The intensity and tonality of the images created by the light varies depending on the position of the sun, but its angle of projection does not, such is the narrowness of the slot and the thickness of the ceiling, causing all rays to fall vertically. THE NIGHT  When, out of the room-high glazing, one sees not mountain peaks and grassy meadows but the black of the night, the centripetal effect begins to dominate. The pool glows turquoise. When empty, it lies so still that it could almost be one of Roni Horn’s bubble-free poured glass masses. It feels sacrilegious to disturb the surface and even the handrails acquire a certain sublime quality in the serenity of the scene. If the water is in motion, the ripples lap more invitingly than ever on the steps into the pool. In either case, the windmill-like figure of the pool becomes more apparent, countering the centripetal rigidity of the space.



The pendant lights hang orange-golden from the ceiling in interrupted lines. Artificial light is used so sparingly that the spatial boundaries meld into a mass. The space that during the day is so obviously composed by its distinct bounding elements becomes a large cave, surrounded by an indistinct sculptural mass. Where the night is not forcibly dispelled, it has a unifying and monumentalising effect. During the day, the outdoor pool lacks the secretive quality of the interior, but at night the turquoise waters of the outdoor pool and the dark blue of the night sky, separated by the black of the mountains and the grey of the slate blocks, combine to form a sublimely simple night-time scene composed of these four colours. And should one be one of the last to leave the thermal baths, one discovers that the iron-painting water spouts, fed, one supposes, by the mountain, have ceased to flow. A FIELD OF OPTIONS  That the thermal baths as a build-

ing type is a station drama (see p 81) is immediately apparent. In Vals, the expression of this type of drama is taken to the extreme through the isolation of the various stations. But, by breaking apart the traditional linear progression from one to the next, the thermal baths become a field of options. The six-sided enclosure of each individual station maximises the intensity of their inner worlds. Because they are externally identical but internally different, the act of entering and engaging with the space never loses its drama. But the act of slipping into these pockets, and of revealing their delicate secrets, is a comparatively small dramolette compared with the actual drama. This takes place outside the stations in the space between them. It is by no means merely a bathing hall but, figuratively speaking, an entire city with squares, houses, alleyways, openings and bays. The space is also an almost demiurgical endeavour: through its built structure, it attempts to obscure the rotation of sunlight, reducing the course of the day to the perpetuation of a light situation, and reducing light to only its tonal qualities, its colour and intensity. This immobilisation of time gives the space, despite the noise of its visitors, a magical tranquillity. By attempting to halt the unstoppable, it gives this one single quality of light, its tonality, a state of constancy. As the nuances of tonality, however, cannot be frozen, just as the shifting blocks cannot freeze the flow of space, the interior, like any great work of art, continues to captivate us. Only those visitors who “know” all the stations are freed from its spell. The station drama is therefore sublated, in the Hegelian sense: it is both upheld as well as transcended.

Transcending the station drama  151

LA CONGIUNTA, GIORNICO, TICINO, SWITZERLAND

Peter Märkli, 1989 – 1992

Linear narrative

Giornico is a small mountain village in the canton of Ticino with two Roman bridges and seven churches. Passenger trains no longer stop here, but goods trains continue to roll through at regular intervals. On the walls of the houses, hand-lettered signs proclaim “Gendarmeria” or “Bar Sport” in faded letters. The key for La Congiunta (“the female relative”) can be obtained from an Osteria that time seems to have passed by. The building lies on a meadow between a stream and railway line, between the village and vineyards, and its entrance lies on the far side from the direction of approach. Scholars of styles and symbolism may interpret its form as being sacred or utilitarian, brutalist or neoplastic. But the building can only really be understood through its interior. On opening the galvanised metal door, one sees a succession of three cross-walls, each of different brightness.

No lobby, no cash desk, no shop, just a sign. No lamp, no switch, no alarm system, just an electrical socket. No water, no toilet, no tap, just the sound of rain falling on the roof. Seven thresholds, no door frames; seven openings, one door. Three rooms, four chambers, seven skylights, no windows. No screed, no skirting boards – just an exposed concrete floor. No plaster, no wood, no stone – the walls are exposed concrete. No shuttering textures, just joint marks. The ceiling is made of steel and wood composite board with slatted vents, all painted grey. The skylights, made of translucent fibreglass, have since yellowed. Nothing is smooth and nothing ostentatiously rough. It is just there.

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Entrance

This building does not just give the impression of being archaic; it is archaic. Why three rooms and four chambers? Why all the same width, but different lengths and heights? Why is the room of a different kind than the other boundaries? How do the spaces correspond to the exhibits? These are the questions that can tell us about the building’s spatial drama. MEASURED AND MEASURING  The different heights of

the clerestory ribbon windows determine the brightness of the rooms, which is reflected by the series of cross-walls one sees through the enfilade of openings. The sequence of dim– light–dark corresponds to high–low–higher and to short– long–long. After the most balanced of the rooms follows the brightest and most elongated, and finally the most dramatic, its ceiling not immediately in view. It is a linear progression that heads onwards towards a climax but ends instead at a closed, forbidding wall. Four small chambers off to one side offer an opportunity to release the accumulated tension.

Axonometric



Linear narrative  153

Backwards view of room 2

View into room 3

The step-high thresholds make the transition from one room to the next a conscious act of entering and departing. With this step comes a palpable change in atmosphere. The building is not measured in metres but with respect to the size of a person and their movement: the doorless openings are the height of a person with raised arm, the thresholds two feet, the two longer rooms 20 steps long, the openings to the chambers little more than a person plus one handspan high. The enfilade of openings is not exactly centrally aligned but instead two steps from the rear wall. We feel in the centre of a space when its axes meet at the point where we are, much like Schmarsow has written.139

View into room 1

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DISTANCES  The axis of the path through the building determines the distance one stands from the sculptural reliefs by Hans Josephson, the artist and friend of the architect for whose works the museum was built. They are all hung with their upper edge slightly above eye level. The concrete walls do not compete with the rough bronze of the artworks, but also do not disavow them with museum-like slickness. The end walls are vacant so that all exhibits are placed at right ­angles to the direction of movement: as such, the viewer must always first turn to face the work of art. Because the destination wall does not serve as endpoint and destination, and because one long wall becomes the exhibit wall and the other the rear wall, each room has its own inertia, slowing the linearity of the progression. In the first room, the earlier low-reliefs are hung opposite one another, in the second room, eight reliefs follow in a row, in the third, four more alternate with those placed in the room, which the visitor encounters as monumental half-height figures. The placement of these figures changes the distances, inviting the visitor to look from up close at the three reliefs in

View into a chamber

View back from room 3

each of the small chambers. These small chambers are inviting, not just because of their size and the intimacy with which one can experience the artworks, but also due to the soft yellowish light that differentiates these spaces from the white light of the main rooms. The linear progression of spaces in La Congiunta is not the concrete articulation of phases of work in the artist’s œuvre, but is used instead to subtly interweave them. APPROPRIATENESS  At first glance, the impression one has is of entering a tomb. The absence of a transverse axis, the sequential row of reliefs, and particularly the view of the four openings to the chambers awaken associations with ancient Egyptian temples and royal tombs. The unpretentious matter-of-factness and weightlessness of the ceiling, however, contradicts this impression. Instead of theatrical “Egyptian” spotlights, we see a Swiss industrial ribbon window; instead of a stone roof, we see multiplex panels. This stylistically inconsistent juxtaposition shows that rather than to awe the visitor, the intention is to strive for appropriateness. The building is not too large and not too small: the exhibits and the visitor are given just the space they need for themselves and an appropriate sphere in combination. Despite the severe austerity of the building, the spaces are not strenuous, and the nuanced differences dispel any possible sense of monotony. What varies are the numeric dimensions, and therefore also the light and the hanging of the exhibits. What remains constant are the materials and details. The number three is an obvious choice of dynamic number sequence, as, aside from the traditional, balanced A-B-A combination, it makes it possible to shift positions or establish lines of development using two contrasting extremes and a mediator. It can have a climax in all three positions and find



Returning view

its balance in the play between them. It can be an A-A-B, an A-B-B, an A-B-C or an A1-A2-A3 progression, or – as in this case – can combine different progressions for the different parameters (length: A-B-B: height: B-A-C, width: A-A-A, brightness: B-A-C, hanging of exhibits: A+A-A-A+B, materiality: A-A-A, etc.). The design possibilities of a three-room progression could be systematically examined in the same way that Andrea Palladio, John Hejduk and Peter Eisenman have done with the nine-square problem. For the chambers to act as a means of discharging the tension that has accumulated successively over the three rooms, they must also form a series: a single chamber would be too small on the one hand and too important on the other as it would be perceived as either an afterthought or an attempted point of climax. Two chambers form a pair, and therefore a group of their own, while a group of three is a diminutive repetition of the main room sequence. The only appropriate solution is therefore a succession of four chambers. Those who visit La Congiunta leave the door open. The murmur of the stream, and the noise of the road and the trains, help cement the impression of permanence. On the way out, the light-dark series of walls no longer stimulates movement – the cross-wall to the entrance room follows too soon after that of the middle room to create a substantial enfilade effect in the frame of the door opening. Instead, we are motivated by a view of the green vines beyond. And the satisfaction of ­living in an age that values the creation of such congiunte.

Linear narrative  155

THE NEW ART GALLERY, WALSALL, GREAT BRITAIN Caruso St John, 1995 – 2000

Competition – dominance – compensation – cohabitation

Massive and yet elegant, playful and yet restrained aptly describes this stretched cube that rises like a compact fort out of the silhouette of the industrial town of Walsall in the British Midlands. With such a small footprint, can it be more than a stack of floors? And what does it do to persuade one to scale its heights on foot?

Entrance hall

COMPETITION  The entrance hall surprises one with its width and height, the size of its stairs and the warmth of the reddish-blond wall panelling of Douglas fir. Although it is the most obvious bounding element, the panelling does not dominate the atmosphere of the hall but merely balances the coolness of the black screed floor, the ribbed concrete ceiling and partially concrete, partially white plasterboard sections of wall.140 The monumental staircase appears almost as a formally autonomous element but leads neither to a corresponding portal nor into the (non-existent) depths of the building, leading instead to a narrow stair that disappears upwards behind the ceiling in the dark recesses of the building.

156  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

These two gestures – an ostentatious welcome followed by a secretive lure – are visible immediately, as the room and stair, unlike most traditional monumental configurations, is not approached frontally but diagonally. This reveals the key contrasting, and from the viewpoint of the visitor competing, qualities of the entrance hall: the warm-cold contrast of the surfaces, the dark-light contrast of the illumination, and the narrow-wide contrast of the space. The diagonal layering of these competing aspects means that they are not perceived as individual scenes but as part of a continuum. How will the subsequent situations respond to such an animated opening scene, and how will their own competing aspects be manifested?

Axonometric



Competition – dominance – compensation – cohabitation  157

DOMINANCE  The next scene also starts with a surprise:

ascending from the subdued staircase, one steps not into an expansive exhibition space but into a sober corridor. The couple of doors and windows in the long wall are so low-key that one almost heads on past a temporary exhibition space, and after it one of the most unusual spaces in the museum: a two-storey threshold-less space accessed via a swinging door that, together with eleven other adjacent domestic-scale “rooms”, houses a private art collection with a very personal character, and consequently has the character of a large house. The floors, walls, ceiling, stairs and balcony, in the hall as well as the “rooms”, all are dominated by Douglas fir. Around half the wall surfaces are left white – not just to provide a neutral background for the artworks, and not just to create an intimate atmosphere by stopping the wall panelling at the height of the door lintels, but primarily to avoid closing off this “museum within the museum” from the rest of the gallery, had it been entirely lined with Douglas fir. Here, in this, the living room of the collection, there is no concrete or screed to be seen. Here, too, diagonals are used to relate elements to one another, in particular the stairs and balcony in the hall. Precisely cut openings invite one to explore the “room behind the wall”. The flight of stairs, likewise, lies behind an opaque wall screen, halting briefly at the half-landing to offer a view back into the hall. Like the gallery building itself, and the volume of the entrance hall with staircase, the form of this domestic hall is a

slightly stretched upright cube. The warmth of the materials, its latent Loosian Raumplan, the many windows in the format of house windows or paintings, the material changes between the ceilings and wall surfaces, as well as the high density of exhibits are the key characteristics of this piece of “chamber music”. In fact, these qualities are taken to such extremes that the visitor yearns for a break, for some form of compensation or relief to avoid the loving attention to detail from tipping into narcissism, and the domestic character from becoming too cute. Nevertheless, the architects heighten the intensity of the experience still further: on leaving the collection space, the visitor passes only briefly back into the sober corridor before turning to ascend the almost 6-m-high staircase whose flanking walls are again entirely clad in wood. To the warm, comforting quality of the collection rooms comes the dark, constrained atmosphere of the stairs. After this obtrusive experience, the only true compensation is to take the protagonist – the Douglas fir – from the stage at the next opportunity.

System of stairs

158  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

COMPENSATION  The three-flight cascade of stairs dis-

COHABITATION  Through a further box-like stair, one

charges us into a light-filled space: satin-glass clerestory windows run around the room, filling the almost 6-m-high exhibition space with even, diffuse light. The walls are painted matt white, the floor is a poured, polished screed and the ribbed ceiling is made of grey concrete: the previously displaced elements are back and do not concede any space to the Douglas fir. The interleaving Raumplan of the lower floors is ousted here by flowing space, the warm red-blond by cool non-colours, the changes in material by continuous bounding surfaces, the individual window openings by ribbon windows, and the cube as the central protagonist of a constellation of spaces by a simple, elongated exhibition hall. We eventually arrive in the world of the white art containers, of variably usable lofts; the kinds of rooms that almost all contemporary artists love and need. They are functional, expansive and beautiful, but one senses that this cannot be all: a story of reciprocal displacement without a reconciliatory or exaggerated ending would be unseemly.

reaches the roof in which the four materials now appear together. An L-shaped corridor, passing by a roof terrace, leads to a high corner room with a quadratic floor plan whose two inner walls are painted white and two outer walls are clad with Douglas fir. Five large windows with integral seats are cut into these outside walls and look out over the hilly town. These two L-shaped sections of wall are capped by a hood (4 walls + roof) of exposed concrete. After all the surprises, changes in mood and open or channelling figures, it is the first and only time in this building that a space has a static character. While the two pairs of walls continue the competition of the rooms below, the covering hood resolves the tension. This tower room is the crowning point and place of rest, and it is also the fulcrum and conclusion of all activities. The four main actors, the four main materials, are introduced to the visitor from the very beginning, and the visitor soon becomes aware that they reappear in ever new combinations. Their appearance, however, does not seem to follow any of the

Temporary exhibition gallery



View of and out of the Epstein Collection

Competition – dominance – compensation – cohabitation  159

“Domestic hall” of the Epstein Collection

160  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Tower room

usual compositional or functional principles, for example, “the core of material X, the skin of material Y” or “material X for circulation spaces, material Y for exhibition spaces”. Instead, they are used to denote the temperature of a space, and the sequence of forthcoming spaces. The temperature of the next space is always kept a secret, and the many surprises it holds in store suggest that there are no traditional, “logical” compositional principles at play. The envelope is emancipated from the body. But that does not make the surprises any more short-lived, and the separation of the envelope from the body is not wilful, as all parameters are employed sparingly. Ulti-



mately, we are faced with a play of the decomposition and recomposition of a small number of elements and motifs – with what we could call a built polyphony. What is most daring, however, is that these polyphonic atmospheres, and sometimes competing atmospheres within a single room, follow one another so pointedly that one could speak of conflict, usurpation, compensation and solution. Or of: competition, dominance, compensation and cohabitation. This sui generis is much less often the case in architecture than in theatre, film or music.

Competition – dominance – compensation – cohabitation  161

THE MCCORMICK TRIBUNE CAMPUS CENTER, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA OMA, Rem Koolhaas, 1997 – 2003

World theatre

The campus of the Illinois Institute of Technology (IIT), planned from 1938 onwards by Mies van der Rohe, is a calm, composed ensemble of black and yellow boxes on green lawns, the shadows of the trees playing over their surfaces. This bucolic picture of teaching and research could not, however, conceal the fact that the campus lacked an effective communicative infrastructure. In 2003, this missing link was added, with a host of functions packed into a single building squeezed beneath the elevated metro line next to the commons hall and food court. The interior of the building has an intensity reminiscent of spaces from the Renaissance or Baroque, so why is it that in this building the unrelenting “more is more” is not “too much”?

Corridors

FORCE FIELD   The purpose-built, 160-m-long stainless steel tube that encases the elevated metro line muffles not only noise and vibrations,141 but also appears to press down so heavily on the building that its roof bends under the weight. This theatrical expression of the forces at play continues in the interior. Sometimes the roof incline cuts so deeply into the room that it nearly meets the floor, tearing a flesh-coloured gash into it; sometimes the plasterboard ceiling is stripped back to reveal the underside of the stainless steel tube behind; and sometimes a garden drops from the ceiling into its midst. The floor, too, appears to give way under the weight: it breaks apart, steps downwards, becomes an underpass, never rising

162  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

more than the height of an OSB podium. Resistance is offered by the three uncompromisingly orthogonal grids of columns, each with their own specific grid spacing: the ten sturdy legs supporting the tube, the concrete-encased pillars supporting the metro line, and the graceful I-section columns that have wandered in from Mies’ commons hall next door. The further one is from the line of conflict, the more relaxed the spatial gestures, to the point that the lightweight walls entirely ­ignore the drama visible on the floor and ceiling. The up and down is neither an elaborate game of levels nor purely a means of gaining space within but is, instead, motivated by the force field at play, or rather its theatrical expression.

Ceiling and column grid

Ceiling

Spatial cells

Flowing space

Courtyards

Column grids

Facades

Folds in floors

Axonometrics



World theatre  163

PLAYING FIELD  Spaces are force fields, but also playing

fields:142 we engage with them and see ourselves and others engaging with them. This particular field has several entrances and exits and is criss-crossed by inner circulation streets that follow the paths of former foot traffic. Although a range of dramaturgical sequences arise along these lines – from dark to light, from low and compressed to angular and pointed, from lounging in a sofa to sitting upright – we shall not consider these further as it is not the directorial aspects that make the game here, but the simultaneity of many options. Shopping, surfing and chilling, dining and photocopying, administrative procedures, group work, congress small-talk and

West entrance

West intersection

Views outside

Alumni lounge

164  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ping-pong fill one’s ears and eyes, partially filtered, partially unfiltered. The opening of different worlds to one another using the techniques of cutting and montage does not, surprisingly, result in what is usually, despite all loops and flashbacks, a sequentially linear cinematic experience of time and space. Instead, the experience here is genuinely architectural: a true, not just visual, sense of simultaneity. It stimulates movement and activity, a heightened sense of awareness, even slight giddiness. One is not just here, but also, in one’s mind’s eye, already over there. Such is the feeling of constant stimulation. But it’s the dose that makes the poison, not the substance. The overlapping of experiences succeeds in impregnating the at-

mosphere without neutralising it. The intensity and contrasting quality of the scenes, the immediacy with which they follow one another, the suddenness with which they appear, the tempo with which they change are all small-scale and quickly grasped, resulting in a quick switch between main and supporting roles. Visitors experience a sudden rush of freedom – everyone has multiple choices – but the intensity of the individual scenes is contained as each scene opens inwards and is closed outwards. Nevertheless, the plethora of experiences were tiring – way too much – like a trade fair in which one encounters ever more new scenes and atmospheres, if the tone were unchanging.

Stairs to Center Court



World theatre  165

Sectional axonometric

Floor patterns in the flowing space

CHANGES IN TONE  An example of the change in pitch

can be seen in the use of translucent Plexiglas honeycomb panels and the colour orange. Coming from the dark silvery-­ black west foyer, we see a promising glow at the far end like the closing scene of a Hollywood melodrama. On reaching the glow, one sees the campus outside through walls of orange-tinted honeycomb panels and clear glass, making it look like a filtered, honeycomb-screened photograph. Trying to photograph this effect produces an almost romantic vignette around the scene due to the depth of the honeycomb. And when the sun sets and shines head-on, it looks like rings of fire have settled in the depths of the wall, the light refractions producing a natural Op-Art effect, a kind of enticing chimera. In an ironic inversion of hierarchies, this spectacular effect encloses not some important function room but the corridor to the toilet. The orange glow pervades the relatively sizeable toilets, shining through the gently curved translucent honeycomb panels and giving it the casual flair of a foyer. Such g ­ estures mock the solidity of “my restroom is my castle”, and in a final twist of self-irony, the promising glow, now pressed into service for this most prosaic of func-

166  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

tions, is also repurposed as filter mats in the urinals, made from cut-off panel core. This little thought-provocation is just the first of three object­ ifications of the honeycomb panels. Others include the worktops of the photocopying and packing stations – straightforward demonstrations of the stiffness of the material – as well as the elegant tops of the dinner tables of the Alumni Lounge, which from afar have a sheen that one could mistake for polished Carrara marble. Dining guests, at first entertained by this game of distinction, soon realise, at the latest after relieving themselves, that they are also being taken for a ride. Further inspection of the restaurant reveals more evidence of this. In this stimulating game of mise-en-scène – expectation– dissociation–chimera–ironic inversion–mockery–self-irony– object­ification–parody – the genres and references – melo­ drama, comedy and pastiche, or museum, fair trade stand, furniture workshop and fine restaurant – are constantly changing, switching between different pitches and tones from pathos through to posse. What is more, this is entirely in line with Miesian principles, after all it was Mies who declared here that “each material is only worth what we make of it”.143

Ceiling light in front of the conference room

Net diagram of the room widths and heights along one possible path

MIXED ATMOSPHERES  In terms of the materials and col-

ours, the change in tone likewise takes place successively – in place of orange, we could equally have chosen silver, black, green, aluminium, plasterboard or the light fittings. Simultaneously, we can see this in the design of a single room, such as the Alumni Lounge at the high end of the scale. The floor descends three steps and the pleasantly soft, noise-cushioning, elegant dark carpet evokes the atmosphere of a tasteful club, not least because the photographed impressions of logs in the carpet pattern awaken expectations of a crackling fireside. And indeed, the aroma of wood embers wafts gently through the room, however it emanates from a toaster placed on a strip of gravel on which real billets of wood slowly burn without any actual flames. This surrogate fireside can be interpreted as a triumph of hybridisation, domestication, electrification and simulation – or as an ironic Tati-esque commentary. Flames are to be seen blazing, however, in the northwest corner of the room, where the orange-tinted wall panels transform the shadows of tree branches waving in the wind into the room-high image of a flaming inferno. This film-like scene has a chic commercialism, materialised in polished but ­dented­



stainless steel that reflects its surroundings in disorientating distortions. We watch this spectacle of swaying flames from somewhat flimsy bent plywood and tubular steel chairs. Together with the glass walls, the carpet, courtyard and gravel, they evoke the International Style, but with a healthy dash of domestic bungalow and corporate headquarters thrown in. A portion of warm-hearted irony is to be found, too, in the design of the obligatory gallery of honoraries, which features pixelated faces of IIT founders printed room-high on the glazed walls. The series of faces continues right across the two-panel sliding doors of the entrance, so that, on leaving or entering the force field, Mies van der Rohe’s grumpy visage is pulled in two. Just as one is getting accustomed to this wry interplay between cool, warm and hot, the ceiling interjects crudely with the atmosphere of a building site. The untreated green plaster­ board introduces an element of the raw, the cheap and unfinished. Whether this is intended as a late claim to fame for a universally despised but omnipresent building material, which is usually painted over as soon as possible, or whether it pays homage to the do-it-yourself mentality of student life

World theatre  167

North-south street

as a rejection of all that is too slick, or whether it is a further side-jab at Mies – after all, the neatly executed joint tape, and strips and dots of plaster filler over the joints and screw heads reveal the honesty of its gridded construction – is not clarified, not least because the sampling of the surface qualities and their respective references and atmospheres is remixed every time one turns one’s head. This remix quality is an essential characteristic of contemporary sensitivity, according to the philosopher and education scholar Konrad Paul Liessmann.144 It is the central dramatic principle of this in so many ways transitory building: never does it strive to reach a point of purity, never does it grant us an un-mixed sensation. Even the sentimental celebration of the end of a day is (without our bidding?) modulated by the wafting atmospheres. And when the orange has faded, and the hanging gardens are submerged in darkness, the green cast resin steps and green plasterboard ceiling in the central arena step forward to become a monumental manifestation of the mirrored walls and ceiling archetype, between them the slender Miesian columns receding into the distance like telephone masts on a night-time country road. CANNIBALISTIC ACT  The spectacular placement of the

Center court

Courtyard at the alumni restaur ant

168  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

building and its interpretation as a force field may, to some, seem too intentional; but here, on this campus, the challenge is to measure up to Mies. Until well into the 1960s, SOM, ­Myron Goldsmith and others have achieved more than respectable results by sidestepping the issue and continuing Mies’ principles, adapting them to meet the respective construction standards and programmatic concepts – much as Mies had done for two decades before them. But today, acknowledging the deficits in communicative infrastructure, and after several technological and social paradigm shifts,145 this path is no longer an option. Aiming for the same tone with other means would only have confirmed the supremacy of the “original” – a superfluous exercise – without contextualising the original – a long overdue exercise. Ultimately, the more is more principle that underlies the dramaturgy of the building is motivated by the realisation that one cannot compete with the aesthetics of elegant simplicity and quiet excellence but that one must instead incorporate it: the building must become a cannibal.146 The cannibal absorbs the qualities of what it devours without being dominated by them. The numerous references (the veneers, carpets, glass walling…), citations (the columns), transfigurations (the fluid reflections, the gridded ceiling), considerations (the material value), pastiches (the courtyards), and tributes (the box) to and of Mies and how Mies is received are neither concessions to the genius loci, nor witty retorts, nor built paranoia. Instead, the cannibalistic act itself is what legitimises more is more as a principle antithetical to its context, and gives the comical its edge.

Student courtyard

Alumni restaur ant

The Hegelian philosopher Karl Rosenkranz sees the comical as a synthesising instance for beauty and ugliness. Although this Gesamtkunstwerk of architecture has a greater penchant for irony than to humour, Rosenkranz’ elaborations in his publication from 1853147 are nevertheless instructive: criticising the “domesticity of the chosen expression, the negative cleanliness with which detail is polished away”,148 he calls for the incorporation of ugliness in the work of art so that beauty is not separated from truth, i.e. that which represents the complexity of living existence, and involuntarily degenerates to caricature. Because ugliness, as the negation of beauty, is only of secondary existence, and not an aim in itself, it requires its synthesis by means of the comical: “All that is comical comprehends within itself a moment that relates negatively to the pure, simple ideal; but this negation is reduced in the comical to an appearance, to nothing. The positive ideal is confirmed in the comical, because, and insofar as, its negative



aspect disappears in itself.”149 By this measure, according to Michael Hauskeller, all art in service of an ideal must ultimately be comical.150 Here, beneath South Chicago’s elevated metro line, this work of art is at least ironic and can say of itself that it has given the beauty, ugliness and comedy of the world a corresponding allegorical built gestalt in the form of a world theatre. In this sense, the building is fundamentally in line with Mies’ principles – “The building art is always the spatially apprehended will of the epoch, nothing else”151 – and at the same time fundamentally contradicts Mies: where the latter wrestled with the neo-platonic universalism of St. Augustine,152 Rem Koolhaas instead implicitly looks to the likes of William Shakespeare, to the rapid and contrasting changes of tone in his dramas and his fascination with transience in order in a world theatre that confronts the world with itself.

World theatre  169

RPAC RECREATION & PHYSICAL ACTIVITY CENTER, COLUMBUS, OHIO, USA Antoine Predock Architect, 1999 – 2007

Cinematic space

The Ohio State University sports facilities are an ensemble of buildings, twice bisected by two ­crossing paths, that are connected underground and by a Scarlet Skywalk. The quadrant occupied by the gym exhibits its own remarkable spatial drama.

Equipment hall and Scarlet Skywalk

OPENING SCENE  The light-filled entrance hall greets one with a rush of impressions: on the ground floor, a cafeteria, turnstiles and a chill-out zone, and high above, just under the ceiling, a bridge crowned by a group of runners on treadmills that look like a quadriga on a triumphal arch. The romantic image of the high-lying bridge, the synchronised rhythm of the runners and the whirr of the treadmills fill the air – a syn­ aesthetic concordance of seeing and hearing – already egging on the sports-disposed visitor before he or she is barely a couple of steps into the building. The simultaneity of arrival and being in the middle of things, of opening scene and a first climax, of down below and high above turns the entrance hall into a foyer, hall and stage and the visitor into both observer and actor.

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PANNING SHOT  Half-way along the hall, the second scene begins, in which we descend to the right into a space that contrasts with the first in that it is a canyon – narrow, dark and enclosed – but also intensifies it, revealing more runners beneath, their treadmills whirring at an even greater pace. Towards the end of the canyon, one glances across to the left into a ball sports hall before passing through a narrow bottleneck that opens out suddenly to the right onto a high, light-filled hall with an array of weights and benches setting the stage for individual muscle flexing. In this third scene, the assorted momentary impressions gathered on the way here are channelled and directed into a long arc across the room: first of the students toiling away on the fitness equipment, then out through the glazed front wall at

Axonometric



Cinematic space  171

Cardio Canyon

Equipment hall and Scarlet Skywalk

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Twin sports hall and running track

the pompous portal of the 110,000-seater football stadium, then upwards to the Scarlet Skywalk that emerges high above from between the galleries in the hall and travels in a gentle arc out through the glass wall in the direction of the faculty building, before traversing the white-painted underside of the ceiling, its exposed truss-work echoing the muscular activity of the people below in architectural form. This panning shot is “pure drama”. The same scene can be experienced in slightly modified form from each of the three fitness equipment galleries that cantilever out from the rear wall like theatre ­balconies. TRACKING SHOT  The ascent to the upper levels can be quick – via the staircase – or in stages, taking diversions into the side wings. On reaching the last of the hall galleries, one sees a section of a running track that not only passes by the hall but encircles a block with enclosed course rooms and glazed racquet sports courts, continuing over the canyon, through the entrance hall, skirting the treadmill bridge, and along two ball sports halls stacked on top of one another. Running around the track is like undertaking a circular tracking shot in fast motion, offering a review from on high of all the



key scenes of the centre. The final descent via a square spiralling staircase, presents the two stacked, glazed sports halls like a split shot of above and below the stage, slowly disappearing out of view as the camera descends. The architectural enclosure with its combination of light and dark, of high and low and open and constrained spaces, serves as the backdrop for the activities within. Adjoining one another directly, they motivate one to join in. For the athletes, they create the impression of being part of a continuous film passing before one’s eyes. Rather than being a film set, the space is composed and perceived as a cinematic experience. Panning and tracking shots, montages, flashbacks and fast-motion sequences are to be found throughout. With our own eyes as notional cameras – and likewise the eyes of the others – the entire surroundings become filmed space. Sports facilities are inherently a cinematic experience of the self and space, because the conditioned and coordinated sequences of movements transport the aspect of performance into everyday life. The RPAC takes this a step further celebrating it in pyramidal rising and falling sequences of scenes – surprising coup – intensification – panoramic climax – retrospective loop – outlook.

Cinematic space  173

MERCEDES BENZ MUSEUM, STUTTGART, GERMANY UNStudio, 2001 – 2006

Acceleration and reprise

The creased, swirling forms of the corporate silver bodywork of the museum – its stature more reminiscent of a motor block than a silver arrow – suggest a dynamic interior, while its alternating opaque and transparent ribbons indicate a dialogical spatial configuration.

M1

On entering the building, one is surprised to see massive bare concrete surfaces enclosing a 34-m-high tower-like space. That this evokes associations not just with the crossing spaces of Romanesque churches, but also of dungeons can be attributed to the fact that the star to which it rises is obscured by sails that limit the potential play of light and shadow across its surfaces. Only mysterious bulging sections above some of the galleries seem to catch the light. That this tower space is designed to be seen from the elevator rather than from below is revealed by the somewhat hasty ushering of visitors from the ticket desk to the lift portal. The ascent takes us on a journey back in time into a mythical year 1886, accompanied by film projections on the opposite wall. Once at the top, on the star-

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shaped gallery, one has the impression that the sail serves also to counteract vertigo and not just climatic purposes. Ready to greet us on arrival is a stuffed horse bearing the declaration, “I do believe in the horse. The automobile is no more than a transitory phenomenon”, attributed to the German Emperor Wilhelm II – a touch of smug irony that neatly rounds off the initial entry sequence in which the automobile manufacturer exercises remarkable restraint by holding back from corporate showiness in the tower and on the forecourt. The downwards spiral can now begin. The architect HG Merz was responsible for the design and execution of most of the exhibit presentations in the galleries.

Axonometrics of the M galleries and C galleries



Acceleration and reprise  175

Looking across between the twists

Sectional axonometric

176  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Stairs to C3

DUAL SPATIAL STRUCTURE  The starting point, in an el-

egant room lined with dark wood and brass, is marked by an illuminated white circular platform, on which a single-cylinder engine stands and the first two patented motorised carriages revolve. It is a sanctuary. From this concave space, a corridor veers off taking us past a chronologically arranged series of vintage cars and then backlit panels with details of the contemporary historical context. This ritual of information and glorification repeats a further five times: the long ramps between the backlit panels arc by in so-called “scenes”, the cars arranged on platforms as representative icons of the social movements and trends of the era. In front of each is a white “workbench” that communicates technical details in abbreviated form and from which one can look across to the other scenes on the far side of the tower space. Dark end-grain   wood block flooring serves as a constant base, while the wall screens evoke the respective atmosphere of the era and the



black ceilings recede into the background. The brighter counterpart to the Legend rooms (M as in myth, named like the model series of Mercedes in majuscules) are the Collection rooms C, which present their exhibits thematically (voyagers, carriers, helpers, celebrities) in naturally lit rooms, parked on a light-coloured cast resin floor. These galleries are closed off inwards, affording instead a view of the Neckar Valley in which vineyards, assorted groups of villas, sports arenas and car plants sit cheek by jowl, motorways slicing through the landscape between them. In each scene, visitors can switch between the M and C helixes: those who find it disorientating have only themselves to blame for veering from the chosen path. The ramps offer a respite from the galleries as well as spectacular views of the twists that close off the C galleries from the tower space and orientate the M galleries towards the tower as if drawing a huge stage curtain. With its duality of artificially lit rooms and

Acceleration and reprise  177

Twists

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side-lit cabinet rooms, the building follows classical museum principles. The dual spatial structure and the clarity of the presentation formats result in a coherent and stimulating exhibition, and one could easily visit the museum many times over with a renewed focus or different questions in mind. This museum does, however, suffer from a problem that plagues many chronological exhibition concepts: the closer one gets to the present day, the less effective the instrument of nostalgia becomes, and likewise the stimulating effect of unknown or forgotten knowledge. In M 6: New Start – The Road to Emission-free Mobility, the opportunity to replace the tired ­fetishism of the object with another form of presentation is not taken.153 Then again, disillusionment and helplessness are common themes of the fourth act, before embarking on a brilliant finish. View of M6

FINALE AND REPRISE  In the final act, the protagonists –

Twists

M7



the M and C helixes – are supposed to come together. In this, the last of the Legend galleries on racing cars, the silver arrows race into the curve on a large banked ramp in a final jubilant parade. Here, however, some of the exhibition concept’s most inspiring elements have been left behind: the long slow ramp is no more, replaced by an uncomfortably stepped tunnel; there is no natural light or outdoor view, just walls plastered with visuals; likewise no beautifully presented iconic exhibits, just a traffic jam on the race track; and all of that is squeezed in beneath a low roof. In terms of spatial characteristics, the C qualities are nowhere to be seen – offering no opportunity for the dualism above to be woven into a closing dialectic. After the carefully orchestrated mix of material examples and references in the prior historical genealogy of the automobile, all that remains in this final reprise is a delirious infatuation with speed, the interesting questions left lying by the wayside. Of course, speed, compression, a dash of colour and jubilation are also a viable dramatic conclusion: one finds the same motifs in the stretta of Italian operas, in the innumerable codas of a closing movement, or in the last dance of a ball. But, in its haste to reach a thrilling conclusion, the museum leaves behind its spatial virtuosity and the self-assured, detached consideration of its themes. The transitional passage to the shopping area – like the final act lacking any natural light – is a cluttered treasure chest of paraphernalia that thrusts ever onward and ever deeper into the depths. It makes no difference whether one proceeds from there to the empty tower space or to the devotional objects: neither provides any proper consolation to the cramped glare and monothematic focus of the final act. It is more satisfying to summarily retrace the path already taken and to ascend via the small C helix to enjoy, once again, the wonderful first acts of the drama.

Acceleration and reprise  179

LANGEN FOUNDATION, HOMBROICH, NEUSS, GERMANY Tadao Ando, 2001 – 2004

Stimulating and retarding moments

The Langen Foundation building is part of an ensemble of museums and ateliers that is distributed across the island and the former missile base at Hombroich. Most of the buildings designed by Erwin Heerich, Álvaro Siza, Raimund Abraham and others are clad in local red brick and play with the combinatory possibilities of Euclidian geometry. The site of the Foundation lies in the middle of flat meadows on the left bank of the Lower Rhine. Coming from the island along a dirt track, one see after a while the earth wall of the former missile base as well as a semi-circular freestanding concrete wall. There is no building and no work of art in sight. What awaits us when we slip through the opening in the concrete wall?

Peristasis

THE PROMENADE DIRIGÉE  At first, all we see is a large

pool of water, and, at its far end, slightly offset, the end of a long glass structure. The path ahead does not, however, lead directly to it but along the edge of the pool before turning at a concrete wall that crosses the path; after the turn the path continues until it meets the long side of the glass building. A most unprosaic entrance results at an acute angle. Nothing would be simpler than to turn the shallow angle to the left at this point and continue along the glass building. However, this option is cut off by the concrete wall that adjoins the path and leads right into the building, leaving us no other option than, feeling somewhat duped, to turn sharp right, offering us a view back over the long pool.

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Having followed the directions of the channelled path through an open space, we are now led along a path between the earth wall outside and a concrete wall inside to the other end of the glass block. The narrow corridor suggests that visitors are only welcome one by one, and the concrete wall that there is, as yet, no art to see. The open slot at the base of the glass, through which air from outside can enter, suggests this is a buffer space between inside and outside. The long grasses on the earth wall behind the glass sway in the wind, accompanying one’s path along the corridor like a meditative video. Shortly before the end of the corridor, a small regular-­doorsized opening permits us to pass through to the other side of the concrete wall into a narrow, overly long exhibition room

Axonometrics



Stimulating and retarding moments  181

Hinge point

Cella with Buddha sculptures from the Viktor and Marianne Langen Collection

182  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

(8.4 : 1 : 1) that affords a long view back along the wall. Its opaque front wall is the endpoint of this one-room museum whose small size we realise we have misjudged due to the delaying tactics and surprises. At least, that is what we are led to believe. Its spatial typology has less to do with the Grande Galerie as with the naos of a double anta temple. But, towards the end of the naos, a narrow slot in the wall reveals that an entire other world is waiting for us: until now we have only seen the world above ground, but here a ramp leads downwards into the underworld. The wall slot directs our gaze to the meeting point of two axes, the relevance of which had not been apparent until now, due to the brusque continuation of the concrete wall earlier. Preferring us to concentrate on what lay immediately before us, the architect chose not to reveal his overall plan, deliberately obscuring photogenic perspectives and leaving us instead in uncertainty. As such, this spatial progression omits one of the cardinal characteristics of the Corbusian Promenade architecturale: the prospective view. This view is blocked twice: once demonstratively and once incidentally, and in both cases the exit is cunningly hidden. We see just the space in which we are but not the spaces in which we will be going. The intention seems to be that we should not see and desire what we cannot walk through and touch. Of course, the closure of the wall does, after a while, heighten one’s curiosity of what is still to come. To prevent this getting out of hand, the route determines the pace with which we discover this Promenade dirigée. Over the course of the path, it is taken to increasing extremes: to begin with, antithetical elements are combined with one another – the channelled path alongside an open space – before similar elements are used to heighten their effect: a channelled path in a narrow space, and finally a channelled space which has a closed end that, on arrival, proves to be only apparently the end. THE PROMENADE ENTERRÉE  Up until this point, the architectural elements respected two horizons: the height of the earth wall and the level of the field, which is not raised by even a single step inside the building. Now, on the other side of the naos, a mirror image of the earlier corridor – or rather, as now becomes apparent, the other side of the perimeter aisle – descends into the ground. Here, as if breaking a spell by penetrating the ground, the situation changes, revealing a complex world of spaces with ramps, stairs, bridges, shafts and tall halls. The ground level still serves as a disciplining datum line, as the upper of the two exhibition levels is sunk just 1.50 m below ground so that the wall openings look out over at the earth wall, just above the grass. The principles of the Promenade dirigée have by no means been abandoned: at the end of the ramp, an interim space obscures the view and direct passage ahead. What then follows, how­ ever, seems almost excessive by previous standards: two long slanting ramps descend in a sideways V, celebrating the long,

Hall 1 with art works by Richard Deacon in the exhibition “Richard Deacon – On the Other Side” (2016/ 17)

Hall 2 with art works by Otto Piene in the exhibition “Otto Piene – Light and Air” (2014)



slow entry down one side of the building. They lead deep into the ground into the first of a pair of double-height exhibition halls. Between them lies the strangest of all spaces: a monumental outdoor stair that leads back up to the meadow and is hidden from view from above by a hedge. Indeed, visitors see nothing at all of the building when arriving, just the face of the long concrete wall that heads off at an angle towards the glass building. One has no idea that beyond it lies neither grass nor depots but the main exhibition building. At the end of the second exhibition hall, the tempo changes: instead of the “slow” ramps, a “fast” stair leads back up to the semi-subterranean level above. This bridge-like level takes us back past the succession of gallery, stair and gallery and on to a staircase in the form a naos projected vertically. Its eight flights of steps lead us up back to the entrance, as if emerging out of a mine shaft. THE PROMENADE ALLUSIVE  The sequence of spaces in the Langen Foundation is rich in allusions. To begin with, it is a homage to Le Corbusier – albeit a critical one. In contrast to Corbusier’s Promenades architecturales, which proceed always towards the light, this promenade reverses the principle, piercing the ground to become a Promenade enterrée. Furthermore, the additive aspect of the above-ground building and interleaving of the subterranean galleries is a reminder that this stretch of land, not far from a large coal-mining region, conceals a labyrinth of tunnels beneath its unassuming surface. The museum is a built analogy of the structure of the landscape. But this building digs even deeper into history. Not only does the submerged building play a game of hide-and-seek; it also teases with typological allusions: the concrete block and its surrounding glass showcase are like the naos and peristasis of a Greek temple; the monumental outdoor stair, including the extended canopy and central column evoke the royal tombs of Egyptian dynasties; and the semi-circular entrance wall – in retrospect, and in the context of the other two more obvious allusions – has something of a circular Roman ruin. The town of Neuss – Novaesium – in whose jurisdiction the Museum lies, was founded in Roman times. Elements such as the rotated axes and the pool are reminiscent of Hadrian’s Villa, while the parallel sloping earth wall and upright wall have an almost primordial quality. These associations resonate mostly in the background, overlaid by other, more obvious readings: the temple is also a showcase, pavilion, greenhouse or barracks; the submerged exhibition tracts could be an assembly shop, while its concrete walls entrenched in the earth wall remind one of a bunker… The higher the degree of abstraction, the greater the range of possible allusions. As irrefutable and stimulating these associations may be, the architect is evidently less concerned with its role as a historical capriccio than its presence in the here and now – in how it speaks to our senses: the large pool, reflecting the clouds, pe-

Stimulating and retarding moments  183

View of the entrance side

riodically ruffled by gusts of wind, the long grasses on the earth wall swaying in the breeze, the empty meadow, the treelined path and the hedges, the warm grey colour of the concrete walls, the regular pattern of formwork anchor holes, the glass covering, the aluminium fins. While Hombroich Island lies in a rather pretty, pastel-coloured rift in the landscape, surrounded by fields of flowers and meandering water courses,­Ando accepts the bare expanse of the open landscape of the Lower Rhine. The site of the museum resists colonising the landscape with works of art – no Tinguely, no Niki de Saint Phalle is permitted to use the pool to reflect its capers. Instead, some stations on the visitors’ path are given over to art, others to the wind, weather and concrete. The architecture serves both by separating them uncompromisingly. STIMULATING AND RETARDING MOMENTS  The on-

going interplay between stimulating and retarding moments, between impulses and their fading away, defines the spatial experience of the museum. The stimulating moments are those when one first sees a space one did not know was there: the pool, the “corridor”, the naos, the meadow, the ramps, the tall galleries, the stairs, the shaft… That the overall experience is not unsettling, despite the large number of different situations, is due to the retarding moments. These arise when a path through a space does not reveal any more than what we saw on entering. Typically, we enter a scene we know from one side, passing through it, taking it in and becoming part of it. Like the unchanging impression of the landscape of the Lower

184  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Rhine outside, the bounding surfaces of the rooms, the spatial backdrop, do not shift around. The room we register on entering first needs to be felt and experienced before we anticipate, or see a first sign of, the next. The museum achieves this with channelled paths and simple, enclosed spaces with clear and narrow entry and exit points. The trinity of the large floor surfaces (water – screed – meadow) and of the walls and ceilings (concrete – glass – white) help create calmness. In all the main rooms of the foundation, this constellation of materials and colours serves to articulate the archetype of the hood (5+1) – an archetype whose character is sheltering. This sheltering gesture is effected in a variety of ways: after the shielding screen of the curved wall follows the spanning of the long pool, then the protective glass cover, the burrowing of the galleries and, lastly, the ascent. In this back and forth between wide and ­narrow and the step-by-step unfolding of its interior, the ­Langen Foundation is the antithesis to the seamless transition from outside to inside seen in the galleries designed by Erwin Heerich on Hombroich Island. A characteristic of this succession of scenes is that they have no classical turning point or point of climax. Each individual scene is self-contained and their order is by no means explicitly fixed. At the same time, they are not isolated, competing or mutually neutralising episodes but are part of a larger progression from pool to hood to meadow. Also characteristic is that the inner structure of the hoods has ground-level and submerged sections; that the diagonals comprise three ramps and three stairs and the linear views are broken at three turn-

ing points offering a view all around – the two ends of the glass building and the top of the stair at the end of the second gallery. Even those who find the revelation at the apparent endpoint more surprising or the sheer beauty of the glass box more exciting than other moments will concede that the dramatic arc is less a linear progression than a wavy line. In this context, the many loops of the path, obscured views, apparent endpoints, changing axes and strangely empty spaces appear to be a means of ensuring the individual scenes retain their relative autonomy, and of preventing the impression of progressive axiality. Wandering around this ensemble of spaces, visitors repeatedly find themselves wondering not just what comes next but also if anything comes next. Outdoor stair

Outdoor stair



Stimulating and retarding moments  185

LES BAINS DES DOCKS, LE HAVRE, FRANCE Jean Nouvel, 2004 – 2008

Still images in a field

Built as part of the urban regeneration of the former city docks, the laconic design of these public baths eschews neo-Corbusian steamship analogies, ­presenting instead a ring of walls the colour of the black floating docks and no higher than the former warehouses. The material of the building is hard to discern, even from up close: soft and shiny like ­plastic sheeting, it is actually a metallic-coloured concrete panel additionally imprinted with a mosaic tile texture. The rectangular apertures punched into this chimerical surface provide glimpses from outside revealing that the interior has been subtractively shaped using large white blocks.

Bains ludiques

RELIEFS  The bright entrance hall and changing rooms e­ xude an uplifting air of expectation. Instead of signs on the wall, lettering painted in the tile joints – an endearing fusion of digital type and Style paquebot – guides one through the introductory sequence. The Bains ludiques are captivating from the very first diagonal view across their directionless series of pools. A dynamic yet composed composition of clearly delineated surfaces and gently modulated shadows achieves a balance between the white and the water. As expected, the space has been subtracted from a vast imaginary block, the interior surfaces all articulated as white cubes. The question of wall material – matt white tiles or matt white painted plasterboard?

186  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

– follows pragmatic concerns but blends into one from a certain distance. While the cubes in the floor function as pools, benches and platforms, the vertical cubes are blocks, caves, niches and light fittings, and in the ceiling noise absorbers, top-lit fountains and housings for artificial lighting. The task of designing a large building for public baths offers an un­ paralleled chance to modulate all six bounding surfaces to almost the same degree and therefore to form the archetype of the envelope not just using the means of colour, material and proportions but also sculpturally. The landscape of the floor of the Bains ludiques is divided into four quadrants, one of which is occupied by a storey-high

Les Bains des Docks Jean Nouvel

Axonometric



Still images in a field  187

block, giving the figure a rotational asymmetry. Coming from the entrance, the landscape steps up diagonally towards an elevated whirlpool that is simultaneously crowned, pulpit-­ like, by the largest and lowest light fountain. At this, the tightest spot in the entire baths, the crowning block descends so low that one must pass through the fountain while entering via the arching stairs, and is momentarily cut off visually and acoustically from one’s surroundings. The ceiling, on the other hand, ignores the division in four quadrants so that the continuity of the space weighs greater than its division. In addition to providing illumination, the ceiling serves an acoustic function and is clad with perforated, sound-absorbing panels; the lower they lie, the more effective they are at dampening sound…  and the more effective they also are at motivating visitors to jump into the pool instead of walking upright between them. Without evoking feelings of crampedness, the ceilings, and with them the proportions of the space, serve the elementary architectural function of directing visitors to assume an appropriate posture. The modulation of the ceiling seems so grounded in reason that one does not suspect any decorative motivation, but it is also sufficiently decorative to be more than merely utilitarian. Axonometrics of the Bains ludiques

ATMOSPHERES  That noise levels have been kept to a tolerable degree can also be attributed to the fact that the tubular slide hidden within the tallest block does not open panoptically onto the hall but ends in a niche. Although the bathing complex plays down its amusement factor, it is still visited as a leisure bath. The chaste coolness of its white minimalism is not what determines its atmosphere. Colour has not been excluded, just concentrated strategically in one part: the five enclosed surfaces of a niche adjacent to the children’s pool is lined with red, yellow, orange and green squares. These points of colour radiate throughout the entire hall and are visible ­almost everywhere, even if only out of the corner of one’s eye,

188  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Bains ludiques

Bains ludiques



Still images in a field  189

injecting a sense of warmth into the hall without impacting on the sense of expansiveness created by the white, and without interfering with the ephemeral tonal variations of the ceiling. In the midday sun, the ceilings have their big moment: the sun’s rays fall vertically enough to shine down the deep light fountains to the water’s surface, reflecting back a fanfare of soft intermingled sky and water onto the shiny surfaces of the ceiling. In this light, the shimmering ceilings appear to float, drawing our attention away from the walls; in fact, more than before, the Bains ludiques blend with the outdoor pool into a spatial continuum. In the evenings, by contrast, the bathing complex seems more distinctly zoned: the surfaces of the pools then dominate, illuminated in different tonal graduations. Swimming in the moonlight in the outdoor Bassin sportif along the ghost-like white ring walls – which now seem like a geometrization of the eroded enclosure of the Roman baths of Caracalla – can turn even the most hardened lap-swimmer into a lover of ruins. During the day, however, the baths are never meditative but always cheerfully sociable, a character that even dramatic moments, such as a brewing Atlantic storm, or the rhythms of the water gymnastics groups, cannot dispel. STILL IMAGES  The outdoor pools (of the ring archetype)

are the most expansive parts of the public baths, the Bains balnéotherapeutiques with their room-defining caves are the most dense, the entrance area and the changing rooms the most repetitive, and the Bains ludiques (with an envelope as archetype) are the most balanced. Whether one walks or swims in the Bains ludique, i.e. which level of horizon one has, has a significant impact on how the space is perceived. For swimmers (and for small children) the benches and platforms form the immediate spatial bound­ aries, and one’s view of the interior is characterised by a fore-

190  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

ground (bench) and background (ceiling) but no middle ground. The spaces seem clearer and more contained than when standing. But the change in the height of the horizon has no impact on the time interval in which the eye takes in the room. The constellation of architectural elements does not change so quickly that one need reappraise the situation from one second to the next. One looks, splashes about or walks absent-mindedly, enjoying the flow, taking a more attentive look every now and then. Why is it that one experiences this space in this photographic way, as a series of individual stills, rather than cinematically, although it is a continuous landscape of bathing pools? Is it due to its relief? Reliefs are best appreciated from a privileged standpoint, and not through movement in space. And that also applies when we are surrounded by reliefs. Is it due to the squares? Unlike angular or circular shapes, squares have no complementary shapes and no hidden between-spaces that are obscured when seen in perspective. Is it due to the square’s lack of directionality? In a constellation of directionless, and here also orthogonal, forms, the reciprocal interrelationships and hierarchies change much less markedly than with directional, and particularly polygonal or curved forms. Is it due to the monochromatic interior? While the white of the interior is never sterile but always subtly graduated, where there are no dramatic accents in space, changes in time and space are less perceptible on a continuous basis. As such, change is best registered by stopping at intervals and comparing the momentary static view with a pre-existing static view in memory. Is it due to the granularity? The relief is comprised of relatively small, similarly sized particles. Like in an impressionist painting, levelling the density of the points takes away the element of surprise.

Bain sportif

The changes in hierarchy and moments of revelation as we move around this space are, it seems, too subtle for our eyes to be permanently occupied with keeping track. Subconsciously, we are aware that the room, in its low-contrast harmony, reveals itself gradually in a relaxed manner. It is sufficient to register changes every now and then, for example the diagonal view of the raised pool, and the reciprocal view back down over the pools, or frontally into the conch, or the long view along the perimeter wall of the outdoor pool. The Bains ludiques are a field of carefully attuned paths and vistas that never overstimulate and never disappoint. The public baths are a castle-like enclosed field with four similarly shaped, similarly structured spaces of different densities. The omnipresent number four is, in itself, already an indicator of stability and balance.



Still images in a field  191

CAR PARK, 1111 LINCOLN ROAD, MIAMI, FLORIDA, USA Herzog & de Meuron, 2005 – 2010

Rhythms and cycles

In the year 1959, the Lincoln Road in the Art Deco District of Miami Beach South, with its one- and two-storey boutiques, was converted into a pedestrian zone. Today, the architect Morris Lapidus’ design for the promenade with its cream-coloured surfaces is protected as a historic site. At the end of the ­pedestrian zone, a 38-m-high multi-storey car park rises out of the ground, sandwiched between ground-level shops and four exquisite rooftop residences.

A Level 1

In the 1970s, multi-storey car parks with their uncomfortably low ceilings, crude detailing, decrepit lobbies and sterile lighting were among the most dystopian places of many cities. Since the millennium, however, they have experienced a renaissance as frames for dressing in delicate and trendy garb. The lack of thermal requirements or need for particular openings make them ideal for experimenting with the attractive effects of new materials and patterns. 1111 Lincoln Road is neither of these. It displays its concrete structure with unabashed pride and, consequently, makes no attempt to dress up at all. It also celebrates the car less than its open sides, and some

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well-known photographs, would suggest, as – unlike Bertrand Goldberg’s Marina City in Chicago – the cars do not park demonstratively at the edge but are set back far enough not to be seen from the road. What, then, is this building trying to show? To begin with, the car park makes no pretence at being a contained building. It is just a shelf, a series of ledges, an inter­ mediate space for an interim period. Wind, rain and noise can pass unhindered between its levels. Unhindered, too, is the view of the bay, the city and the ocean, making the process of parking one’s car into a refreshing entr’acte.

Axonometric



Rhythms and cycles  193

Stair

RHYTHMS  However, the building is not so reserved that

Axonometric of the flights of stairs

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only the tremendous views of the environs are of interest. Not once does the combination of floor, pillars and ceiling form closed squares framing the views beyond. Instead the floor always serves as a stage, the ceiling as a lid and the city and sky as a backdrop for an arrangement of supports that can best be described as a ballet of pillars. If there was ever a reason to add a sixth order to the five classical architectural orders to include variation alongside repetition, this would be it. For want of a better word, we could call it the Miamitic Order: Miamitic columns have a rectangular cross-section and thus lend direction to space. On their narrow sides, they are as thin as a line, on their broad sides, either rectangular, fan-shaped or trap­ ezoidal, so that they expand at the top or bottom into veritable wall slabs. The largest of them avoid becoming confrontational by being cut out to form V- or A-shaped trestle-like legs. Only in exception are the pillars inclined, but all of them are placed at a regular rhythm of 5 × 6 points. The rhythm is not a product of varying the space between them but through the grouping of gestures: usually only two or three pillars in a row are identical, with a maximum of three of five or four of six pillars. This avoids both static regularity or dominance and means that the space is sometimes longitudinal, sometimes

Ramp A Level 2

crossways, sometimes circular and sometimes right-angular. The virtuosity of this “drum solo” is neither random nor auto­ nomous but reacts to situation, i.e. to context, necessity, atmo­ sphere and metric. The layers – the floors – in which these rhythms unfold, we can call metrics, inspired by the film director Sergej Eisenstein’s use of the word.154 Here, there are six of them. METRIC  The heights of the layers are either XL (between

6.6 and almost 10  m,  A) or XS (approx. 2.4  m,  B) – nothing in-between. The sequence A-B-B-A-B-A makes us wonder more than once: the first level surprises us with an outlandishly tall garage storey, in turn making the second level seem all the more compressed. As the third level is also short, one is lulled into thinking the remaining levels will follow the same pattern, as with the floors above the piano nobile of a palazzo. The XL-XS-XL pattern that follows, therefore surprises once again. The three XS levels are similar to one another: relatively dark, sober and mostly characterised by the space between the car roofs and the ceiling. They are the interludes that allow the three main acts to shine in their respective different characters.



Edges

Rhythms and cycles  195

GESTURES  The first main act, the first level, must resolve a

number of conflicting requirements: the entry and exit ramps must be separated, the ramps shift inwards from the outer position, the linear pedestrian stair switches to an irregular winding stair, the barrier must be incorporated and the surrounding buildings block the view. The pillar ballet responds to all these with abrupt changes of direction and angles of inclination. It affirms and intensifies the situation. The middle act on the fourth level, by contrast, offers an unobstructed view in two directions and the angle and variation of the pillars is more balanced, while the V-shaped pillars are no longer necessary to support the load from above. The final “crowning” third act on the sixth floor is even more open due to its

A Level 3

196   Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

brightness and the lack of ascending ramps obscuring the view, but also more animated due to the emphatically outward-leaning and almost flagpole-thin pillars that support the wide, cantilevering plane above. At the same time, each act entertains us with a contrasting ­accent: the first with a pink-coloured barrier zone, the second with a chic glazed boutique and the third with a wood-clad stair to the penthouses – each placed like found objects on the shelves of the car park. At night, the three main acts exhibit greater similarities among them, as do the three interludes, as each floor has uplighters fixed to the pillars at the same height. The resulting different-length cones of light mean that the tall storeys are fully illuminated while the short s­to-

A Level 3

reys are only partially lit by points of light. The darker and lighter levels are connected by a fabulously cascading concrete winding stair that contrasts with the vertical lift shaft and the thin slabs and ramps, intensifying the pillar ballet with its pirouetting structure. FROM SCHEMATIC DIAGRAM TO DRAMA  1111 – the

name and address – is emblematic for the composition of the structure and its architectural vocabulary: the pillars, slabs, stairs and found items do not together form a larger overall unit; the parts do not add up to their sum. They correspond to one another, but they never assume a secondary purpose, ­never switch their roles and never fuse together. The flights of stairs swell to an almost grotesquely thick elbow to avoid the need for secondary supports; the pillars widen into slabs to avoid the need for beams, cross-beams or splayed supports; the ramps are just slanted versions of the slabs; the found-



item accentuations bear no relation to one another or the three other actors of the structure. This scrupulously clean grammatical Art-Sans-Déco is predominantly self-referential.155 But then it also lets us experience how much any spatial experience is governed by rhythm, metric and gesture. And then it is an instrument that allows wind and sound, rain and light to pass through it, and allows us to experience the increasing extension of space defined by the context the higher we go. Its obsessively self-referential form, its archaic rhythm and stoic indifference to the cyclic patterns of nature reinforce one another in a way only possible in such clarity and intensity in a building that needs no enclosure and will not become a house. Built rhythms and natural cycles complement one another. To communicate this to a driver – consciously or subconsciously – in the short space of time in which he or she chooses a parking place is the art of turning a simple schematic diagram into a thrilling drama.

Rhythms and cycles  197

LOUVRE-LENS, LENS, FRANCE SANAA, 2005 – 2012

Turning point and moment of recognition

The branch of the Louvre in Lens is situated on the site of a former goods distribution yard in the French-­ Flemish coal mining region. On approaching, the access paths follow the course of the dismantled railway lines, the former spoil heaps refashioned into small embankments. The museum reveals itself as an elegant ensemble of connected hangars in the look of a logistics centre, all traces of soot removed. The height of the eaves line of approximately 6.5 m, depending on the modulation of the terrain, varies not once across the entire circumference of the building, which comprises roughly 1 km. The same is true for the facade grid of 1.55-m-large modules. Two of the six halls are glazed, while the remainder are clad with anodised aluminium panels. The facades reflect the flat landscape and its mountains of towering clouds as muted silvery images, slightly blurry like a landscape painting by Gerhard Richter or a photograph by Thomas Ruff. Only from close up, and not from any of the approaches, does one see that the walls are slightly curved.

Entrance hall

SEPARATION OF IMAGE AND SOUND: THE ENTRANCE HALL  The entrance pavilion encompasses various serving functions but is not itself purely a serving space: it severs the familiar lines of connection between seeing, hearing and feeling, and heightens the senses as a result. The room-high glazing makes the outdoors part of the space, but we cannot feel the wind, smell the lilacs or hear the bus. As in many modernist buildings, the outdoor realm is present only as a silent film. What is different is that the sound of the cash machine, the words of the museum guide, the tone of the videos – everything that we see before us, also does not reach us: six

198  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Axonometric



Turning point and moment of recognition  199

almost room-high, thin cylindrical glass screens shield these activities from our ears. One can look into the cylinders, watch the reflections playing off their curved surfaces; the view is directed to the outside world beyond through the passageways between the screens, past thin, stem-like columns. Not only the floor-to-ceiling curtain walling but also the glass cylinders within, which obstruct the visual continuity of the ceiling, curtain wall, landscape and floor, contribute to blurring the boundary between inside and outside. The separation of sound and image, cinematographically speaking, leaves us standing and wandering around a variously inhabited but strangely quiet “distribution hub for ideas”. It invites us to look more attentively – but at the same time leaves us hesitantly wondering whether the presentation of the works of art will live up to this beautiful, silent scene of a ­landscape populated by artsy people. Surely, it must be more than merely a “white box” with dull white walls permeated by neutral natural or artificial light.

Entrance hall

200  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

TURNING POINT AND RECOGNITION: THE GARAGE DOOR  From the corner of the brightly lit glass hall we look, through a kind of garage door, into a room in icy semi-darkness, its depth unclear due to the indistinct nature of the floor and the concealing of side walls and ceilings that could provide perspective. This single, clearly delineated view immediately reveals that the interior, too, is lined with the same anodised aluminium walls that on the outside capture a vaguely artistic image of the Flemish landscape in their surface. On the section of wall visible through the door we see only reflected light, as this part of the hall is empty across its entire breadth, serving as a break between the activity of the entrance hall and the activity of the galleries beyond. The floor is slightly lower than in the entrance hall – before passing the garage door, we descended via a half-circular level with a barely perceptible incline – but also slightly higher than the exhibition space, so that we have a slightly elevated overview of the room. From here, we can see that the shimmering interior

The “garage door”

surfaces of the external walls are left untouched: no partition wall adjoins it, no screw passes through it, no exhibit stands immediately before it. As a consequence, the interior surfaces take part in the entire scene, and the entire scene reflects in them: shimmering, mirrored and blurred. The recurrence of the aluminium panels of the external wall in the interior makes it clear that they do not want to be read as a lining of other wall layers but that they want to be a full wall – suggesting a wall that is as thin and mono-material in its structure as the glass walls earlier. The walls’ capacity to capture the surroundings in the material is not just for effect but is an architectural device that prepares us to see the content and purpose of the museum in a new light. This “moment of recognition” (Greek: anagnorisis) is described by Aristotle in the 11th chapter of Poetics as the point at which “a change from ignorance to knowledge” comes to pass, and is best “when coincident with peripeteia”.156 Simultaneous peripeteia and anagnorisis is also effected by the otherwise comparatively unspectacular opening between the entrance hall and the Grande Galerie. It can be classed as peripeteia, a turning point, because it is here that a general reversal happens: the transparent glass, reflecting its surroundings in sharp focus, is replaced by a blurry, semi-reflective metal; the almost square entrance hall is followed by an elongated hall; after the fair of services follows the consecrated space; after the side-lit entrance space, the top-lit hall; after the day-lit space, one enters a slightly lowered semi-dark space; after the white-silver entrance, follows the grey-silver hall. The startling suddenness



of this peripeteia is a product of the restricted field of vision, and what makes it momentous is that passing through this simple opening in the surface where the two volumes of the museum touch, allows one to experience the entire compositional concept of the museum. The two subtle changes in the floor level nevertheless create a transitional zone. The resulting pause is also used to ingeniously refocus the visitor’s attention. More than merely shifting the viewpoint, it effects a change in the way of looking. After the through views through the entrance hall follows the framed view through the garage door, then a downward view to the entire exhibition area, an upward view to the roof before returning to look through the islands of exhibits and finally settling on the exhibits themselves. With one inward view, one overview, one upward view, a shift in the speed of movement and perception is effected that ultimately brings the focus to rest on the exhibits. The right length of a drama cannot be determined by external non-artistic factors but only through the appropriate preparation of peripeteia, writes Aristotle.157 It is easy to identify that the right timing and spacing is the entrance hall and the right placing is the garage door, but what makes the peripeteia so impressive is that the earlier threshold from outdoors into the entrance hall does not register as a proper transition from outside to inside. If that transition had been more marked, comparable to that of the garage door of the Grande Galerie, the transition we experience at the garage door would have been comparatively banal.

Turning point and moment of recognition  201

EXHIBIT AND AFTERIMAGE: THE GRANDE GALERIE 

The aluminium panels

The ceiling is part of the scene that we see from the ideal, slightly raised central perspective at the end of the hall. It takes the form of a dense succession of thin fins whose silver-­ grey colour is lightly striped by shadow lines from the roof structure. This surface, too, has a beguiling beauty that is ­worthy of being seen as a large-format image of its own. Of all the different surface treatments in this interior, the light grey screed, waxed to a shine, serves as a unifying base. Every exhibit in this hall, which due to the shimmering surfaces and baffled light has the quality of an underwater world, is its own little reef. They begin low and further apart, gradually becoming more densely spaced to the rear. The separation of the images from a single stable wall and their insular presentation is taken to the extreme by avoiding the use of large partitions or L-shaped sections of walls that would be large enough to display sequences or correspondences. Perhaps it is no coincidence that two of the most compelling paintings in the collection at Lens are double portraits whose theme is the fleeting, almost shy touch: Raffael’s Self-portrait with Giulio ­Romano (1520) and Rembrandt’s Matthew and the Angel (1661). Their presentation as individual altarpieces makes each painting seem more fragile as, instead of having “its” corner in the museum, it is presented without supporting location. That may seem a high price to pay to achieve a building envelope of such chasteness; or as an important step towards an anti-possessive presentation of cultural heritage. How come? The images that the surrounding walls reflect of the exhibits are not doubles; one hesitates to call them mirror images because they are so blurred. Instead, they have the fleeting quality of early photographs, of an impression of light. They are re-appearances, afterimages in pure light, the exhibit appearing once more in dematerialised form, underlining its intangibility, its distance. The after-image gives the exhibit a palpable but also unobtrusive aura of the kind described by Walter Benjamin as “the unique phenomenon of a distance, however close it may be”158 – an aura no longer found in today’s age of mass presentation. This means of presentation is not a celebration of ownership but an admission of estrangement; it drills into us the realisation that the object is largely unknown to us, and, as such, is the radical opposite of the promises of close-up views and revelation with which the tourism and museum industry seeks to draw visitors. CATHARSIS: THE GLASS PAVILION  The density of the

The “garage door”

202  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

exhibits increases towards the end, corresponding to the course of cultural history, and it becomes evident that in this long tunnel of history, which aside from some natural light from above is segregated from the outside world, we cannot turn back to return to the activity of the entrance hall. Instead, catharsis is required. At the end of the tunnel, we resurface via a slight ramp and emerge, via a second garage door, into a glaringly bright – our eyes had forgotten how dark it was in

The Grande Galerie

the exhibition hall – glass pavilion. It feels like a moment of liberation and of warming up after the container of history and its frozen artefacts. On the horizon, we can see two gigantic pyramidal cinder cones, like overgrown duplicates of the tombs of Cheops and Chephren. While in the entrance hall, one’s view always gravitated to the world outside, and in the gallery to the edges, to the after-­ images, the turning point at the end of the sequence is a glass space in which artefact and landscape fade into each other and the succession of views becomes an all-round view. At least that is what it would be, were not the cabinets in the room the dominant focus, making it necessary to walk around the perimeter to experience the all-round view. A free pathway along one of the long walls of the Grande Galerie suggests there is a quick path back to the entrance hall. The hall for short-term exhibitions is, namely, diagonally mirrored at the opposite end of the complex. The overall figure of movement is therefore a figure-of-eight loop with the entrance hall at the crossing point. In this ever recurring looping path lies the reason for the previously mentioned, barely susceptible curving of the walls. It shows that the architecture responds to the forces of movement like a membrane bulging.

Exhibit and afterimage

level in which a room-long, floor-flush ribbon of windows affords a view of the underworld of a two-storey restoration workshop. However, this descent into the depths remains a brief excursion. (By contrast, a project by Tadao Ando at the western end of the coal-mining region makes this aspect its central theme: see p 180.) The most moving impression that the Louvre-Lens leaves on the visitor is that of the melancholic after-images of the exhibits on the internal walls of the Grande Galerie. They are part of a comprehensive strategy of transfiguration and auratisation. In the Louvre-Lens, not only are the two spatial worlds complementary – the glass-clad and the metal-clad – but also the exhibit and its after-image. As the after-image is created by the architecture, and is inscribed in it, one may even say that the exhibit and the architecture are also complementary. They depend on one another, are melted into one another. The boundaries between architecture, interior architecture, exhibition scenography and exhibit are radically re-ordered. The dual complementarity of the two spatial worlds and of exhibit and architecture is revealed in a single key moment, the passage to the Grande Galerie, a peripeteia that is both turning point and anagnorisis.

COMPLEMENTARITY  Omnipresent – in the choice of materials, the forms of the spaces, in the garage door and the presentation of the exhibits – is the metaphor of what is no longer there, the distribution yard. The Grande Galerie could just as easily have been called the Grand Dépôt. The museum also picks up themes that have shaped this landscape, the digging into and excavating of the earth. Near the middle of the entrance hall, a spiral staircase leads down to an intermediate



Turning point and moment of recognition  203

REID BUILDING AT THE GLASGOW SCHOOL OF ART, GLASGOW, SCOTLAND Steven Holl, 2009 – 2014

Creative aura and synaesthesia

The glittering volume of the Reid Building crowns the top of a hill opposite the castle-like but also graceful School of Art (1896–1909) by Charles ­Rennie Mackintosh, a building that like few others appears to be “in a time of its own”. The new building reverses Mackintosh’s grammar of “thick skin on thin skeleton”, its lustrous, light-turquoise glass skin stretched over thick bones and cartilage of whitewashed concrete.159

Canyon

FOUR FORMS OF COMMUNICATION  Creating opportunities for communication out of spaces of movement instead of engineering points of climax is characteristic for buildings for science and education. The narrow canyon-like atrium, or rather the stacked corridors that become a single-room canyon of the Reid Building, offer opportunities for communication at several levels: firstly, the visual, almost cinematic contact between users. Instead of ponderous “long takes”, the canyon establishes visual connections over long distances, as the galleries and stairs channel users along paths that pass in

204  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

and out of the clefts and crevices of the bounding surfaces and also weave their way through the built masks and masses, ­affording short “clips” of other users in the building. Secondly, the architectural elements also communicate with one another through the striking quality and redundancy of their motifs: the fountains of light, the stepped underside of the stairs, the matt turquoise glass balustrades, the white walls and beams, the polygonal twists and the modulations of the light want to be seen as developing variations of one another. Thirdly, the relationship of the canyon to the adjoining studios

Axonometrics



Creative aura and synaesthesia  205

is communicative: its carved forms transitioning into a sense of orthogonal order in the high, spacious studios that is only broken by the inclined strips of high glazing. While the canyon may seem somewhat over-orchestrated, it presents a good counterpart to the under-orchestrated nature of the studio rooms. The flights of fancy created by the actors within the studios take on form in the channels, narrowings and twists of the canyon. Its actions and forms become a kind of mimesis, echoing, stimulating, ridiculing or singing the praises of the emerging artworks being created within: this is the fourth form of communication.

details but its general arrangement is more sensible than one might at first assume from the complexity of the nevertheless captivating first impression. After the first flight of stairs, the landing plunges through a shaft of light, like a drawbridge through a castle tower, before continuing upwards until it reaches the far end of the canyon. It opens directly onto the

two-storey refectory, its glazed corner and terrace offering a view onto the city. The counterpoint to this expansiveness is an extremely narrow bridge that nudges another light shaft in the ribs, turning with it through 90 degrees so that the steps face in the same direction of the first two flights. The two following, successive flights of stairs point in the reverse direction. This way, the tallest part of the canyon is in the narrow gulley above the first steps when one enters, and the greatest compression is at the far end at the turning point next to the open refectory area. On the upper floors, the circulation of the canyon begins to impinge on and blend into the door-less studio rooms, blurring the two into a landscape of landings, galleries and artistic production. The light shafts seem at first illogical: why channel the light inside only to wall it off again? Do they not at some point exhaust their role as especially sociable representatives of the four forms of communication, or as curious tower rooms, even more medieval in character than Mackintosh ever was? And yet they prove effective at regulating light levels. The

Cafeteria

Light fountain

PATH, SPACE, LIGHT  The circulation has numerous artful

206  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

c­ anyon needs no light from above for its main illumination as it receives sufficient sidelight from the entrance area, ample light from the refectory and occasional extra light from the ateliers. The outer surfaces of the light shafts present soft surfaces for the sidelight to play on, while the almost excessively bright interiors subject those passing through it to a brief shower of light. SOUND  In this canyon, very little is “intertwined” or “woven­

Light fountain



together” and nothing is textile, filigree or elastic. Instead, everything weighs against each other, rests and balances on one another or is joined with considerable force. The canyon is rich in architectural operations, especially forming and positioning operations – narrowing, channelling, driving, splitting, stamping, slotting, grooving, hollowing, shifting, widening, stretching and occupying. In the abrupt splicing together of bodies and masks that give rise to these operations, in its concrete swellings and offset planes, the act of construction is almost audible: the ostinato of the concrete mixer and the sloshing of the concrete mush, the gravel-splitting of the core drill, the high-pitched whine of the circular saws, the crashing, singing clatter of cut-off material… The symphony of the construction site is still faintly audible in the space, especially in the distinctive cut-outs. On the smooth surfaces that are ubiquitous today, however, such sounds have been silenced: a polished marble politely declines to reveal the force required to make its veins shine, and the filler shamelessly silences the soft scoring sound of the carpet knife as it cuts through the frays of the plasterboard before sterilising it with a coat of emulsion. The pristine whiteness muffles this brutalist symphony, but as it is, the “remembered sound” of its construction brought to life by sight and touch is just one of three voices that reverberate through the canyon. The second is the people: the questions, greetings and telephone calls at the reception and ­entrance, the discussions on the galleries, the dinner conversations in the refectory, the calls from the landings, the murmur of the ateliers that come together in this single space. The third voice is the sound of doing and making that emanates from the ateliers, replicating in miniature the sound of the construction site. This school building opens one’s eyes and ears, it tickles one’s nose and palate, it gets us on our feet and, figuratively speaking, nudges us more than once in the ribs, as the architectural forms also do. It stimulates creativity by appealing to all our senses at once. Its many voices give this school of art what so many vitally need, but so few have: creative aura.

Creative aura and synaesthesia  207

CHILDREN’S NURSERY, WEIACH, ZURICH, SWITZERLAND L3P Architekten, 2012 – 2014

Round dance

Weiach on the Upper Rhine is situated in a landscape of ponderous farmhouses and voluminous barns that extend right into the village centre, ­jostling for space but remaining stubbornly solitary. Amidst them is a children’s nursery that cheekily sews together what is usually separate: fluffy like the toddlers’ fabric cubes, silky like a case lining turned inside out, surreal like a cross between an architecton by Kazimir Malevich and a fur cup by Meret Oppenheim, and cubist like a carpet turned upright and clad with artificial turf.

Group room

“RAUMPLAN” AND “RAUMRING”  The single-class for-

mat of the children’s nursery presented the opportunity to structure its inner organisation like a villa: from the vestibule, one proceeds via the large salon to a kind of Loosian boudoir – the doll’s house – and from there via a small bridge into the attic room, for handiwork and painting. A single flight of stairs returns to the beginning, connecting the rooms into a ring. The individual sections of this ring have contrasting colours, proportions and outward views: the related colours deep purple, pink and ocean blue connect the smaller, stretched spaces such as the cloakroom, doll’s house and bridge, with green and yellow used for the main room and atelier. Each of these two large rooms has a large panoramic window, while the vestibule and doll’s house have just a visor-like horizontal slot. Together, they point in all four directions.

208  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

The dramaturgy of these spaces would be unremarkable, were it not for the fact that they rise. As with Adolf Loos’ concept of Raumplan, these separate levels give each room an atmosphere of its own, while simultaneously creating rich, varied and striking views from one space through to the next. The very first view beneath the low, dark ceiling of the changing room past the green floor of the salon and up the steps to the pink wall of the doll’s house and into the landscape beyond already encapsulates a range of atmospheres in a single glance. Similarly, the view through the window of the rear wall of the salon shows the indoor and outdoor colours of ­several room surfaces simultaneously. Or the dramatic steep view from the floor-level window of the atelier into the salon and out again onto the grass. Alongside the changing heights of the rooms and careful positioning of the windows, the variety of vistas is also a factor of the side entry and exit points of the rooms and the resulting lateral axes.

Axonometric



Round dance  209

CLASP AND BAY  In such a small space, this rich range of

Clasp and bay

contrasts and “nice situations” could be somewhat hectic, were it not for the confident handling of the bounding surfaces. All five main rooms are combinations of the clasp and bay archetypes: the floor, window wall and ceiling in each room form a coloured clasp that lends the surfaces a sense of presence and acts as an even backdrop for all the colourful items in the room. The rear and side walls are the complementary bay, but are painted white, its widening effect balancing the bay’s sense of enclosure. In the case of the rear wall of the salon, with its numerous perforations, the use of white highlights the effect of the distancing frame, so that the layers of colour behind recede into the distance. The architects’ decision to give colour to the wall with a window, and not the opaque wall, has a dual effect: the colour is never overbearing as it only frames the window, and it reflects less colour into the room as the light is behind it. Only with the ocean blue bridge is this principle reversed so that the room lights up in blue, even on overcast days – highlighting the threshold function of the bridge before entering the crafts room whose atmosphere is geared towards concentrated work. CONSTANCY AND VARIANCE   The coherence of this l­ittle­treasure chest is a factor of the interplay between four variables – colour, size, floor level and window format – and three constants – coloured clasp versus white bay, lateral entrance and near-central window position. The system and appeal of this interplay is made apparent through the constant position of the passage between the rooms and the variance of the vistas, all arranged around an empty central space. As two of the rooms are raised off the ground, this becomes a station of another, the outdoor circular path. This rare opportunity to build a house for a single group of children has been used to extraordinary effect by breaking down the single room of traditional nurseries into a differentiated round dance of rooms, that create stable, self-contained atmospheric playing environments that are nevertheless easily interpretable situations. While the teachers cannot see every corner of the nursery, they can hear and see something of every room. In the words of the director, the fact that the children are not constantly under supervision makes them more independent and the supervisor more relaxed. Perhaps the reason why this building so compellingly exploits the potential of the circular type of drama – namely the balancing of variance and constancy by revoking the principle of beginning, climax and end in favour of equal contrasting situations – is because the logic of a children’s nursery does not tend by itself to this principle.

Doll’s house

210  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Group room

Crafts room, bridge, group room



Atrium

Round dance  211

Circularity

Polarity

Finality

Transitoriality

The four types of drama

Types of drama Architectural typologies are derived not only from the construction method, the material used, the purpose of the building, its form of circulation or access, or the shape or number of storeys but also with respect to the way in which we experience its spaces. This experience is informed on the one hand by the atmosphere of the spaces and our state of mind at that moment, and on the other by our personal intention when using the building and whether the building fulfils that purpose. While personal intention and intended purpose do not determine the individual dramaturgy of a building, they do suggest typical corresponding dramatic typologies. For example, when visiting a museum, we do not have a fixed expectation of whether we will experience a point of climax, an open end, or frequently changing atmospheres, but we do expect a certain rhythm and congruence of paths and spaces without which we would not be animated to look around us but also to continue onwards. If we consider the key public building tasks represented by our case studies, it seems that we can identify four main types of drama: Circular type of drama: In this type, the circuit through successive spaces defines the experience. This is typically the case in museums, thermal baths, spa buildings and parks. Their dramaturgical narratives frequently employ turning points, distribution points, triadic sequences, retarding moments, but not always. Either way, the retarding moments should not offer too strong a counterpoint to the stimulus to move onwards, to ensure forward movement through space.

212  Dramaturgies of space in contemporary architecture

Polar type of drama: In this type, the experience of space is determined by a back and forth between two or more contrasting groups of spaces or activities. The destination towards which one moves – for example a classroom or reading place – is typically a place of rest and not the climax of the drama. The latter is more likely to be in a space of movement, such as a break hall or staircase, and is by no means merely a “show” but rather serves communication. It is a necessary counterpoint to the places of rest, which finds its sense only in the balance and interaction of the parts. Polarity is a typical typological pattern for libraries, schools, children’s nurseries, congress halls and buildings for science and research. Finality type of drama: In this type, the succession of spaces moves towards a single destination. The changing rooms, for example, serve the sports hall, nothing else. Buildings of the finality type are often one-room buildings. Even when a threshold or access space plays an important role – for example the foyer of a theatre – it serves the auditorium and is oriented towards it. Finality is a typical typological pattern for concert halls and theatres, parliamentary buildings, sports halls and multi-storey car parks. Transitorial type of drama: We cross through buildings of this type. In most cases, there is no reason to return to the beginning. Some are made for hurrying through, some are temporary places between two or more attractors, and others merely for wandering. This is manifested, albeit in different forms, in gates and entrance buildings, traffic constructions, shopping centres, malls and many multifunctional cultural centres.

Every type of drama has one or more specific underlying rhythms of movement. Waiting is common to all types, plus wandering in the circular type, oscillating in the polar type, toward-movement in the finality type, and hurrying through or strolling in the transitorial type. We will examine these aspects more closely later in the section on the Parameters of Beginnings (4.9), Endings (4.11), Paths (4.10), Dramatic arcs (4.14) and Movements (4.19). But the type is not identical with the individual manifestation of a drama, nor with the dramaturgical concept. In an actual building, the type is present only as a bounding framework or a tendency, not as a determinant. It can be adhered to, re­ inforced but also contradicted. The original dramatic type can, in some cases, be modified beyond recognition, while in other cases, the melding of two types may be the point of the building, to reveal new, unexpected and productive facets in its intended purpose.

Vals, Exeter, Yale and Glasgow are invigorated by the interplay of the principles of polarity and circularity, and in the Philharmonie, the playful encore of circularity adds an extra flourish to the inevitability of its programmatic finality. In the RPAC, the circular parcours is always present, regardless of how many detours its users indulge in. Weiach is entirely of a circular type, going against received typological tradition. The Abteiberg and Chicago, by contrast, avoid all forms of single-path circularity, inviting their users instead to drift and discover. Their numerous optional paths and many entry and exit points exploit the potential of an open field in which positions and experiences are interchangeable.

In the dramaturgy of contemporary spaces, the circular type of drama is almost always part of the concept, as, in an age of security and access control, personnel cost savings and mercantile uses (the museum shop not next to but in the entrance hall), the entrance is usually simultaneously the exit. Up until the 1980s, this was less prevalent: separate entrances that responded differently to the respective urban situation, covert side entrances, hidden exits or temporary entrances were often to be found in large buildings, which by then showed their age and had frequently been converted and extended over the years, sometimes more than once. However, the circular type is by no means only detrimental for spatial dramaturgies:



Types of drama  213

PART 4

Designing the drama of space “Walther von Stolzing: How do I begin according to the rule? Hans Sachs: You set it yourself, and then follow it.”160 Richard Wagner, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg

Introduction

Space

In the case studies in Part Three, we analysed the architectural dramaturgies of selected buildings as “multimedial compositions that operate through synaesthetic dramaturgies” (see p 70). In the process, we identified a range of dramaturgical options that we shall examine and compare in detail in this section, going by their key determining parameters. Our focus on the “atmospheric whole” of each project shows once again that there are no neutral nor universally valid approaches to the dramaturgy of architecture. As with all aesthetic rules, the principles of spatial dramaturgy are not irrefutable. However, they are also not arbitrarily interchangeable: each work of architecture is defined by and must have its own inner coherence, to which its dramaturgical composition contributes.

4.1 Archetypes The combinations of bounding surfaces form configurations that we have termed archetypes. In Part One, using the example of the Scuole, we saw just how fundamental they are for the character and bearing of a room – for example, sheltering, directing, emanating or enclosing. A systematic breakdown of the different possible constellations of surfaces reveals 24 different figures. Arranged by the number of active surfaces, they can be shown in a diamond-shaped arrangement (see opposite page). If we consider the sequences of archetypes in the various case studies and the resulting dramaturgical narratives, we can identify five different types of dramas: MONODRAMAS   This type of drama uses a

The parameters of the dramaturgical options revealed in the case studies are a mix of more objectively identifiable and more subjectively experienced aspects, and all of them interweave spatial and temporal aspects with our physical perception of them. We have nevertheless identified the following 20 particularly useful parameters and arranged them by the categories of space, time and physical perception, so that we can progress from the more “objective” parameters, such as the archetypes, to the more “subjective”, such as the pace of movement suggested by the spaces or the intensities of experience they evoke in us.

216  Designing the drama of space

single archetype: in Le Havre it is the envelope, in Giornico the basin, in Lens the ring, in Weiach the clasp and bay, in Miami the mirrored floor and ceiling, in Fehrbelliner Platz the mirrored walls, and in the RPAC the arrangement of single dominant surfaces. However static or dynamic the spatial constellation may be, the repetition of a single archetype lends the monodramas a simple, tangible basic rhythm. COMPLEMENTARY DRAMAS   In this type of drama, an archetype is followed by its com­ plementary opposite at the key turning point in the building: for example, in the Philharmonie

Archetypes of spatial form



4.1 Archetypes  217

Monodramas

Complementary dramas

Alternating dramas

Triadic dramas

Developing dramas

Constructing dramas from archetypes

switching from hood to basin, or in the Scuola di San Rocco from basin to hood. This complementary relationship between archetypes helps lend these highly emotionally-charged spatial dramaturgies a sense of closure and completeness. In the Nationalgalerie, the complementary drama is achieved by switching the single dominant surface. ALTERNATING DRAMAS  At Yale, single dominant surfaces (the studios) alternate with envelopes (the staircase), while in Stuttgart mirrored floor and ceiling (M galleries) alternate with caves (C  galleries). In both these cases, a third, prominent spatial figure offers a balancing counterpart: at Yale it is the mirrored walls of the lecture hall, and in Stuttgart the ring archetype of the atrium. TRIADIC DRAMAS   In the Abteiberg, the three main territories are defined by the use of the archetypes hood (in the blocks), mirrored floor and ceiling (on the levels) and rings (in the cubes). So predominantly open archetypes alternate with predominantly closed ones. In Exeter, by contrast, three archetypes adjoin one another at their open sides so that views pass seamlessly from one to the next: from the mirrored walls of the book stacks out to the framework of the atrium on one side and the single dominant surface of the reading ring on the other. This combination of different archetypes meeting precisely at their matching open sides seems to be Louis Kahn’s specific approach to creating spatial continua. DEVELOPING DRAMAS  In this type of drama, more open formations become progressively more closed. In Walsall, the single dominant surfaces of the entrance hall combine to form the envelope of the Epstein Gallery, as the interrupted rings of the temporary exhibition gallery merge into the hood of the tower room. In the Langen Foundation, single dominant surfaces and L-shap­ ed sections combine to form tents. In Chicago, the minimal gesture of placing the mirrored floor and ceiling archetype in the centre of a vibrant mix of single dominant surfaces lends the Center Court a monumental effect.

The dramaturgical sequences formed by these combinations of archetypes provide the main dramatic arc with a stable base, or can offer accompanying variations to it or even run parallel

218  Designing the drama of space

to it. While they may not always be as pronounced as in Stuttgart or Weiach or as fundamental as in the Nationalgalerie, they always play a significant role in underpinning rather than counteracting the primary dramatic arc.

4.2 Configurations How can rooms and spaces be arranged in sequence, interleave or transition into one another and with what dramatic effects? ENFILADE   The simplest configuration of rooms is the sequential threading of spaces along a line resulting in an enfilade. In this linear progression of spaces luring into their depth, each consecutive space is announced by an opening that, however, has little impact on the space’s atmosphere. The ratio of opening to wall is relatively small so that the wall remains the dominant surface. Giornico is an enfilade par excellence. VISUAL CONTINUUM  Visual continuity be-

tween a succession of spaces – a visual continuum – is achieved by opening the fourth wall to the neighbouring room: the ratio of opening to remaining wall surface here is larger so that the opening dominates. The spaces connect without interleaving physically, their flanking surfaces presenting an image of the adjoining space. Each space therefore influences the atmosphere of the other. The junction between the two may be marked by a frame – like the proscenium of classical theatres or the frame around the altar zone in the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista – or not (Chicago). If the view is particularly striking, even relatively small openings can signal visual continuity, for example in the connection between the sala superiore and the oratorio of the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista. The greater the contrast between spaces in a visually ­continuous sequence, the more attention they attract, inciting us to move onwards, or alternatively to observe voyeur-like from a safe distance. In contrast to the enfilade, where the temporal experience is successive in character, a visual continuum introduces the aspect of simultaneity. As Anke Naujokat161 has described, the modern fascination with simultaneity can be manifested in architecture in at least four different

ways: as “temporal simultaneity”,162 as “spatial simultaneity” – for example the visual superimposition of inside and outside –, as “functional simultaneity” through the overlapping of different functions, and as “semantic simultaneity” through the collaging of meanings. All four of these can fold into each other, as the case study of Chicago shows.

One zone

Two zones

Path and views

Convex obstructions through directing walls

drifting “in-between-spaces” that gradually transition into one another? The answer depends not just on the nuances of a space’s articulation, its lighting conditions or the codifications of surfaces but also on the viewer’s position and direction of view. Our perception and appreciation oscillates constantly as we move around. For Roger Scruton,163 this oscillation between one momentary impression and its revision in the

Three zones

Directing walls as destination walls

Four zones

Zones of influence of the guiding walls

Opening view

Zones of influence of the walls

Force fields in flowing space

FLOWING SPACE  The term “flowing space” is often used to denote the seamless transition between inside and outside, as seen in Le Havre. But interior spaces likewise flow into one another when one of a space’s six bounding surfaces opens unobstructed onto the next, making it possible to see and move freely between them. Flowing space is an intricate and infinitely fascinating phenomenon: is it space that flows here or is it the spaces that flow? Are we concerned with three entities, or a single entity with three zones, or two zones with a further overlapping zone? Or is the space comprised of “influencing elements” (e.g. created by an L-shaped wall) and



next, as our eyes take in the order of a space, is a key aspect of how we perceive architecture, and therefore also a key characteristic of architecture. Unconstrained by hard boundaries, enclosing walls and distinct thresholds, flowing space weaves us as its users into a spatial continuum that is largely indistinct, creating an experience that is not so much disconcerting as contemplative. Like Richard Wagner’s endless melody that appears to strive towards cadences only to evade them, it is the constant suspension of the moment of resolution that makes it so effective for prolonging the experience of time and adding new facets to the dramatic arc. The dramatic

4.2 Configurations  219

Layered walls

Guiding wall, concave L-shaped wall and gap

Insertion of a wall from the side

S-shaped wall between layered directing walls

Appearance of a new guiding wall

Guiding wall becomes freestanding wall

Concave L-shaped wall and guiding wall (compare with 2)

Directing wall, guiding wall and destination wall

Room cell with open corners

Guiding wall as row of pillars and four directing walls

View back: L-shaped wall interleaving with L-shaped wall

Guiding walls and directing walls in a longitudinal space

Wall ends and corners concealed from view

Guiding walls and destination wall

Directing wall and L-shaped wall

Guiding wall, directing walls and destination walls

Miesian variants of flowing space

s­ ituations of flowing space are so diverse that we shall take a closer look using the example of the Nationalgalerie. FLOWING SPACE – THE MIESIAN APPROACH  A few walls placed freely in space

does not make flowing space. It requires the duality of enclosing and opening to create the desired spatial tension. In Mies’ elaboration of flowing space, walls are overlaid in perspective, creating an impression of seeming endlessness by preventing us from seeing the whole picture. These spatial situations take place between the flat planes of the floor and ceiling, and draw on Frank Lloyd Wright’s and Theo van Doesburg’s idea of exploding the box, as well as on concepts from the hedged gardens and labyrinths of the Baroque, with which they share three key configurations: concave L-shaped sections of walls that

lead off into spaces out of view; convex sections of walls that offer two alternative paths; and a gap between two walls that offers a view of parallel walls and conceals any flanking walls so that the breadth and depth remain unclear. Such openings are generally perceived as a gap between­ two separate walls, rather than the interruption of a single section of wall. Compressing or extending walls in these ways lends the overall space rhythm. Flowing space no longer has the static configuration of front, side and rear walls. The walls take on different roles depending on one’s perspective. One and the same wall can serve equally and at different times as a guiding wall – along which we walk –, a directing wall – that changes our direction of movement –, a destination wall – which we see before us – or a rear wall. Flowing,

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Enfilade

therefore, also means that the functions of the walls are in flux. Spaces open and close as we move, walls blocking, jutting forward, receding, adjoining or standing freely. In flowing space, we mostly encounter the archetypes of mirrored walls or adjacent walls, rarely bays, never rings. Staggered and angled wall sections alternate in calm but irregular rhythms. Narrow channels are avoided. The storyboard of a path through the lower ground of the Nationalgalerie illustrates the rich situational diversity of flowing space.

Visual continuum

Flowing space

Volumetric continuum

Four room configur ations

VOLUMETRIC CONTINUUM  In a volumetric continuum, the inner enclosing surfaces are removed and the outer shifted. In contrast to the profoundly polyvalent character of flowing space, a volumetric continuum is, in its pure form, ambivalent: are we concerned with a single zoned space or a composition of three interrelated spaces? The escape stairs at Yale exemplify the appeal of the equivocal: are the small exhibition areas merely extensions of the stair landings or actually display cases into which the stairs protrude, inviting, even imploring one to continue onwards? Conservatories, podiums, bay windows and loggias are sometimes volumetric, sometimes visual continua. Adolf Loos’ concept of Raumplan is, despite the staggered floor levels and different room heights, a variant of a visual rather than a volumetric continuum, as each cellular space is intact and self-contained, only docking up against its neighbour. At the most, the steps between two such spaces can be said to be ambivalent in the few cases where they are not part of either one or the other single space but

Separating

Widening

Expanding

Contraction

Channeling

Narrowing

Tapering

Recess

Constriction

Bulge

Bottleneck

Extension

Shapes of paths



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Widening, Narrowing, Constriction etc. along the Grand Gallery (1–4, downward view 5, backward view 6) and in one of the “stair caves” (7–9, backward view 10) in the foyer of the Berliner Philharmonie

occupy the overlapping zone between the two. The potential of volumetric continua can be shown through the example of the Philharmonie. VOLUMETRIC CONTINUUM – SCHAROUN’S APPROACH  Scharoun’s approach to the design of a volumetric continuum employs staggered and angled arrangements in all three dimensions. Unlike Mies’ approach to flowing space, walls no longer play a dominant role: on the contrary, freestanding destination and directing walls would obstruct the volumetric sense of height of the space, and guiding walls are relegated to the fringes in the form of gallery or bridge parapets. In this case they mask the outer walls and tend to form additional layers of space. The rhythmic, staggered folding of the layers of space makes the boundaries less dis-

tinct. What dominates is a space of movement comprised of paths and spaces that turn, branch off, expand and contract. Scharoun’s approach to flowing space always expresses the process it performs in the built result: a bay is extending or indenting, an open expanse is always in the process of expanding or contracting, a path performs traversing, and so on. Various elements may momentarily act together to form a figure or frame a situation, before establishing new alliances as one progresses. Miesian space, despite the diverse­situations it forms, remains decidedly abstract; Scharoun’s space exhibits similarly diverse situations but also evokes a plethora of concrete metaphors: a hallway becomes an alley, the foyer a square, and so on. But Scharoun also takes this a step further, frequently going beyond pure volumetric continua by interleaving spaces with one another. This is the primary means by

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Connecting hinge spaces

Overlapping zones

Common interleav­ ing zone

Second-degree interleaving

Progressive interleaving of spaces

Hierarchical

which Scharoun compresses space focusing on specific central areas. Combinatory

INTERLEAVING SPACE  The interleaving of

Synthetic

Contrasting

Interpretations of overlapping zone



BV_Raum.indb 223

spaces results in areas that exist in themselves but also share a common zone. Spaces can be interleaved with the help of a connecting element or shifted into one another. Several examples of both cases exist, for example, in the Abteiberg. The common zone created by the interleaving of spaces can be elaborated in different ways: –– hierarchical, in which the qualities of one of the spaces determine the character of the common space, so that it effectively extends into the other; –– combinatory, in which the qualities of both spaces intermingle and are woven into one ­another;

–– synthetic, in which the qualities of both rooms are fused to form a new character; –– contrasting, in which the intersection is given a third quality distinct from the two other spaces. Where two overlapping zones meet one another, they divide the central area. Where interleaved zones also interleave one another, the resulting zone pertains to multiple rooms. This “second-­ degree interleaving” marks a new central point. If this new centre is then framed, it appears as a convex body to its surroundings. Here, we are no longer concerned with sequences of spaces but with antagonists: the antagonists of body and space.

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4.3 Body-space ­relationships The body-space antagonism lends a new quality to the play of concealing and revealing as spaces are no longer just hidden behind an element but possibly also within it. BODY WITHIN SPACE  Centrally positioned solid objects – similar to castles of Baroque residences – are seldom found in interiors. One rare example is the cellular institute buildings for the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC) that Walter Netsch designed at the office of Skidmore, Ow-

the cabinet rooms of the Scuola dei Carmini and in Walsall) protrude into it, altering its shape. We can walk along them but not all around them, and therefore cannot ascertain their dimensions from all sides. Because they are often perceived as disturbing or destabilizing factors, we either attempt to erase them from our mental image of the spatial organism, or try to make sense of it. In some cases, we simply enjoy it and the deflection it causes. Alban Janson and Thorsten Bürkli describe how the glorious wide arc of the perimeter

Body within space

Body at perimeter of space

In-between space

Volume within a space

Ring-shaped body

Structured space

Complex space

Body-space ­continuum

Light ground

Spatial ground

Layered space

Space-enclosing boundaries

Body-space relationships

ings & Merrill using his so-called “field theory”. Solid, convex cores, even accessed from the rear, splice the central axis forcing one to walk around them. Such arrangements impede orientation. A simple way to make this easier is to enable one to see into the body that has to be walked around, by designing it as a glazed cabinet, atrium or inner courtyard (as in Chicago and Weiach). BODY AT PERIMETER OF SPACE  Convex bodies placed at the periphery of a space (as in

of the Campo Santa Margherita in Venice gradually offers a view of the square, and in the reverse direction guides one out of the square into another likewise unforeseen space.164 IN-BETWEEN SPACE  If several solid and inaccessible bodies are placed at the boundary of or within a space, a series of spaces arises between them. The potential of this is shown to masterful effect in a showpiece of seafaring architecture: the separate positioning of the three

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well defined by four of its six surfaces that it remains unequivocally part of the building volume. SPACE-CONTAINING BODY WITHIN A SPACE  Examples of accessible, enclosed spac-

es­within a larger space can be found in the Philharmonie and in the Langen Foundation. In addition to being able to walk around them, we can also go inside them. They have great dramatic potential, appearing at first mysterious before revealing their secret. They are perfect wrapped presents. RING-SHAPED BODY  If the bounding surfaces of a body relate only to themselves, i.e. not to the space beyond them on the outside or on the inside, a ring-shaped body results between them. This is the case in the book stacks of Exeter, lined on the inside by the separately articulated planes of the concrete masks opening onto the central hall. A similar situation can be seen in Stuttgart where the shape of the ring oscillates between a concrete wall and a concrete volume, and in Yale, where the body is marked by four pillars at the corners. STRUCTURED SPACE  Even very small bodPromenade decks of the SS Normandie (1935) and the RMS Queen Mary (1936); theatres are marked in grey

turbine shafts on the transatlantic steamer SS Norman­die  (1935) makes it possible to enjoy an almost­200-m-long unbroken axial sequence on the promenade deck. In the comparable RMS Queen Mary (1936), however, one has to walk around the undivided vents taking a more or less “picturesque” route. Outdoor spaces or transitional spaces between indoors and outdoors are likewise in-between spaces, for example streets and squares which, despite their incomplete enclosure, remain part of a wider configuration of solids and voids. Similarly, the space that spans the outdoor pool of the thermal baths in Vals is so



ies, such as pillars, remain solid bodies, and they influence the structure of a space. In combination, they can evenly open up or lend rhythm to a space. Greek columns and giant concrete pillars in wide-span halls are obvious examples, but their comparatively modest counterparts can also play a great and even leading role in structuring the drama of a space, as seen in the white quadratic pillars of the Nationalgalerie, the ­ballet of the pilotis in Miami, the trialogue of columns in Chicago or the minimal rods in Lens. LAYERED SPACE  If, instead of pillars, these small bodies take the form of staggered arrangements of parallel wall planes, the spaces between them mutate into a succession of layers. In contrast to flowing space, in layered space – in essence a compressed, creative variation of the enfilade – the guiding walls (whose perspectival foreshortening emphasizes depth) are omitted or at least concealed. Such arrangements favour frontal viewpoints as they reveal the full and “proper” effect of the arrangement, with movement between the layers being merely an entr’acte. Layered space borrows aspects of symmetrical – the impact of the frontal view – and

4.3 Body-space ­relationships  225

asymmetrical arrangements – the latent dynaing of spatial volumes but rather an imagined mism of its elements. Robert Slutzky and Colin permeation of the wall planes that remain physRowe165 have used the term “phenomenal trans- ically separate. parency” (applying it to Le Corbusier’s Villa Stein from 1927) to describe the qualities of layered There are no representatives of “pure” layered space and, in particular, its psychological and space and phenomenal transparency in our case perceptual potential. In the first instance, the studies, but several make use of the effect of layDas Dasvorhanghafte vorhanghafteVerschieben/ Verschieben/Eine EineKamerafahrt Kamerafahrtauf aufder derGalerie Galerie term simply states that “transparency” is para- ering in key situations; for example, the parallel doxically a product of the opaque: sections of arrangement of insular podiums in Lens, the Das vorhanghafte Verschieben/ Eine Kamerafahrtauf der Galerie parallel layers overlap, leaving the viewer to views through the walls of multiple bay and clasp speculate on and construct the overall form in archetypes in Weiach, the parallel alignment of their imagination. Secondly, phenomenal trans- pillars in Miami, the overlapping of parallel volparency means that elements can belong simul- umes in Vals and Le Havre, which from certain taneously to different systems of order, our per- standpoints appear as flat planes, or the layering ception fluctuating between these – mutually of perforated, at times backlit masks in Glasgow exclusive – ways of reading. Thirdly, it becomes and in the foyer of the Philharmonie.

amerafahrt merafahrtauf aufder derGalerie Galerie

Das Das Das vorhanghafte vorhanghafte vorhanghafte Verschieben/ Verschieben/ Verschieben/ Eine Eine Eine Kamerafahrt Kamerafahrt Kamerafahrt auf auf auf der der der Galerie Galerie Galerie

View from the gallery into the bathing area of the thermal baths in Vals

difficult to determine the position of the wall planes due to the obscured guiding wall and other lighting and surface effects, so that fourthly, the actual depth of the in-between spaces can no longer be assessed. The drama of layered space unfolds not by exposing its depth but by obscuring it. It operates through the means of compression, nearness and endowing the full field of view with opaque, framing or at the most translucent but not genuinely transparent elements. In the same spirit, there is no physical interweav-

226  Designing the drama of space

The degree to which the layering of space can be pursued in all three axes without losing its legibility – or whether these cancel each other out, or can no longer be realistically described as phenomenal transparency – has yet to be clarified.166 SPACE-ENCLOSING BOUNDARIES  In the

above body-space relationships, we have not considered the nature of the enclosing boundary, portraying it only as a closed ring in our schematic diagrams. But the articulation of the wall

West wall of Reims Cathedral

itself is of course also of relevance, not least in the case of layered space, and the same relationships described above are also at play in space-­ enclosing walls, albeit on a miniature scale. Openings in walls do not just connect spaces but also enclose space within their depth. They may celebrate this function ostentatiously, as in Le Havre, imply them mysteriously as in Vals, or set them in a dance-like motion as in the peeling-off, winding surfaces at Fehrbelliner Platz. The perforation of a wall at the junction between two spaces results in multiple surfaces that can communicate something about the nature of the wall. In his study Body – Space – Surface,167 Karsten Schubert examines possible ways of articulating bounding surfaces, using the wall as an example, and identifies no less than 16 different ways, including cladding, bas-relief, twin skin and merging. At this point, however, we are more interested in the dramaturgical potential than the articulation of wall openings. We shall come back to this aspect in our discussion of the “dramatic situation” on p 270–271.168 SPATIAL GROUND  If an interior is bounded

neither by a transparent pane of glass nor by an opaque wall, but by a continuous, possibly translucent, spatial layer, one speaks of a diaphanous wall, of spatial ground or of light ground – terms introduced by Hans Jantzen in his seminal study of Gothic architecture.169 Here, light becomes the ground behind an opaque figure, or even an illuminated body against which the physical material of the opaque figure flattens to become an immaterial silhouette. A particularly compelling example of this is the west wall of Reims Cathedral, its colourful light ground manifested by two rosettes and a triforium zone and suggesting their interconnectedness beyond the stone tracery. The fascination with such light grounds remains unbroken to this day: “In recently developed facade types, this phenomenon has been cultivated through multilayered membranes of varying light permeability and structuring.”170 An unorthodox example of such light ground is the ­orange-coloured diaphanous glass and plastic walls in Chicago, or the no less idiosyncratic space-dissipating effect of the blurred reflections of the walls in Lens. In spatial sequences (see Parameter 4.13, Sequences), many of the situations described above often occur one after the other or even simulta-



neously. Several bodies within or at the perimeter of a space (such as at Fehrbelliner Platz, in Chicago, Lens, the Nationalgalerie and in Le Havre) can create a complex network of situations that reveal and conceal, and of surrounding space and in-between space. In Vals, six of the above body-space relationships are employed in combination to create a flowing space in which expanse and concentration, linearity and rotation, overview and mystery are held in careful balance from the first moment of entry, as the “tracking shot” along the gallery shows. As most of the mysterious opaque bodies are also accessible spaces in their own right, one oscillates back and forth between diversions into the many small caves and returning to the single hall of the baths.

4.4 Arithmetic ­relationships The relationships between bodies and spaces ­always have an arithmetic component. Whether they are added or multiplied, or whether a larger unit is divided or a section is subtracted from it has profound implications for the dramaturgy of a spatial configuration. Entire movements and even epochs have favoured one or two of the four basic arithmetic operations, sometimes vehemently rejecting the others.171 ADDITIONS  Additions are serial, stacked or staggered arrangements of dissimilar or different-sized units that do not penetrate or overlap one another. The parts of a sum may be arranged interspersed with gaps, back-to-back or corner-­ to-corner. Additive configurations are sometimes criticised as being little more than the sum of the parts, as the separate bodies remain intact, displacing rather than incorporating the surrounding space. But additions can be more than shapeless agglomerations. The prefabricated timber cubes of Weiach form a closed ring, the boxes in Lens a convincing sequence, and the rectangular spaces in Giornico an expressive composition. In all three cases, the addition of built volumes makes reference to the additive structure of the interior spaces consonant with it.

Additive configurations may have a loose, unpretentious character as they are not forcefully

4.4 Arithmetic ­relationships  227

highly expressive, picturesquely varying constellations. This can be seen at Yale in the tall ascending pillars and the bridge structures slung between them.

Additive

Multiplicative

Subtractive

Divisive

Arithmetic body-space relationships

interlocked. The highly dramatic potential of additive sequences of spaces is exemplified in the three Scuole Grandi. MULTIPLICATIONS  Multiplications are rep-

lications of identical or self-similar units. Pure multiplicative configurations can extend endlessly, exhibiting no turning point, no hierarchy, no contrast and no orientation. They are post-dramatic. They refute the traditional need for closure and, unlike many additive configurations that have evolved over the ages, exhibit no specific picturesque qualities. It is, therefore, no surprise that people often have a strong aversion to multiplicative buildings, such as Candilis Josic Woods’ campus buildings for the Free University in Berlin or the previously mentioned buildings by Walter Netsch for the University of Illinois at Chicago. Nevertheless, multiplication is by far the most common basic operation in modern buildings: whether for solar panel farms, greenhouses, tent cities, office floors or terraced houses, multiplication is often scorned but widely used. In certain circumstances, for example in hall churches or hypostyle mosques, multipli­ cation can create near mystical interior experiences. Multiplication operations with two or more modules maintain the fascination with the appearance of growth but also resolve some of the afore­mentioned problems. By additionally offsetting and scaling the modules, one can achieve

228  Designing the drama of space

SUBTRACTIONS  Subtractions are hollows. Body and space penetrate one another. Often the surrounding space, in-between space and interior form a dramaturgical continuum. The surrounding space intrudes into or bites a chunk out of a solid body so that one perceives the bitten-away section as an in-between space of the body. In Vals, Le Havre, Chicago, Glasgow, Stuttgart and at Fehrbelliner Platz, the spaces have been cut from a single block. Even when the resulting subtractive constellations turn or weave, reach upwards, unravel in spirals, are wrapped in a taut membrane or reveal the seams of their plasterboard covering, they exhibit a sense of solidity. This solidity is a product of and bears testimony to the force of the hollowing. As such, the tranquillity and stillness of such forms can be seen as the – often momentary – freezing of these powerful forces. Such configurations ­often have a monumental presence.

In contrast to addition, where the surrounding space is displaced by the inserted bodies, in subtraction it is the body that is cut away. In addition, the unit is always one part of the sum, whereas in subtraction the unit is the whole. Subtraction also has limits: one cannot continue cutting away from a block indefinitely without negating it entirely. DIVISIONS  Divisions are the splitting of a unit. The act of splitting can take the form of a dramatic split, a lamentable disfiguration, a harmonious division, labyrinthine segmentation or simply functional separation, as in everyday housing. This principle is even evident in Adolf Loos’ concept of Raumplan: “In the later villas, ‘Raumplan’ can be seen as the division of space according to the manifold functions of middle-­ class lifestyle.”172 Despite these divisions, the cube as a whole remains palpable and intact throughout the Loos buildings. The same applies to the cuboid volume of the gallery in Walsall.

An entirely different motivation and effect of divisive strategies is the division into self-similar forms, as celebrated in Gothic architecture and

also in digital architecture. The eye recognises similar shapes, forms and images both up close and from afar, which contributes to coherence and may even cause one to halt.

Salon of Villa Müller (1930) by Adolf Loos

In contrast to multiplication, where the starting point is a single module that is then replicated, division begins with the whole and then sub­ divides it. Multiplicative buildings can, in theory, extend endlessly and often require other operations in order to contain them and give them form. Division, like subtraction, cannot be continued endlessly, as at some point it reaches the limits of perception. At the same time, its inner logic is that of endless scaling. A brooch and a cathedral are just two material endpoints along a scale of (virtually endless) self-similarity. COMBINATIONS  Additions and subtractions

strive for closure and can themselves resolve all tension. Multiplications and divisions strive for endlessness but can only resolve all tension in combination with addition and subtraction. Such combinations, however, can have very different effects:

the atrium from seeming all too self-serving. Conversely, the monumental subtraction of the atrium halts the never-ending subdivision of the individual elements. The relationship between these two operations is more dynamic in the ­foyer of the Philharmonie. The divisions that start with the stairs and galleries run up against, intrude on and protrude into the subtractive caves formed by the underside of the auditorium. Areas of different character result, depending on which principle is more dominant, transitioning seamlessly into one another. In the Abteiberg, subtraction and multiplication stay out of each other’s way: the former hollows out the hillside and the stair blocks, while the latter allows the pattern of identical cubes to proliferate in a cloverleaf pattern. In Miami, these relationships are not only kept separate but are also made hierarchical: the vertical division of space by the pillars is a secondary operation to the horizontal segmentation of space through the floor slabs: the operations do not overlap.

In the case of the Nationalgalerie, it comes as no surprise that the two arithmetic operations that can lead to closure follow one after the other: addition and subtraction. The imperious placement of the hall in its surroundings is additive, as is the relationship between the upper and the lower space. The hollowing out of the plinth is subtractive. Within the interior of the plinth (unlike in the walled garden), the force of the subtraction is barely perceptible as it is entirely neg­ ated by the design of the white interior as a calm, subdivided “flowing space”. Addition and subtraction have quite the opposite effect in the Langen Foundation: above ground, one experiences an almost idyllic additive assemblage of spaces; the ramps, on the other hand, bore deeper and deeper into the ground until the open stair reveals to us, almost pompously, the sense of “being in the ground”. The combination of subtraction and division can likewise set up quite different dramas. While the hall in Exeter is, like so many atria, the product of a monumental subtractive act, the fine sub­ division of all its elements, from the full-height concrete frame to the frame-and-infill of the individual cupboard doors, prevents the gesture of



4.4 Arithmetic ­relationships  229

4.5 Proportions Repetition

Scaling

Modulation

Variation

Modification

Inversion

Changes in proportion Repetition: Repeated rooms of equal size with identical orientation Scaling: Change of size at identical orientation and proportions Modulation: Changed proportions at identical orientation Variation: One dimension remaining constant with two ­dimensions varying Modification: Change of proportions and orientation Inversion: Change of orientation at constant proportions

230  Designing the drama of space

Ever since Vitruvius, proportions have played a central role in architecture. The role of proportions in spatial dramaturgy goes beyond the harmonious arrangement of surfaces or room proportions to also take into account the experience of repetitions and changes in dimensions while passing through space. It is not so much the objective proportions or absolute sizes that determine whether a space feels narrow or broad than their relative sizes and relations to their surrounding spaces: proportion is about the change in x, y and z extension, from short to long, from narrow to wide, from low to height and vice versa. In addition, the lengths of verticals appear to the human eye to diminish in height less than they do in depth. As a result, even slightly flattened rectangular rooms appear balanced, if not slightly elongated; and the atrium in Stuttgart, for example, appears very high despite being “just” a third taller than it is wide. The position and kind of change determines the overall character of a space. In our case studies, we can identify a number of characteristic means by which changes of proportion influence the dramaturgy of space: REPETITION  Repetition applies when the absolute sizes of successive spaces are exactly or approximately identical, and with them the room proportions. Repetition applies to the galleries in Stuttgart (M galleries: 4.6 : 4.8 : 1, C galleries: 6.1 : 6.5 : 1), the brick bays of the outer ring (1 : 1 : 1.6) and the reading lecterns of the galleries overlooking the atrium (2.9 : 1 : 1.85) in Exeter. Thanks to their consistency, repetitions evoke a contemplative atmosphere, although in both cases, the repetitive rhythm is balanced by a single room of contrasting orientation: the atria in Stuttgart (1 : 1 : 1.3) and Exeter (1 : 1 : 1.6) have upright proportions. SCALING  We speak of scaling when the sizes

of consecutive spaces change but their proportions do not or only slightly. In such cases, the cohesion between spaces is very high, with the largest room given greatest accentuation. This effect can be further heightened by giving the largest space slightly taller proportions than the smaller spaces and therefore an upright character. In the Nationalgalerie, the scaling of squares

is such an obvious motif that the upright format of the panes of glass is all the more apparent. With proportions derived from the golden section (1.618 : 1), they stretch from the floor to the ceiling of the floating roof slab, lending it a greater sense of height. Compared with the large upper hall (6 : 6 : 1), the small four-pillar hall on the lower level seems all the more squat, although actually its proportions of 5 : 5 : 1 are taller than they are wide. In the gallery, the dimensions vary between 12 : 1.7 : 1 and 1.75 before con­cluding in the garden with proportions 18 : 4 : 1. MODULATIONS   We speak of modulation when the extension of a space is noticeably stretched or shortened without changing direction. This determines the experience of space in Weiach (from 2.1  :  1  :  1 in the doll’s house to 2.8 : 2 : 1 in the group rooms and 3.5 : 1.4 : 1 in the wardrobe room to 4.4 : 1 : 1.5 in the bridge). In the Langen Foundation, the proportions of the rooms change noticeably (peristasis: 36 : 1 : 2.7, cella: 8.4 : 1 : 1, glass pavilion overall: 11.4 : 1.7 : 1, exhibition halls: 4 : 1.2 : 1, outdoor stair: 6.4 : 2.5 : 1, cross-piece: 6.2 : 2.5 : 1) but they are all longitudinal. Although the exhibition halls are also longitudinal, they appear broader because they are both metrically as well as proportionately broader than the preceding spaces. Le Havre plays with variations of the square or equilateral cube. Although the blocks change, this remains the reference.173 At Fehrbelliner Platz, modulation is achieved through the polygonal widening and narrowing of the spaces. In all the above cases, slight, playful modulations ensure that consecutive spaces relate to one another, without exhibiting sudden changes. VARIATIONS  We speak of variations when

one of the dimensions remains unchanged so that changes to the other dimensions are all the more apparent. The single constant dimension serves as a datum, an absolute limit, that lends the character of the spaces a certain rigour, tautness and discipline. In Giornico, the strict fixed width of all three rooms results in progressive variations of medium-high–low–high and short– long–long. In Vals, the uniform ceiling level emphasises the oscillation between tight and enclosed, open and flowing. A fixed ceiling height can serve likewise to motivate changes in floor level: the changes are subtle in Lens, more considerable in the Langen Foundation with vol-



umes burrowing into the ground by up to 6  m, and in Chicago the floor surface is vigorously modelled and combined with additional rhythmic compressions of space. MODIFICATIONS  We speak of modifications when changes in the proportions of spaces also change their orientation. In Chicago, we find longitudinal and transverse spaces as well as those with no particular orientation. In the cloverleaf constellation of cubes in the Abteiberg, the height increases on each level, varying the proportions from low (3 : 3 : 1) to balanced (2.3 : 2.3 : 1) to tall (1.5 : 1.5 : 1), leading us from squat cubes via balanced cubes to tall, upward-thrusting cubes. In the foyer of the Philharmonie, tall and horizontal zones transition into one another, while the RPAC has spaces – the ball sports halls (7.5 : 3.4 : 1), the bridge (3.4 : 3.4 : 1), the galleries (2 : 9 : 1), the running track (21.3 : 1 : 1.3) and the canyon (5 : 1 : 1.5) – oriented in all three directions.

Strongly contrasting changes in room proportions occur in the caves (up to 1 : 0.5 : 1), the barrel-vaulted glazed hall (4 : 1 : 2) and the platforms (33 : 7.5 : 1) of the Abteiberg, between the different levels of the parking decks in Miami (from 16.3 : 15.4 : 1 to 4.4 : 4.1 : 1), and, as mentioned earlier, between the atria in Exeter, Stuttgart and Glasgow and their adjoining spaces. In Walsall, the rhythm of the path is created by the three cuboid halls: the entrance hall, virtually divided into two cubes (2.5 : 1.4 : 1), the “domestic hall” of the Epstein Collection (1.05 : 1.1 : 1) and the tower room (1.2 : 1 : 1), while the flowing spaces of the temporary exhibition gallery and the staircases contrast accordingly. Yale holds in store a particularly dramatic change in proportions: while both the studios and the staircases contain flat as well as tall sections, the studios are always open and expansive and the staircases always narrow and constrained. INVERSIONS  An inversion occurs when the

orientation of a space changes while its proportions, and perhaps also its size, remain the same – for example when a space is turned on its side or raised like a pole. In our case studies, there are no exact examples of inversions, although the stairwell of the Langen Foundation (1.8 : 1 : 3.6) does feel like an inversion. While there are numerous examples of inversions of

4.5 Proportions  231

architectural volumes in history, there are much fewer examples of inversions of spaces, as a vertical room orientation contradicts our normal horizon of view and can quickly feel imprisoning. Examples of such spaces include the Center of the Universe in Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1988, by Bruce Nauman, or the Houses X and XIa along with the related Canareggio project by ­Peter Eisenman.

Regular

Alternating

Agogic

Syncopated

4.6 Rhythms An impulse only becomes a pulse – a rhythm – through its repetition. Rhythm is manifested in all parameters of architecture. This can be seen in the Nationalgalerie (see table on p 128) where no less than nine different patterns of accentuation can be seen within the table’s 21 parameters and across the four “protagonists” of the building. (One might argue that an ABCD sequence, unlike an ABAB, does not count as a rhythm as it exhibits no repetition, however, this pattern of accentuation is still experienced rhythmically in the building as one passes it several times – at the very least a second time in reverse – on one’s circular path.) The rhythms found within our case studies follow five basic patterns: UNIFORM  The simplest of all rhythms is the repetition of a basic beat without any further accentuation. We see this in the book stacks and brick yokes of Exeter (8×A) and in the cloverleaf cubes of the Abteiberg (5×A). Although the pillars in Miami and the three light fountains in Glasgow have different forms, they also create a regular underlying rhythm. ALTERNATING  A prime example of the or-

dering capacity of a swaying rhythm is the double­ helix in Stuttgart. The ability of visitors to switch back and forth at will between the M and C galleries sets up a stimulating tension between the ­repeating regular pattern of the structure and the individual experiences. As the gallery spaces are framed by very different spaces, the resulting pattern of accentuation is A B CCCCC (DDDD) E F A.

232  Designing the drama of space

Oscillating

Polyrhythmic

Rhythms

AGOGIC  If not the rhythm but the pace changes, quickening or slowing momentarily – to approximate the dynamic rhythm of human speech, to create a pause for people to draw breath and collect themselves, to emphasise the elasticity of a texture, or just to ease the rigour of repeating elements – one speaks of what Hugo Riemann termed agogic accentuation.174 Strictly speaking, agogic is a temporal rather than rhythmic alteration, yet while agogic shifts do not n ­ ecessarily influence the tempo at which we experience space, they do create momentary impressions as described here. This can be seen in the “loose” arrangement of the archipelagos in the entrance and exhibition halls in Lens. In both halls, agogic accentuation influences the energy of the interior space, leaving the exterior skin untouched. Agogic accentuation also pervades all the architectural operations of the P ­ hilharmonie: one need only think of the dancing rows of pillars, the offset flights of stairs, or the terraced seating blocks of the auditorium that squeeze and pull

the interior in roughly similar-­sized, rhythmic arrangements of trapezoids and pentagons. SYNCOPATED  If an unfolding regular pattern is disturbed by accentuating an unstressed moment in the metre of the beat, one speaks of syncopation. One sees this, for example, in the B A B B A rhythm of the rooms in Weiach, where A is a large room and B a small room, or in the A B B A B A rhythm in Miami, where A is a high storey, and B a storey with a low ceiling; the switch between large and small comes as a surprise, falling out of the expected pattern. The crossing paths in Chicago likewise form an irregular pattern, but this is not syncopated as a basic underlying rhythm is lacking against which the syn­ copation can play. In this case, one could speak of free rhythms in which the beat is more “haphazard”. OSCILLATING  The rhythm within a building

can change, and so can the instrument that lays the beat. In the lower level of the Nationalgalerie, for example, where the positioning grid of the walls is identical with that of the columns (in contrast to the Barcelona Pavilion, for example), the extension and pattern of the grid of columns is not legible. At most, the columns form small rhythmic interludes: short rows, framed squares or single hinge points in flowing space. The remaining pillars are buried within the walls, like in an archaeological site. The rhythm therefore oscillates between that formed by the wall planes and that formed by the columns. The walls and columns share the same underlying beat (a 1.20-m grid) but adapt the beat into rhythms of their own: the columns sounding at regular 7.20-m intervals while the walls breath in and out at irregular lengths and intervals. POLYRHYTHMIC  If rhythms of different me-

tre, frequency or tempo are overlaid so that their respective accents come together in ever different combinations, one speaks of polyrhythmic textures. The three systems of columns in Chicago create such a texture, although in the duality of paths and spaces within the building, they punctuate and mark out areas rather than delimit separate spaces. The different articulations of the columns make this superimposition legible, creating a rich variety of dialogical and trialogical situations. At the same time, in spite of their superimposition, the columns provide an under-



lying rhythm, at times subtle, at times distinct, while the surfaces of the walls, floor and ceiling set the tone.

4.7 Correspondences If works of architecture are indeed highly complex “multimedial compositions that operate through synaesthetic dramaturgies”, as we suggest on p 71, it seems obvious that correspondences between parts offer a very specific and appealing means with which to establish artistic unity in architecture, especially when correspondences link parts that are separated by time and space. Common properties of different elements can be very striking, creating a unifying correspondence that is immediately apparent, or they can be subtler, the correspondence only becoming apparent in retrospect. The latter can be a particularly effective dramatic device, evoking a sense of unity by completing a puzzle that is only vaguely sensed earlier. Looking at our case studies, correspondences can be considered in two different ways. Firstly, the kind of correspondence: TRANSPOSING

CORRESPONDENCES  If

the common aspect or quality is shared by different kinds of elements (for example a wall and a cushion), we can speak of transposing correspondences. The more disparate the elements, the more striking the effect of such a correspondence. Its fascination lies in the impression that everything is related with everything else, the sublime with the trivial, the large with the small, the permanent with the temporary, the hollow with the solid. Such “magical associations”175 can, of course, degenerate into stylistic mannerism, suffocating us with their omnipresence so that a hint of irony is called for. A striking example of transposing correspondences, which are typical for disjointed architectures, can be found in the Abteiberg, where the motif of the circle recurs in numerous different forms, giving the impression of a carefully composed symphony (see p 144–145). DECONTRASTING CORRESPONDENCES  If two elements of the same type have some contrasting qualities (for example, one wall made of glass, another of plasterboard) but also share a

4.6 Rhythms, 4.7 Correspondences  233

strikingly distinct quality, we can speak of decontrasting correspondences. The corresponding aspect outweighs the contrasting, or at least ensures that the contrasting elements have some perceptible relation to one another. An example of this can be seen in Lens: the transparent elliptical spaces in the entrance hall and the opaque fragments of display walls in the exhibition hall share the same insular quality of floating in space. This artistic device relates not only the two elements but also the two rooms as a whole, lending the interior a sense of unity that the dimensions and grids have established for the building volume. REPEATING CORRESPONDENCES  If similar architectural elements with similar qualities are related to each other using similar means, we speak of repeating correspondences. Sometimes we are unaware of them because we take them for granted. Repeating correspondences are ­frequently also rhythmic correspondences: for example, in the unbroken 1.20-m grid of the ­Nationalgalerie or the grid of pillars in Miami, the body–space alternations in Vals, or the succession of three rooms of the same width in Gior­nico.

Transposing

Decontrasting

Repeating

Types of correspondence

234  Designing the drama of space

Correspondences exist in abundance in architecture. Repeating correspondences exist in all built organisms, and decontrasting correspondences are also almost always present, even if only discreetly. Transposing correspondences, such  as those seen also in Le Havre (with the motif of the cube, the basin, illuminated bodies, bench, enclosure, etc.), represent the high art of designing with correspondence and are often found in movements with a synthetic approach such as the Baroque, Art Nouveau or Art Déco and in the work of architects as varied as Karl Friedrich Schinkel, Carlo Scarpa or Peter Eisenman. Alongside the kind of correspondence, we can also look at the corresponding potential of a work of architecture through corresponding ­motifs: CORRESPONDING MOTIFS  The corresponding motif can derive from one of the previously discussed parameters: it can be formal (the circle in the Abteiberg or the cube in Le Havre), compositional (the islands in Lens) or rhythmic in nature. In addition, or as an alternative to these,

correspondences can also be scenographic (Stuttgart, RPAC), gestural (the inward and outward swings of the Fehrbelliner Platz or the tilted, indented or breached forms in Glasgow), elemental (the foyer and auditorium of the Philharmonie corresponding through the monumental presence of the auditorium floor as the roof of the foyer over the “plaza”), surface-textural (Yale and Walsall), directional (the horizontal extension of the interiors in Chicago or the longitudinal rooms in the Langen Foundation) or constructional. An example of the latter is the motif of the joint in Exeter, which transcends the building’s differences in materials and primary geometries: from the open joints of the building corners to the mortar joints of the brick yokes and the elastic seams of the settlement joints in the concrete interior to the articulation of the frames and infill panels of the tables and cupboards, the motif of the joint is common to all these elements, creating unity among them. Rhythm is the most fundamental and, on account of the construction, also the most readily available means of correspondence in architecture. Conversely, this means that the less apparent the rhythm (because it changes often or is not easily recognisable), the more transposing correspondences or other motif-based correspondences come to the fore. In the Abteiberg, the rhythmic differences between the three areas are so profound that the colour and surface correspondences (white and marble) are not sufficient to generate a sense of unity, leaving formal correspondence to act as the unifying device.

4.8 Dramaturgical ­relationships The relationships with the most direct effect on visitors are those that are more explicitly dramaturgical in character: repetition, contrast, complementarity, inversion, combination, dialectic and subordination. Although these can be combined in diverse ways, one primary relationship usually characterises each work of architecture. REPETITION  While seemingly endless repetitions create a tunnel effect, grids in planar expansion may weaken the presence of boundaries, sometimes into nothing. That such grids

can be sublime, desolate, disorientating or even blissfully trance-like can be seen in all manner of hall churches and hypostyle mosques. A small degree of repetition, however, can help create a sense of unity and “round off” a work of architecture, as seen, for example, in the three repeating similar rooms in Giornico or in the five rooms in Weiach. Repetition creates a simple underlying rhythm, a beat, over which dramatic arcs can play. CONTRAST  Contrasts are omnipresent. With-

out them, our senses and intellect have no way of distinguishing. Maximum contrast, in which all parameters switch simultaneously into their opposite state, effects a break, but too many breaks in succession destroy everything, not least the tension they aim to create. Yet our senses and intellect can also adapt to the intensity of a situation, and are able to cope with a certain degree of extremes. From the “visual noise”, almost intolerable at first sight, in the contrasts experienced in the Scuole Grandi, which exceeds much of what we see or wish for in modern indoor spaces, emerge the motifs and relationships, granting us access step by step. Of all the case studies, only Chicago presents a comparable blast of contrasts, although here it has a cleansing effect because its flashes are deeply tinged with irony. Even in the Abteiberg, strong contrasts are used only occasionally. That these contribute to heightening tension only when used sparingly and with purpose – both with respect to the number of parameters as well as the frequency of their use – seems to be a higher wisdom today. Even dualistic configurations, which are naturally predisposed towards strong contrasts, tend not to exploit them to full effect, carrying over at least one characteristic trait.176 In Stuttgart, the antagonistic M and C galleries maintain similar radii, in the Philharmonie the colour white and polygonal form are maintained and in Lens the light-reflecting quality of the walls. The atmosphere of the light, however, does change, and indeed throughout Lens, one can see that contrasts look more unenforced when accompanied by a change in the lighting conditions. Whether as drastic as in Lens and Stuttgart or as subtle as in Giornico – without a corresponding change in the lighting mood, contrasts appear lifeless.

Repetition

Contrast

Complementary contrast

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Inversion

Combination

Dialectic

= = = = = = = = = = = = =

Subordination

Dramaturgical relationships

As contrasts can be hard or soft, relative or absolute, as they can use similar or dissimilar devic-



4.8 Dramaturgical ­relationships  235

es, result from a combination or confrontation of stimulating and inhibiting parts, they can be used to influence tensions in whichever direction: they can create and intensify, and lessen or dispel tensions. A smaller but compelling range of possibilities can be achieved using two special kinds of contrast: complementarity and inversion. COMPLEMENTARY CONTRAST  Contrasts

are termed complementary when two or more opposite parts together form a whole. What constitutes a “whole”, and therefore what the complementary aspects are, depends on the theoretical model applied (according to the four-colour theory, the complementary colour of blue is yellow, in the three-colour theory it is orange) or the idea of a work of art or architecture. In Exeter, for example, we have seen the triad of dynamic, visual and haptic space form the whole, in the Philharmonie, the duality of movement space and moving space, and in the Nationalgalerie, the sequence of dominant surfaces from floor to ceiling to walls to perimeter wall. In all cases, complementary elements have a stabilising ­effect. They help clarify the properties of the respective groups of spaces and reduce or resolve the tension between them. Complementary contrasts do not represent a built dialectic as they comprise only two components, but they can be perceived dialectically: initially one of the components acts “on its own” without the context of the other, then the second sets up a tension through its different character, a tension that is resolved once the second component is recognised as a complement. This process can be traced particularly well in the many complementary contrasts between the two halls of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco. We can distinguish similar complements (for example, a room with a protrusion complementing a room with an indentation) and dissimilar complements (for example, body and space, as seen in Vals or Glasgow). The contrast between body and space is the most elementary form of complementary contrast as everything is either body or space.177 INVERSION  Inversions are changes in direc-

tion or reversals of meaning. In the Langen Foundation, the directional inversion from a Promenade architecturale to a Promenade enterrée sets up a multi-faceted play of new and partially

236  Designing the drama of space

inverted meanings of traditional spaces. In Glasgow, inversion is used to relate the new building precisely to its famous neighbour without imitating it: Steven Holl takes Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s principle of a “thick skin on thin bones” and inverts it to become a “thin skin on thick bones”.178 Inversions can be used to oppose conventions, traditional typologies or even received notions of what is “natural”. With its wealth of inversions (inside–outside, top–bottom, standing–hanging, stair–not-stair, etc.), Peter Eisenman’s House VI is probably the most finely spun, dense web of inversions in the history of Western architecture. Body–space inversions as mentioned above are not necessarily complementary, but can also be inverted. The pits at Ground Zero in New York are not complements of the towers but rather an inversion of the no longer existent originals. Similarly, Rachel Whiteread’s concrete cast of the interior of a London house (1993) is not the necessary complement of the house but rather its inversion, or indeed manifold negation. In both these cases, it would be cynical to speak of complements, but complements and inversions are not always so clearly separable. In the parliament buildings in Brasilia, for example, it is left delightfully unclear whether the dome and bowl are inversions of one another or complementary parts of an imaginary sphere. COMBINATION   Contrast, complementarity

and inversion operate through the interplay of two opposing aspects or elements. Combination adds a third step in which two or more opponents are woven together into a third entity. In a combination, the identity of the opponents remains recognisable, and although the combinatory steps do not necessarily need to be materialised or played out in sequence, it must be possible to reconstruct them mentally for one to speak of a combination. Combinations of motifs characterise the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista, lending it a vibrant diversity, as they do for ­Chicago and the Abteiberg – to the point that combination itself becomes the motif. Combinations are often points of climax. As they do not negate the identity of the opponents, they can often maintain the tension in the visitor far beyond the moment of experience.

DIALECTIC  A dialectic is a three-step opera-

tion in which the identities of thesis and anti­ thesis are resolved through synthesis. This can be seen in the tower room in Walsall, and to a degree in the steep arcing bank in Stuttgart. The Scuola dei Carmini demonstrates the three-step dialectic so to speak in reverse: the initially enforced synthesis of architecture and imagery is gradually disentagled until the two identities stand opposite one another as a luminous and an illuminated wall, in a harmonious but also mutually dependent antithesis. Dialectic can be a suitable tension-resolving strategy for the formation of a whole whenever the separate elements are not complementary and therefore cannot form a new whole just by themselves. SUBORDINATION  In each work of architecture, there are secondary, subordinate spaces: anterooms, waiting rooms, ancillary spaces, corridors, porches, vestibules and threshold spaces – spaces that we usually hurry past and do not seek out for their own sake. But, in one form or other, these “second-order spaces” play a supporting role for the main space in at least four different ways:

Interruptions: They serve as neutral breaks that allow the main spaces to shine in all their glory – for example the lower flights of stairs in the ­Scuola di San Rocco, or the sanitary areas of the Philharmonie. They have no specific character of their own. Reductions: Through their modesty, they convey the central narrative onward – for example, the changing rooms in Le Havre, or the sanitary facilities in Weiach and the Nationalgalerie. Escalations: Through their design, they add variety to the themes of the central narrative – for example the caves in Vals, the elevator cabins in Stuttgart or the glass cylinders in Lens – or even make a joke at its expense, as, for example, in the toilets in Chicago and in the Abteiberg or in the escape stairs at Yale. Contrasts: They establish a separate secondary narrative of their own, for example the objets trouvés in Miami. “Second-order spaces”, for example, can therefore be placed as sparkling jewels or humorous



insertions within a building, or be concealed discreetly and elegantly within the thick walls of the structure. Here, they frequently serve an invisible supporting role, strengthening the coherence of “first-order spaces” by ensuring the latter remain unblemished by ancillary requirements.179

Time 4.9 Beginnings THE IMPERATIVE OF INVITATION All

that separates the dark, numinous interior of August Perret’s St. Joseph’s Church in Le Havre (1957) from the pavement is a wooden door, the two worlds abutting abruptly like in a surreal collage. Traditionally, however, an anteroom or vestibule mediated between outside and inside: an often small, dark and low space that made entry into the main room all the more impressive. In many of today’s public buildings, by contrast, one passes through a medley of security cam­ eras, sensor-activated sliding doors and a glazed wind lobby. Not even Le Corbusier’s frequently used device of an opaque door in a thin glazed wall could prevail as a solution to the modern imperative that entrances be both inviting and controllable. Today’s entrances strive instead for complete transparency, but also never quite achieve it: the superimposition of the view through a pane of glass and the reflection of the scene behind the visitor means that the age-old ambiguity of invitation and refusal still exists, albeit in a subtle, reflective form. OPENING GESTURES  Beginnings set the

scene, arouse curiosity and evoke trust. Even if the starting point for a spatial dramaturgy were not the entrance but a building’s means to make itself known to its urban surroundings,180 there are still only three basic types of openings: direct, successive and deferred. Which of these is the case can only be said for sure in retrospect. The direct opening is the physical equivalent of a thunderclap or starting whistle; the successive opening begins with an introduction, while the deferred opening begins with a lead-in, a pre­ lude, pre-show or prologue. That these three ways of opening are not specific to a particular building type but to the individual project can be demonstrated using an example from music, namely Ludwig van Beethoven’s openings to his

4.9 Beginnings  237

nine symphonies: the 3rd, 5th and 8th have direct openings; the 1st, 2nd, 4th and 7th mysteriously deferred openings; in the 6th we are left somewhat unsure whether the quickly petering-out opening is already part of the main theme, and in the 9th whether the twitching fragments will develop into a main theme at all – which eventually is the case, so the 6th and the 9th symphonies are examples for successive openings. Direct openings: Direct openings confront us with the key themes and motifs from the moment we enter, as is the case in Giornico, Weiach, Walsall, Miami, Chicago, Glasgow, and in

Direct opening

Successive opening

mainder – or, as in Vals, are merely an umbilical cord between the outside and inside worlds – then we can speak of a deferred opening. They heighten tension by giving nothing away. And even when they are repeatedly encountered, as the atrium and elevators in Stuttgart, they remain a counterpoint. TRIADIC OPENING SEQUENCES   In many

English landscape gardens, the destination we have in view from the opening, for example the mansion, is partially obscured so that one must first round an obstacle to reach it. The change in direction makes us pass by new attractions that

Deferred openings

Opening gestures

the Abteiberg and RPAC. In the same spirit, the carefully arranged through-views in Le Havre and the Philharmonie quickly reveal to us that the main space continues the themes introduced in the entrance. This means of opening places emphasis on the question of “how” the space will continue rather than “what” is to come. Successive openings: In successive openings, themes are introduced only fragmentarily, leaving open the question of “what” will follow, as we do not yet know whether the fragments will develop into a theme or serve only as a prelude. In Exeter, Lens and Yale, as well as in the Nationalgalerie, it only becomes clear in retrospect that the openings are part of the main theme. Deferred openings: If openings begin by sending us down the wrong track, are self-contained, or in retrospect appear to contrast with the re-

238  Designing the drama of space

distract us from our original destination until we suddenly find ourselves before it, surprisingly close and looking at it from another angle. We are astounded by how easily we were given the runaround. Although this triadic sequence of announcement, diversion and arrival cannot operate indoors with the same expansiveness as in the urban realm or countryside, it can still be used. In the RPAC and in Le Havre, we are given sneak previews at the beginning of rooms that we only later encounter after various diversions. In Stuttgart, the first scene of the Legend galleries blocks out the vast atrium and only the following scenes open up to it. And in Vals, Lens and Exeter, visitors must first pass through a tunnel, a contrasting glass hall or into the depths of the building before becoming aware that the inside of the external walls is similar to the outside of the external walls.

Triadic opening sequences are a highly effective dramaturgical device because they frame spatially or temporally separate points, and help us to link up our temporal experience and mental construction of space. They can be used in all three of the above types of openings.

4.10 Paths Channelled path

Suggested path

TYPES OF PATHS  A path is more than merely

a route. While a route marks only the measur­ able distance between two points, a path is actually walked, experienced and therefore also made manifest by our movement. Drawing on Elisabeth Blum’s181 useful distinction between the “channelled path”  and the “scattered path” (that allows us to wander and roam), we can identify four different kinds of built paths: Channelled paths are delimited and linear. They do not permit us to stray from the path and offer few places to stop: bridges, stairs, gangways.

Optional path

Suggested paths are not explicitly delimited but strongly proposed, for example through the positioning of the entrance and exit points. Optional paths result from the positioning of two similarly attractive destinations.

Individual path

Types of paths

Individual paths result when a space contains several attractors, for example paintings or views, that invite us to wander about in space, turn circles, double back, etc. In such spaces, usually conceived as places to be in, paths come together, slow and peter out before forming anew to allow us to continue our way. As discussed earlier, the circulation of the Langen Foundation is dominated by channelled paths, that of the Philharmonie by optional paths and those of the Abteiberg and Chicago by individual paths. All of these types of paths are composed of a limited number of figures of movement.

Announcement – Distraction – Arrival

Triadic opening sequence



FIGURES OF MOVEMENT  The simplest figure of movement is a line. A path is said to fork when it divides into two paths of equal importance, and branch when it divides into a main and a side path. If there is more than one path, they run either parallel or intersect each other.

If one considers paths as straight lines on flat surfaces, all situations can be reduced to one of these four figures, which is why I call them first order figures. Linear sequences using these figures can create very different dramaturgical narratives: The chain of divisions and joins produced by forks within a path extends the motto “see and be seen” to a cyclical “no longer to be seen”. This figure, a staple of almost any choreography, regardless of genre, can be found mapped in the floor plans or traced by the processions of the ancient Egyptian Valley Temple at Giza (approx. 2600 B.C.) and also in the dual flights of stairs in the Scuole. It appears likewise in several parallel vertical staircases (in Exeter and at Yale), in redundant circulation paths (in the Philharmonie and Abteiberg), in symmetrical spatial configurations (in the Nationalgalerie) or in flowing spaces (in Vals and Lens). Chains of intersections form a grid of paths that requires the user to constantly make decisions. They are most suitable for dramas of the transitorial type (Fehrbelliner Platz, Chicago) or result in dualistic spatial configurations (such as in Stuttgart). A series of branches results in a comb-like structure of the kind seen commonly in housing and administration building typologies, or in the rows of neighbouring chapels in sacred buildings. The chambers in Giornico or the reading carrels in Exeter as well as the colourful caves in the Abteiberg or the hollow blocks in Vals are further examples of branching. Such end-of-­theline spaces are a risky dramaturgical device, because by marking a turning point they increase our sense of expectation. In ideal cases, they both heighten tension and offer relaxation. A sequence of parallel paths usually results when access ways are separated according to means of transportation. In Miami, for example, the stairs for pedestrians are separate from the car ramps and do not cross. (Rooms with separate access requirements for different users – one path for visitors, another for staff – are a special case where paths may not cross, and an aspect that we shall not consider further here since we are concerned with accessible public space.)

4.10 Paths  239

Plan of the Valley Temple of Gizeh (2600 B.C.)

Plan of the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin (1968 A.D.)

Two variants of chaining forking paths (second order paths).

In their pure forms, these first and second order figures are dead ends. One way of opening them up is to replicate the figures across an entire area, which produces patterns, grids and networks­ whose crossing points permit cross-connections, and therefore a variety of optional paths. These patterns we call third order figures of movement. What is more, Dorothea and Georg Franck182 have shown that the way in which we navigate the world (from the flight route to the bedroom door) can be described as cross-scale self-similar paths of varying permeability – which we refer to as fourth order figures of movement. Public interior spaces are, of course, also part of this fractal network, however, they resolve their self-made dead-end issue through circular paths, as mentioned in Parameter 4.1, even if only motivated by a need to make the entrance and the exit one and the same. If then we interconnect the open ends, or starting points, of the first order figures of movement, lines become rings, forks turn into loops with optional paths, and branches become loops with a suggested main path – for example, one follows a clearly marked route through the building and returns via a secondary path back to the entrance, as in Peter Eisenman’s Wexner Centre. Intersections of paths are interconnected to form a figure of eight loop, parallel lines a clasp and stars a wheel. The figures of movement that result from interconnecting can be considered as fifth order paths. Eventually, a sixth order results when one steps out of the plane into volumetric space. A straight line can become a ramp or cascade, a ring can become a spiral, an intersection may be bridged over, a loop may be turned into a layered structure, a wheel may become a sphere with meridians and a clasp may become a serpentine (which differs from a spiral in that the path winds alternately left and then right). All systems of paths are compositions of these six orders. Their relevance for the dramaturgical character of an architectural composition can be demonstrated in two examples:183 Walsall: A three-dimensional circular path was not an option given the volumetric form of this building. Instead, on three separate occasions, individual diversions branch off the central twin

240  Designing the drama of space

line. At the beginning is a kind of introduction with an irregular wide and narrow spiral, from which an L-shaped cascade branches off leading into the Epstein Collection, before it reaches its very end at a panoramic loop. That the central cascade is not threaded from top to bottom but is instead made less obvious through these combinations is essential for experiencing each of the contrasting atmospheres as a flowing continuum, rather than separating them as episodes on different floors. Stuttgart: The beginning and end of the central double helix – a combination of gridded path and spiral – are limited by the separation and renewed union of the two threads. These are characterised by contrasting situations. Following the approach via a slightly inclined forecourt with individual paths, the entrance and elevator channel the path to the bridge. At the end of the galleries, where the two threads unite in the final banking curve, the paths then dissipate in a broad delta to the shop and food area. PATH WIDTHS  Eventually looking at width

as another dimension of a path, we have three options: its width can remain constant, it can broaden or constrain temporarily at specific points, or it can widen and narrow for the remainder of the path (see Shapes of paths, p 221). Changes in width can be used to make a point: abrupt changes are most common on entering a building or changing floors, but if these happen mid-way, such as in Walsall or in the Scuola di San Rocco, this can effect a sudden change of mood. Wide stairs serve as a stage, while narrow steps inspire introspection. The wide–narrow switch in Walsall has an interiorising effect, while the narrow–wide switch in the Scuola di San Rocco has a euphoric effect. Peter Eisenman, in his design of the Wexner Center, mocks the fixation with human scale, normed dimensions, dead ends, circular museum routes, voyeuristic glances and abysses by introducing an architectural quip worthy of Samuel Beckett: he leads a narrow path towards a stair so tight that one has to stoop to climb it, only to have it end in mid-air where it affords the visitor a view, through grey-tinted glass, of the grey access corridor of the neighbouring theatre.

First order: Lines

Second order: Chains

Third order: Orthogonal patterns

Third order: Diagonal patterns

Fourth order: Fractals

Fifth order: Circular paths

Sixth order: Heights

Figures of movement



4.10 Paths  241

Structure of spaces and paths Each letter denotes an identifiable space or group of spaces, as defined in the design and/or the programming of sequential spaces. If a building has an introductory space that serves no other purpose, this is not given a letter of its own but marked with a comma preceding the sequence of letters. “Spatial structures” denotes the (groups of) spaces and “time and path structures” the sequence in which they are typically experienced. Brackets around a letter indicate that this is just one of several possible plausible paths through the building.

Fehrbelliner Platz

Spatial structures

Time and path structures

A

A

A-B

A-B-A

,A-B

A-B-B-A-B-A-B-A-B-B-A

A-B

A-B-A-B-A

A-B-C

A-B-C-A

A: Passageways

Giornico A: Halls  B: Chambers

Miami A: Tall storeys  B: Low storeys

Philharmonie A: Foyer  B: Auditorium

Langen

A: Garden  B: Glass building  C: Subterranean galleries

Exeter

,A-B-C

A-B-C-B-A

A-B-C

(A-B-A-B-A-B-(C)-A)

,A-B-C

(A-B-C)

A: Hall  B: Book stacks  C: Reading carrels

Glasgow A: Hall  B: Ateliers  C: Lecture rooms

Le Havre

A: Fun baths  B: Outdoor pools  C: Therapeutic baths

Nationalgalerie

A-B-C-D

A-B-C-D-C-B-A

A-B-C-D

A-B-A-C-A-D-(C)-A

A: Podium  B: Hall  C: Gallery  D: Garden

Walsall

A: Staircases  B: Epstein Collection  C: White cubes  D: Tower room

Abteiberg

A-B-C-D

(A-B-C-D)

A: Levels  B: Cubes  C: Caves  D: Special moments

Yale

A-B-C-D-E

(A-B-A-C-A-D-A-E-A)

A: Staircases  B: Exhibition  C: Library  D: Drawing studios  E: Lecture hall

Weiach

A-B-C-D-E

A-B-C-D-E-A

A: Wardrobe  B: Group room  C: Play corner  D: Bridge  E: Atelier

Lens

A-B-C-D-E

A-B-C-(B)-A-D-A-E-A

A: Multipurpose hall  B: Gallery  C: Glazed gallery  D: Special exhibition gallery  E: Lower floor

Vals

,A-B-C-D-E

A-(B-C-D-E)-A

A: Gallery  B: Indoor pool  C: Blocks  D: Outdoor pool  E: Steam baths

Stuttgart

A-B-C-D-E

A-B-C-D-E

A: Tower  B: Permanent exhibition  C: Special exhibition  D: Sports cars  E: Shopping

RPAC

A-B-C-D-E

A-B-C-D-E-B-A

A: Hall I  B: Canyon  C: Hall II  D: Running track  E: Gallery in Hall I

Chicago

A-B-C-D-E-F-G-H

A: Informal working  B: Eating and drinking  C: Shopping  D: Sports

242  Designing the drama of space

(…)

4.11 Endings Dramas, to draw comparisons with Richard Wagner’s musical dramas, can end in the deceptive fulfilment of desires (Das Rheingold) or in trite jubilation (Die Meistersinger), they can fade away (Tristan und Isolde) or end in failure with cyclical recurrence (Der fliegende Holländer) or insurmountable barriers (Lohengrin), they can freeze time (Die Walküre) or initiate a new beginning after downfall (Götterdämmerung). In what ways can spatial dramas end? RETURN PATHS   The plot of a classical “closed” drama advances inexorably towards to its end, whereby the falling action, according to Gustav Freytag’s theory of the drama, should be brought to a close as swiftly as possible.184 Swift to the point of expulsion are the windowless and fireproof exit passages of movie theatres that eject one directly out onto the street. Yet even visitors to certain temporary exhibitions may feel they are being channelled through and ushered out when the exit is separate from the entrance. Spatial configurations with separate entry and exit points have a tendency to feel like passageways, gateways or episodes. Then again configurations in which visitors return the same way they came are also scorned – unjustly so, as our experience of each direction is not identical: on the return journey, we experience the scenes in reverse order, in a new light, in a new constellation, with the walls serving switched roles (the rear wall becomes the front wall, etc.), and we begin to structure our experience. The task can be solved in two ways: through return paths or circular paths, in other words involving a reprise or a closed circle.

Reprise: If the return path is formally identical to the path through which one came, we speak of a reprise. Giornico shows in formulaic brevity how the return path can be a quite different experience: on the way in we advance towards a blank front wall, then on the return towards a narrow opening onto the outside world. In contemplative environments, such as concert halls, libraries or art schools, visitors should be given sufficient time to muse on their experience and emerge back into their everyday lives, so there is no reason to reroute or shorten the return path. Shortened reprises would be misplaced in the Philharmonie, in Exeter and Glasgow.



Short reprise: A short reprise comprises only selected points along the way one came. This approach is a favourite for extensive buildings with a circular type of structure, and can be seen in the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista. With the exception of Giornico, which is a special case, none of the museums in our case studies have a full reprise. If the return path in Walsall led us back through the Epstein Collection, it would impact considerably on its private character. In the exhibition halls in Lens, the short reprise (the direct path back parallel to the winding path through the exhibition) is the obvious choice, as the auratic presentation of the exhibits benefits less from a second more detailed glance than from a transfiguring view from afar. Signalled full circle: In axial, symmetrical buildings, such as the Nationalgalerie, the closure of a circular route is signalled unmistakably early on in the building. On the lower ground, positioning the middle axis transversally to the flow of the space offers a clear indication, even when visiting the gallery for the first time, of when, where and how the circular route will meet up. The signalled full circle is the least spectacular of all endings. Sudden full circle: Most visitors do not wish to repeat long ascents or descents, and are happy to arrive back at the starting point via the shortest route. A well-known example of this is the “odd couple” of ramp and stair in the Villa Savoye by Le Corbusier (1931). If the shortcut is hidden and its moment of appearance not predictable, as is the case in Weiach, the Langen Foundation and the RPAC, one suddenly finds one has come full circle. False ending: A false ending or apparent ending causes surprise when we discover that the path continues beyond what we thought was the end. This is used to dramatic effect in the Langen Foundation. In Lens, Walsall, Glasgow, Chicago, in the Abteiberg and particularly in the foyer of the Philharmonie we keep finding bottlenecks that cause us to wonder, if not whether, then at least how and where the route continues. VIEWS BACK   Views back can be wistful, evoke memories and explain relationships. The window in the canyon-like stair in Walsall offers a last snapshot of the Epstein Collection on one’s

4.11 Endings  243

Reprise

Short reprise

Signalled full circle

Sudden full circle

Return paths

way out; the galleries of the Langen Foundation offer a partial overview of the halls; the stair leading out of Weiach affords side views into the salon; the running track in the RPAC, a retrospective loop of the facilities; the gallery in Vals, the wide-format panorama from the beginning. In Exeter, it is only a slight exaggeration to say that the main hall makes leaving as hard as possible. Views back can also be provoked early on in a visit (Abteiberg) and they always denote the beginning of an end – but what does the end of the end look like? CLOSING SCENES  In contrast to the theatre, there is a difference in architecture between the spatial and the temporal structure. In terms of spatial structure, the turning point – i.e. the furthest point in a configuration of spaces where we have to turn around and make our way back – is the conclusion. Once we have reached it, we have “seen everything”. It is a key scene in the sense that we now have a “conclusive” picture of the entire spatial configuration. At this point our focus shifts from looking ahead to reflecting on and ordering what we have seen, from accumulation to combination. In terms of the temporal structure, by contrast, the conclusion of the experience is the entrance – which is usually the same as the exit. The exit is sometimes designed as a “closing scene”, but sometimes serves only as a proper epilogue. The options resolution, departure, summarising, acceleration, fade-out, balance and open end illustrate the different functions and also different characters of prototypical closing scenes.

Resolution: In rationalistic “closed” tragedies, the resolution ties together the threads of the narrative to provide closure. It is comparable to what we called sudden full circle above – although those buildings do not so much resolve conflicts as break down accumulated situations. Veritable architectural duels are resolved, however, in the Scuola dei Carmini and in Walsall: in the Scuola through spatial division, in the museum through synthesis. Farewell: Back walls are ideally predisposed for placing farewell greetings because they were not in one’s field of view on the way in. Examples include the rose window in Gothic churches or the swelling volume of the organ in Baroque churches, and the emblematic panoramas of regional

244  Designing the drama of space

landscapes that grace railway stations from the first half of the 20th century. In an opposition of “time” and “place”, these were traditionally placed on the wall opposite the clock and train display on the front wall. The coloured glass tableau designed by Martin Boyce for the entrance in Glasgow is an adieu – as a well as a greeting to Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s building over the road. Typical back wall designs include high-­ lying windows (the Epstein Collection in Walsall) or galleries (in Vals, the Langen Foundation and in the theatrical hall of the RPAC), while typical strategies for avoiding the occurrence of a “back wall” are corner-to-corner circulation (as in the cloverleaf galleries in the Abteiberg, the studios at Yale and the hall in Exeter) and bowshaped circulation (the Legend galleries in Stuttgart), as well as the freestanding positioning of walls in flowing space (in the Nationalgalerie). Summary: Summarising scenes offer a panorama-like overview of the preceding scenes, or even a final review of all protagonists at once in one emphatic view, reminiscent of grand opéra or melodrama. The final jubilant parade of cars on the banking curve in Stuttgart has such an effect (though the curve marks the high point of the mise-en-scène, but not of the space). Less loud but enchanting and self-assured summarising scenes can be seen in the halls of Vals, Exeter and the Nationalgalerie. Characteristically, these scenes are offered just before passing on into a transitional threshold space, which is thereby relegated to the role of a separate epilogue. For example, the internal stair of the ­Nationalgalerie presents a last upward view of the spectacular underside of the ceiling; in Exeter, by contrast, the view down the travertine stairs after crossing the hall is nothing compared with the initial upward view from below when entering the building. Acceleration: In our discussion of Stuttgart we have noted that noise, jubilation and vibrancy often go hand in hand with a compressed, intensified and accelerated review of elements previously seen, almost to the point of frenzy. In Italian aria, this is the “stretta”, in symphonies the “coda” and in formal balls the “last dance”. If we consider the chill-out zone of the RPAC as an epi­logue, the panorama seen from the running track is such a “stretta”.

Maison de Verre (1931) by Pierre Chareau

Fade-out: In the Langen Foundation, a slow fade-out is celebrated using the means of landscape. In more constrained urban surroundings, by comparison, it is harder to orchestrate a slow fade-out, thinning-out or dissolution of the spatial boundaries, structures, themes and atmospheres. We see this, however, in the Philharmonie, where the polyphonic structures of the foyer gradually recede and thin out as one heads toward the exits, and in the chill-out area of the RPAC and in Chicago, where marginal zones offer different options on one’s way out. Balance: A balancing counterpart to the intensity of the main scenes can be seen in the entrance and exit hall in Lens, which, through its spacious size and multi-functional purpose, is more than simply a fade-out or epilogue but likewise not a summary nor an emphatic space. Openness: Open ends are best defined through what they are not: they are ends that do not make use of one of the six preceding options. They do without demonstrative closing scenes – which per se cannot exist for dramaturgies with interchangeable scenes that do not need to be experienced in order.185 This is the case for dramas of the transitorial types (Chicago, Fehrbelliner Platz), at Yale and the Abteiberg – and in a sense also in the RPAC, where the running track, the Scarlet Skywalk, the lobby and the chill-out zone offer several alternative closing scenes. Last but not least, a closing scene need by no means be a mirror image of the entrance scene, as Exeter demonstrates. The reversed direction of view and also the different experience of time give the same space a different sense of significance: what served as a prelude to the main scene on the way in, may become a marginal note on the way out.

4.12 Scenes USE  In the context of theatre dramaturgy (see p  70), we defined scenes as “entities excerpted from the amorphous flow of time and the amorphous bounds of space that focus attention, ­establish expectations or evoke memories”. As such, it is the recipient rather than the author who defines what constitutes a scene. This applies emphatically to the dramaturgy of space



which, unlike theatre, is not about creating a second reality but manifests itself through use. For this reason, an architectural scene can be smaller or larger than its physically bound space. For example, a window handle expresses the possibility of opening a window but only becomes a scene through its use. In Pierre Chareau’s Maison de Verre (1931), the act of opening creates a scene by my turning a wheel to make the louvres tilt and open. Next to the iron wheel, the ivory keys of a grand piano are within enticing reach, and the two are arranged on a rubber studded floor in a scene no less surreal than “the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an umbrella on an operating table!”186 As the arrangement has been turned into a self-contained entity, this dual scene of machine wheel and ivory keys can now be linked to others. Let us examine the scenographic treatment of such goal-oriented operations of use by looking at the example of the cloakrooms (or changing rooms in sports facilities) in several of our case studies. SEGMENTATION,

SEQUENCING

AND

SELEC­T ION  Since time immemorial, vesti-

bules have served as a means of mediation, orientation and controlling access (and checking one’s attire). Whether a narrow, enclosed space, like in the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin (1876, by Friedrich August Stüler), or an expansive, foyer-like space, like in the Metropolitan Museum in New York (1902, by Richard Morris Hunt), such threshold spaces are separated clearly from what follows, typically by offering just a narrow, ideally tantalising view within. The Philharmonie resolves this separation by allowing the cloakrooms to extend deep into the foyer to become part of the communicative elements and structure of the foyer. Instead of being subconsciously unpleasant spaces, arranged either head-on along a wall or tucked away into a dark corner, they flank the main entry path so that waiting and handing-in one’s coat becomes part of the experience of meandering in the foyer. In the Nationalgalerie, the traditional sequence of vestibule and main room is turned radically on its head. There is no vestibule at all and the cloakroom is placed like an exhibit within the space of the large exhibition hall – coming into view only after having taken in the drama of the

4.12 Scenes  245

space. In the RPAC, too, one is first presented with tantalising views of what is to come before heading off to the changing rooms, and in Le Havre, the enclosed changing rooms are a hinging area that effects a switch from the initial axial view to a diagonal view of the pools. In Vals, by contrast, the changing rooms precede the main event in the classical fashion and are designed as a threshold space, while in Weiach, they precede but are designed as a part of the following rooms. The cloakroom in Walsall is little more than a marginal diversion in the main entrance hall, and in Stuttgart, Lens, the Abteiberg and Langen Foundation, they are relegated to dead-end areas or the basement level. In these cases, the cloakrooms are treated as inferior servants devoid of communicative functions. Despite the relegation of the cloakrooms, Lens and the Abteiberg illustrate the two main contrasting approaches to structuring main and secondary spaces: in Lens, almost all the secondary activities associated with a museum visit (from a picnic to library visit) are incorporated into the marketplace-like entrance hall, while in the Abteiberg, all the secondary scenes are strewn throughout the museum as “exhibits in use” within the exhibition space.187 The blurring of boundaries, placement within or ­before, collection, distribution and displacement are the principal options for positioning, linking and overlapping scenes. Coming to the arrangement of scenes, one must first address the size of the group they form. GROUPING  The diagram of the Structure of spaces and paths (see p 242) shows that the number of “served” spaces, the areas accessible to the public, never exceeds five – it seems this is the maximum number of spaces one can remember and comprehend in passing. Where more than five different groups of rooms result, there is obviously a need to form sub-groups, each with no more than five constituent members. Chicago is an exception in this respect, with eight separate members, of which several are always in view at once. This is not only mobilising and stimulating but also provides orientation and serves as a memory-aid – in fact, the “extra” members of the eight groups that supposedly exceed our mental faculties paradoxically result, through their

246  Designing the drama of space

combined (fragmentary) presence, in “fewer” consecutive scenes, thus aiding orientation. ALIENATION EFFECT  If “something is not right” about a scene or it feels out of place despite being coherent, it may have to do with the alienation effect. By going against given rules, conventions and associated meanings, a scene may feel alien to us, causing us to reassess our own opinion every time we experience it. Going beyond the element of surprise or sudden breaks, the alienation effect can have a particularly lasting effect when not just individual parameters but entire sceneries go against what we understand and expect to be logical, rational, motivated and normal. Bertold Brecht was aware that the alienation effect does not per se stimulate critical reflection but can also conversely help us immerse ourselves more completely in an environment; he drew a distinction between the “old” form of alienation effect (i.e. as seen in the theatre of antiquity, the middle ages and oriental Asian) based on “hypnotic suggestion” and the “new” kind of alienation effect (as called for and intended by him) which should “free socially-conditioned phenomena from the stamp of familiarity”.188

In several of our case studies, the alienation effect is employed to create a lasting, not entirely rationally resolvable effect. The unapproachable quality of the walls in Lens not only elevates individual scenes from their context but also creates a continuously unsettling backdrop to the presentation of the works of arts. In the Langen Foundation, the unclear purpose (aside from temporary use) and illogical position of the monumental outdoor stair, despite its thematic relevance to the Promenade enterrée, is disconcerting. It appears to refer to something beyond its immediate context that is not identified and therefore open to interpretation. The lecture hall at Yale employs the alienation effect to exploit the comic potential of scaling: although barely larger than a stately salon, the lecture hall has all the structural qualities of a metropolitan theatre, and each scene within is tinged with ­irony. These three sceneries make reference to other scenes and situations in diverse and ambiguous ways. Comparatively obvious, literal transpositions of other scenes and worlds can be seen in

Early announcement

the use of the alienation effect in Chicago (for example the implanted “bungalow sequence” with deck chairs in the courtyard) and in the Abteiberg (for example the design of the audio-visual facilities in the style of a night club).

4.13 Sequences

Late distraction

Reassuring retrospect

Sequences of spaces (I)



Before we turn to overarching phenomena such as the dramatic arc, we first examine the sequencing of scenes at a micro level. In architecture as well, there are certain arrangements of scenes that are fixed by convention and recur in the narratives – the narrative of a building and of the history of architecture. They become key moments in the experience and understanding of space, as they are more than brief episodes, even when we may initially experience them as such. EARLY ANNOUNCEMENT  In Parameter 4.9: Beginnings, we presented the triadic opening sequence as a succession of announcement, diversion and arrival. The early announcement of what one is about to see is a cherished device for large-scale sites as it makes us aware of its size and avails us with an overview that we might assume to be the carefully orchestrated “overview” of the client himself. Early announcement, through the means of the “transmission of advance information”189 establishes a primary dramatic arc. It is a favourite means in the design of English-style gardens: a view is framed of a picturesque section of the country estate but the path does not lead directly to it; instead the path leads gently away and onward past other areas and focal points, seemingly oblivious of our destination, which is concealed from view by ground modulations and planting, before arriving suddenly unexpectedly close to our destination but from a different direction. The other attractors we passed along the way invite us to undertake further expeditions through the grounds. The means of early announcement does not have to occur at the beginning of a drama, but can also occur within, for example to introduce a new section. The treadmill-bridge of the RPAC and the numerous advance and diagonal views in Le Havre are examples of such early announcements.

LATE DISTRACTION  The triadic opening se-

quence does not necessarily require much space. The skill is to establish and keep alive the announcement as long as possible and then, to borrow once again from the playwright Gustav Freytag, to effect a “sudden distraction at the last minute”. For example, shortly before we reach the large entrance to a brightly-illuminated room, we catch a glance of an interesting scene in a darker room to one side, that we briefly visit, because it is closer and we do not want to miss out on it. Within it, we forget our original destination until we leave the secondary space and suddenly remember our original intention. The Abteiberg and, in particular, its successor, Hans Hollein’s design for the Frankfurt Museum of Modern Art (MMK), are full of such scenic interleavings, for example in the tip of the “cake slice”. REASSURING RETROSPECT  A third common variant of the triadic opening sequence is a view back smuggled into the path through a building, for example a view from a bridge or gallery. We enter an entrance hall and up above the facing wall see a gallery with no direct access, extending into the side walls. We pass beneath the gallery on into the depths of the building, for example into a stair hall, up which we ascend, turning several times, testing our sense of orientation, before emerging suddenly through the door onto the gallery, providing us with a view back down over the entrance area. This is always both a relaxing as well as a stimulating moment, as it serves as a break, marking a stage reached in time and space and offering orientation. Several such galleries, offering views back into the entrance hall as well as into the main pool hall, can be seen, for example, in the Neo-Baroque Müllersche Volksbad public baths in Munich (1901) by Carl Hocheder, or, incom­ parably nuanced in the Villa La Roche (1922) by Le Corbusier. Several of our case studies, such as the Philharmonie, Chicago, Le Havre and Glasgow, have an abundance of such retrospects – although here the itineraries do not distract us so that no real reassurance is at work here. In Stuttgart, however, this is the case where the second of the Legend galleries opens onto the atrium while the first, as well as the C galleries, are closed off from the atrium. In Weiach, too, floor-level windows in the atelier provide an attractive and reassuring retrospect into the salon.

4.13 Sequences  247

Transitional interleaving

Gradual revelation

Unexpected continuation

TRANSITIONAL INTERLEAVING   If the

UNEXPECTED CONTINUATION  Gradual

dominant parameters of a contrasting succession of spaces do not all change at once, but offset to one another like a cinematic cross-fade, this results in a transitional zone that comprises characteristics of both worlds. For example, a transition between a lower-lying, horizontal space with yellow artificial light and a higher-­ lying, upright hall brightly illuminated with natural light, may be effected by extending the floor of the lower room into the space of the higher room. It is an inviting, almost euphoric gesture: we enter the hall, as it were, from beneath while already being in it, experiencing its size and brightness. Such transitional interleaving can be found in various parts of the Abteiberg and, exactly as described above, in the transition from the vestibule to the hall in the above-mentioned Museum of Modern Art (MMK) in Frankfurt.

revelation can be both reiterated and exceeded by extending the sequence of spaces beyond their point of destination. This can be particular effective in linear, directional and gradually revealing sequences. The retrochoirs of many English cathedrals (such as Wells) continue on unexpectedly after the emphatic climax of the main choir. They do not figure as epilogues as they belong to the same family of spaces as the main choir. Rather, they are an unexpected encore, an emphatic “more is more”, a self-confident “the fun never sets”. We are caught unawares in a moment of disbelief, and that is part of their attraction: by trumping our expectation of closure at a sensitive moment, they open a door onto another world beyond with an almost fairytale-like character.

GRADUAL REVELATION  Linear sequences

Startling revelation

Sequences of spaces (II)

248  Designing the drama of space

of scenes can be arranged according to different principles: in uniform rows (the cubes in the Abteiberg), in regular waves (Exeter), in ever quicker short snippets (RPAC) or in upswinging intensity (Miami). In the first two quieter forms, in particular, the process of gradual revelation may not even need to introduce new elements, for example when the initial scene offers an attractive but incomplete glimpse of the forth coming destination and the path towards it, which is then successively uncovered as one progresses onwards, eventually revealing the entire picture. This kind of gradual revelation can turn even the simplest linear procession in a oneroom space into an interesting experience, as each new step on the way helps make sense of the reason for and effect of the initial picture. For this kind of dramaturgy, emerging views must be imposing or impressive yet without revealing the causes behind the effects too soon (for example the position and kind of light source, or the width of the transept). Gradual revelation is the central principle of what we could term “cathedral dramaturgy”, as the Latin cross-shaped floor plan of cathedrals and other similar spaces never fails to have this effect. Le Havre, Vals and Exeter all operate with gradual, rhythmically metered revelation, and in Lens and the Philharmonie, the dual spatial structure is arranged in such a way that its two parts reveal themselves in two successive waves.

STARTLING REVELATION  While the unexpected continuation surprises us in momentary disbelief, it paradoxically confirms the pre-existing order despite, or perhaps because of its fairytale quality. More startling are surprises that shift what we already know and have seen into a new light. Such startling instants are the stuff of “Turn around!” moments in which we only then become aware, feeling somewhat foolish, of what lies behind us. In St. Paul’s Church in Ulm, built in 1910 by Theodor Fischer, and oriented west rather than east, the altar zone is strangely compressed and the hard, confronting impression of the front wall is barely softened by an apse, so that faced with this harsh impression we turn around. Only then do we see the two staggered tiers of wide-arcing choir lofts, and above them a similarly staggered organ within its own domed space. We passed through this east wall (at a par with any west wall of the Ottonian ­epoch) on our way in, unaware that it does not – as is usual, even if often displaying a rosette – subordinate itself to the altar zone but instead is developed to form a direct antithesis, arguably the more dominant moment of the church.190

That such startling revelations are quite different to the occasional views back of gradual revelations should be clear. While in our case studies we described numerous examples of unexpected continuations and startling revelations, the impact of these orchestrations of views and space is even more effective in one-room dramaturgies, to which the churches in Wells and Ulm belong.

4.14 Dramatic arcs Dramatic arc without turning point

Dramatic arc with intermediary hinge points

Spatial dramaturgies occasionally exhibit parallels to dramatic models from the world of theatre: the Abteiberg bears parallels to a revue, Vals and Miami are station dramas, the Nationalgalerie a monodrama and Walsall a two-character play. Their structural similarities suggest similar dramaturgical effects. In general, however, spatial dramaturgies prove to be so diverse and independent that theatrical analogies are better left aside for the study of their structure: DRAMATIC ARC WITHOUT TURNING POINT  A turning point in a spatial drama

Dramatic arc with central turning point

Dramatic arc with multiple turning points

Rising alternation with several turning points

Alternation with early turning point

marks a change in mood, makes what we have seen until then appear in a new light, or signals an entirely new unforeseen direction in the spatial experience. The sequences of spaces in Giornico, Weiach, Le Havre and the Fehrbelliner Platz have moments of surprise and climax but no turning points. Dramatic arcs without turning points are usually dramas without antagonists, as in these four cases. They are most suit­ able for single-space buildings and smaller sequences of spaces. Longer sequences of spaces without antagonists must either be supremely sublime or meditative, maintaining this state through seemingly never-ending variations, or else the dramatic arc falls flat. The rough-hewn monumental neo-classicism, for example, attempts to overcome this – mostly unsuccessfully – through histrionic gestures, as do monotonous modernist office buildings with decorations or the insertion of the obligatory imposing atrium. DRAMATIC ARC WITH INTERMEDIARY

Dramatic arcs (I)



HINGE POINTS  If what one has seen takes on a slightly new dimension, if the mood changes successively but only gradually, or if the sequence of spaces sets out in a perhaps not expected but also not implausible direction, the points of change can be termed hinge points. One sees them in Giornico, Weiach, Le Havre and in the Fehrbelliner Platz, but they are most apparent in dramas with antagonists, such as in Glasgow where the fight between canyon and studios gives rise to many hinge points with no full turning point. These are small surprises, enlivening moments, milestones, stations, injections. They are common at a slightly smaller scale, within one group of spaces, like in the f­ oyer of the Philharmonie, in the halls in Vals and

Le Havre, in the chain links of the M galleries in Stuttgart, and so on. Hinge points are a key instrument in the design of spatial dramaturgies. DRAMATIC ARC WITH CENTRAL TURNING POINT  A single, central turning point may occur after a long preamble, such as in the Philharmonie or in Lens, or after several apparently aimless sequences, such as in the Langen Foundation, or even surprise one mid-way as in the Scuola di San Rocco – in each case there is a build-up of suspense producing a sense of expectation, without revealing anything about the form or nature of what is eventually to come. In Lens and in the Philharmonie, the turning point comes into view relatively early, but then the encounter is delayed for as long as possible via various delightful diversions. When the turning point comes, it is overwhelming: a surge of released emotion and fascinated captivation. We are finally “there” in the midst of things, liberating us to take in the new that is here and to come. A turning point is essential for sequences of spaces with a celebratory character, and invariably also benefits most other spatial dramaturgies. DRAMATIC ARC WITH MULTIPLE TURNING POINTS  In the RPAC, each new space is a

new turning point. But because we know from the moment we arrive that there is a point of culmination, the experience is more than merely a series of separate episodes. We reach the culmination, either by passing through a deep valley and along broad arcs with sudden changes of mood that lead us far away from it until we have almost forgotten it, or by the retrospective loop that cinematically “summarises” all that we have seen up to then. None of our other case studies exemplifies this dramatic principle, typically found in English gardens and the Corbusian Promenade architecturale, as well as the RPAC. RISING ALTERNATION WITH SEVERAL TURNING POINTS In Miami, two room types

– tall and compressed – alternate in an irregular and unpredictably changing but nevertheless rising sequence before reaching the crowning climax, which is also the end point. ALTERNATION WITH EARLY TURNING POINT In Exeter and Vals we cannot speak of a rising sequence of spaces as the expectation

4.14 Dramatic arcs  249

Framed alternation

kindled by the constraint and uncertainty of their introductory scenes gives way immediately to an overview of the overall structure, allowing the visitor to freely ramble between constrained or expansive spaces, the centre or the periphery, the hall or the cave. The visitor can proceed calmly and assuredly exploring the space, the previous sense of uncertainty replaced by a sense of stimulating tension.

Converging lines

FRAMED ALTERNATION In Stuttgart, visi-

Competing turning points

Contraction to a single point

Dramatic arcs (II)

tors pass through an entire sequence of introductory spaces with different moods, themes and scales before arriving at the rotating floor of the single-cylinder motor that marks the start of the galleries. From here, spaces alternate between the M and C galleries and between the paths and spaces before arriving at the final banking curve, where both threads of movement converge and spill over into the multi-threaded coda of merchandising. CONVERGING LINES  The gallery in Walsall

has a plethora of surprising moments but it is only in the final space of the tower room that they converge. In the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista, converging threads is the overarching theme despite the various other majestic moments and operations within the building. COMPETING TURNING POINTS  There are

dramas in which almost every situation can claim to be the most important without compromising the inner coherence or balance of the whole. Such dramas can only be developed in “decentralised” buildings. In the Abteiberg, in Chicago and even in the Scuola dei Carmini the various sections compete incessantly with one another, and at Yale the elaboration of a built centre point is constantly being undermined by variations and the highlighting of eccentric motifs. The intention of such dramaturgies is to direct our attention away from the whole towards the individual moments, and to distract, direct and engross us in the numerous points and lines. Through their abundance of impressions and their esprit, they are joyful, if exhausting, revues. CONTRACTION TO A SINGLE POINT In the Nationalgalerie, the various parts of the building, before being related to the cosmic space, are initially arranged as successive experi-

250  Designing the drama of space

ences so that they can be experienced together as a whole. The lines disappear and contract to a single point.

Body 4.15 Synaesthetics All dramaturgy is synaesthetic. While awareness of the relevance of synaesthesia in architecture has gained increasing traction, especially through the writings of Juhani Pallasmaa191 and Gernot Böhme,192 its application in practice is fragmentary. Many a magnificent-looking interior is let down by a lack of consideration of the non-visual senses. The fresh air supply in numerous museums, for example, is still so widely deficient193 that sterile air has come to characterise the aura of timelessness in museums. In ­Exeter, too, the noise of the air conditioning and the resulting dry air detracts from one’s experience of the space – in a building whose structure would seem well-suited for naturally exploiting the stack effect. Let us examine the possible ways in which visual, haptic and acoustic qualities can act in unison. The most incidental form is when one and the same element stimulates several senses at once: we see a shiny marble floor and hear our steps echoing as we walk across it. If successive manifestations of an element stimulate several senses, they establish connections across space: the carpet at Yale, the wood in Walsall and Exeter, and the stone in the Nationalgalerie, in Vals and in the Abteiberg that we first hear beneath our feet but later come into contact with directly at the benches. Different triggers for different sensory impressions can be combined to atmospheric effect, by synchronising them (in Chicago and the RPAC) or contrasting them (the visual-­ haptic staccato of the concrete versus the white noise of the surroundings in Miami), by subordinating one to the other (noiselessness combined with total visibility in the glass cylinders in Lens) or contextualising them through media (polished timeless exhibits combined with historical sound backdrops in Stuttgart). The much-vaunted synchronisation of sensory impressions is, therefore, by no means the only way to design for the senses in combination. In

“LIVE” exhibition by Rudolf Stingel in the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin (2010)

fact, if too perfectly coordinated, it quickly risks becoming bland. Different messages for different senses – even when dissonant – are desirable, stimulating, even necessary. And we must also acknowledge that not all senses need to be explicitly addressed all the time. The reduced material palette of the Philharmonie, a product also of budgetary constraints, offers comparatively few haptic stimuli but all the more for eyes and ears to see and hear. Few things are as liberating, and also as invigorating, as the sudden silencing of one sensory channel, for example through the disappearance of the sound of footsteps after the switch from a granite floor to a carpet on the lower floor of the Nationalgalerie. The painter Rudolf Stingel194 played with this effect by laying out carpet in the hall of the Nationalgalerie, giving the vast size and openness of the hall the quality of a salon, which was further underlined by the hanging of a chandelier in its centre. Surprisingly, vastness and sound absorption did not cancel one another out, and the resulting alienation effect stimulated a sense of wonder, causing people to stop and strike up conversation in the space.

4.16 Surfaces The surface qualities that are most relevant for the dramaturgy of space are materiality, structur­ ing, colour and the degrees of roughness, hardness, shininess and perforation. The material qualities and structuring/patterning have been described in detail in the case studies, and the effect of perforations is discussed in the parameters 4.17 “Light” and 4.18 “Views”. COLOUR  When the reconstructed Barcelona

Pavilion reopened in 1986, or the Bauhaus buildings in Dessau became easily accessible after the fall of the German Wall, many were surprised to see the colourful reality of these buildings that until then had mostly been seen in black and white photographs. Rapid technological advances in colour analysis and reproduction have pushed colour even more into the limelight of architectural production and reception. The function of colours in the dramaturgy of space can be understood basically by describing their roles as main, secondary or accent colours. Main and secondary colours usually cover larger



surfaces while accent colours highlight smaller surfaces; all three types can occur once in a room or distributed across a series of rooms. A secondary colour may be just as present, or even quantitatively more present than the main colour, but its qualitative role is secondary, perhaps because it is applied to less prominent surfaces or perhaps because its tonality is less striking. The dominant main colours in most of our case studies are neutral, achromatic colours, while the accent colours are colourful. What is more, most of them employ just one single main colour (often the colour of the material used) and no secondary colours, but several accent colours. Where there are several main colours, they are typically used in different sections of a building. The absence of mediating secondary colours has two consequences: firstly, that the accent colours stand out more strongly against the surfaces in a main colour, and secondly, that colour is not an ongoing dominant theme. The most striking appearance of a main colour in our case studies is the red walls of the Fehrbelliner Platz, which radiate even more strongly due to the contrasting green and black, relegating the grey of the floors, white of the ceilings and yellow of the ceiling lights to a background shade. It is this clear allocation of roles that allows the walls to direct and channel movement and give the pavilion its dynamic character. At Yale, on the other hand, the contrasting interplay of orange and beige establishes a stimulating yet carefully balanced pattern of movement and repose. The Nationalgalerie (grey plus black or white) and Weiach (one strong colour plus white) are two further examples of the strategy of using duochromatic colour schemes to create spaces of a distinctive character that themselves are still balanced. The same cannot be said for the tetrachromatic colour scheme in Chicago: here colours lead onward from zone to zone, with movement serving to balance the experience. The most dramatic and at the same time contradictory use of accent colours can be seen in the coloured caves of Le Havre and the Abteiberg. The red-yellow-green paddling pool cave at the edge of the baths is like a proscenium stage and radiates across the room despite its small size, enlivening the entire space. As with the altars in the Scuole or apsides in churches, it acts as a

4.15 Synaesthetics, 4.16 Surfaces  251

point of destination. The enclosed coloured caves in the Abteiberg, on the other hand, only refer to their own interior: one finds oneself suddenly immersed in them, as if subjected to a brief but intensive shower of colour, after which one is refreshed and thankful. The use of accent colours in the great white foyer of the Philharmonie is something quite different: colour is used only on individual flat surfaces, and while they are visible from afar, they do not act as a destination, a zone or establish a space of their own but, at the most, produce what we have called the equivalent of a backlit rose window. The same holds true in the Nationalgalerie: the only colour is the green marble cladding of the air ducts, and as these are convex objects (and the freestanding concave wooden cloakrooms are not walk-in spaces), the accent colour of the material defines the objects but not the space. If colours are added, i.e. are not of the material itself or its pigments, they usually have a dematerialising quality. Examples are whitewashed plasterboard panels or the painted ceiling of Giornico, which is neither meant to be similar to the concrete of the walls and floor nor in contrast with it, and is thus made to “disappear”. A similar principle is employed in Weiach, where colour is used to obscure the ceiling texture, wich is only identifiable as exposed wood wool on closer inspection. ROUGHNESS   In modern building, smooth

floors, walls and ceilings are the norm. Hygiene, flexibility of use, safety, unequivocal works specifications and ostensible good taste have helped such finishes attain this status. Rough surfaces are perceived either as imperfect or flawed, or else as a special occurrence or high point. In all our case studies, only Giornico uncompromisingly rejects smooth surfaces, even going as far as to retain traces of the building’s construction and temporality in the material long before it has begun to acquire patina. At Yale, by comparison, although the face of the ridged concrete surfaces has remained rough, the overall effect is highly artificial, a product of urbane sophistication. The opposite effect is seen in the canyon in Glasgow and in the walls and columns of the ­foyer in the Philharmonie, where the texture of the rough-cast concrete still shows remarkably clearly despite being painted over: the layer of colour succeeds in subduing the texture but does

252  Designing the drama of space

not stifle it entirely, so that it is still noticeable close up. Both the irregular rough texture of the walls as well as the homogenous roughness of the acoustic plaster on the underside of the auditorium ceiling of the Philharmonie hint at the fact that the walls are neither paper-thin nor cast from one piece but carefully assembled. The surface relief reveals a further aspect of roughness: even when the individual surfaces of a relief are absolutely smooth, as in the six bounding surfaces in Le Havre, the relief as a whole is, so to speak, a form of roughness at magnified scale. The aspect of “smooth roughness” or “rough smoothness” lends the bounding surfaces a paradoxical, almost monumental and, figuratively speaking, haptic quality. HARDNESS  As a rule, we expect architectural structures to retain their shape and form.195 Carpets, which span large sections of floor in at least a third of our case studies, are soft and yielding, but only for a few millimetres and only briefly before returning to their original shape on their own. Curtains can be drawn back and gathered, or billow, swell and flap in the wind but they also generally return to their original position. In the Nationalgalerie and in Lens curtains line the glazed walls, but it is in Rem Koolhaas’s Kunsthal in ­Rotterdam (1992) and Shigeru Ban’s house in ­Tokyo (1995) that they become true protagonists in their own right. Ban’s teacher Raimund ­Abraham saw his design for a “House with Curtains” (1972) only as a project, because in real life it would have needed artificial wind to render its constantly billowing form.

Of all the bounding surfaces, the ceiling has most potential to actually be soft, i.e. inelastically deformable, although examples are lacking in our case studies, probably due to design intent as well as the complex installation ducts that modern ceilings have to accommodate. Only when we consider “soft” as a descriptor of shape rather than as a material quality, can we point to the arcing ceiling of the Philharmonie and the archivio of the Scuola dei Carmini as examples of ceilings that appear to be shaped from a soft mass. Visitors may consider for themselves whether the massive twists of the wall-ceiling folds in Stuttgart count as soft, or whether they are just formed.

We can also consider sitting in this context. In recent years, digitisation has brought about a rapid shift in the habitual and also stylistic boundaries between domestic and work environments, and ultimately between the public and private realm. Comfortable, casual, loungelike interiors now grace all manner of public spaces from the hotel bar to the work place or an exhibition hall. Most of our case studies do not reflect this trend, but two have helped pave the way, both with an ironic twist: the sofas in the Abteiberg through their unusual placement, and those at Yale through their sheer elegance and likewise disconcerting position. SHINE  In the Scuole, we have observed a general strategy of increasing material reflectance from dull to shiny. In the case studies there are few such examples, not even of alternating patterns. Instead, they almost exclusively establish and then maintain a single lustrous quality throughout successive spaces – for example a waxed screed floor. There are exceptions: the hall of the Nationalgalerie attempts to maintain a balance between reflective and absorbent surfaces in the concurrence of its polished granite floor and matt black ceiling. On the lower floor, this balance is relinquished in favour of matt surfaces that instead allow the oil paintings to shine. Matt backgrounds can be smaller than room-sized and reduced to frames, which in turn can be surrounded by shimmering surfaces: the shimmering walls in Lens, together with a polished floor and light-modulating slatted ceiling, cause the spatial boundaries to dissolve into a play of light, giving the works of art a kind of second life. Where in Lens, shine is celebrated as a quality, Chicago experiments with different degrees of shine in its dramaturgy of unrelenting contrasts: from the dull, unfinished surface of the plasterboard to the matt shimmer of the aluminium and poured asphalt surfaces to the iridescent hologram walls and the distorted reflections of the stainless steel panels.

4.17 Light APPEARANCES OF LIGHT  Conceptual pairs

such as direct and indirect light or standard recipes such as “from dark to light” tend to obscure rather than reveal the fascinating ways in which light can influence the dramaturgy of space.



While it is not feasible to systematically explore the entire spectrum of possibilities here, we can examine typical appearances of natural light in architectural space. Blinding light: If the quantity of light is excessive, we either turn away from it, find ways of reducing its impact, concentrate it into small glittering points – or employ it as a momentary shock, as in the glazed barrel-vaulted roof in the Abteiberg. Flooding light: If large quantities of light illuminate all corners of a space more or less equally, it appears as if flooded (the blue bridge in Weiach, the spaces flooded with orange light in Chicago, the vaulted hall in the Abteiberg). Light is made palpable, measurable, enveloping and yet also penetrating. Flooding light has a euphoric and entrancing character – and is therefore ill-suited for prolonged periods of use. Diffuse light:196 If the quantity of light is scattered by a filter (fog, clouds, translucent glass, alabaster) and dispersed evenly, we speak of diffuse or sprayed light. Diffuse light is ideal for viewing works of art in even light. If the filters themselves remain visible, they can lend a space a sense of restrained vitality as they glow in soft light (the clerestory windows in Walsall and Giornico). Another way of avoiding the contemplative effect of diffusely-lit exhibition spaces from becoming overly sterile is to lay a floor with a reflective sheen (e.g. the polished screed in Walsall), setting up a play of glancing light and movement on a secondary surface. Diffuse light can evoke a sense of solemn tranquillity (the hall in Exeter) or archaic timelessness (in Giornico). Dappled light: If the filter does not scatter the light but sieves it, we speak of dappled light. Foliage, perforated sheet metal, wooden grilles, textile meshes or screen-printed glass (Stuttgart and Chicago) create a shower of points of light that form a dappled pattern of light and shadow on the surface or filter it strikes. Formed light: If light is formed by obstructions, it produces a strong light-dark contrast, or chiaroscuro, on the surface it strikes. Formed light has a striking, attention-dominating but also dialogical character. Dialogues can arise between the light-forming hole and the formed patch of

4.17 Light  253

Blinding light

Flooding light

Diffuse light

Dappled light

Formed light

Segmented light

Reflected light/ Moving light

Moving light

Appearances of light

254  Designing the drama of space

light (e.g. the windows in Walsall) or between the slot and the ray of light (in Vals), between stripes of light and shadow (the reading galleries in Exeter and the peristasis in the Langen Foundation) or between light and a body when light falls on an object or body. The light–body dialogues in Glasgow switch back and forth between the image and its likeness, between permanent form and temporary distortion, between material and colour. In the bright midday sun of the Mediterranean, the effect of chiaroscuro, championed most expressively by Le Corbusier, can be dramatic or even glaring. Over the course of a day, it establishes relationships between forms and spaces, marks areas of focus, then pulls them apart and reorders them, commanding so much attention that little space for nuance remains. It dominates. Only when the surrounding space is dark enough to allow the ray of light to appear as a solid beam, does one step back graciously to allow it to dominate the room. Segmented light: If a formed ray of light strikes several surfaces or bodies within a space resulting in fragmented patches of illuminated surface, we speak of segmented light. The light may appear to come from afar, as in a cathedral, creating glowing points of light in the space, coupled with a sense of immensity. In the halls of the RPAC and the west end of Chicago, it is indicative of a complex body–space relationship. Reflected light: Where light reflects off a reflective medium and the deflected ray of light strikes a surface, we speak of reflected light. The reflecting surface gleams or reflects (as in the exhibition hall walls in Lens) while the receiving surface is bathed magically in light, especially when the surface could not possibly be directly illuminated (as in the ceilings in Le Havre). The hall in Exeter celebrates the intangibility of light especially subtly: the matt concrete blades reflect light softly onto the concrete bounding walls of the hall, causing them to appear luminous from within. The thin concrete cut-out surfaces appear like long cloths hanging weightlessly in space. Moving light: Light appears to be moving when a filtering medium (swaying branches in front of the glass walls in Chicago) or the light-receiving surface is in motion (the rippled water surface at the Langen Foundation, in Vals, Le Havre and

in the Nationalgalerie). The effect depends on the rhythm of movement and the distance between the viewer and moving surface: what appears distracting und restless up close can have a contemplative quality when seen from afar, regardless of how intense the actual movement is. Sanded glass, crown glass (Scuola dei Carmini), patterned glass and glass blocks offer in essence a crystallisation of moving light. LIGHTING CONDITIONS   The sequential

­ rrangement of different appearances of light a ­likewise offers a range of dramaturgical possibilities: Uniform lighting conditions: Where lighting conditions remain constant from room to room, this allows other dynamic phenomena to take centre stage, for example changes in colour or size (in Weiach), changing room heights in Giornico and alternating surface reliefs in Le Havre. While light serves here ostensibly as a background, a setting, it can over time play a key role: constant lighting conditions make the subtle changes in light over the course of the day all the more apparent. This can produce especially captivating results, as in the dramatic space of the Pantheon, which transcends all materiality. A formed light source, as in the Pantheon, is not absolutely necessary: the diffuse top light in Giornico or even the mixture of flooding, formed, reflected and moving light in Le Havre are likewise suitable for such dramaturgies. The only prerequisite is that the light opening does not offer interesting views out. Alternating lighting conditions: Despite the wide range of possible options, a common pattern is a back and forth between animating and calming lighting conditions. Depending on the intensity and time spent in a space, the contrast in character can be intensified, resulting in carefully measured oppressive and liberating conditions (in Miami and Lens). Alternating lighting conditions can be stimulating, not least because visitors themselves can control the speed and rhythm of alternation. A characteristic of contrasting lighting scenarios is that there are no mediating zones, so that the different sections are clearly separated from one another. With the exception of the RPAC, the counterpart always appears “at the last moment” and influences the preceding space as little as possible. Only in

STIMULATING

CALMING

Exeter

Formed light

Diffuse reflected light

Vals

Varying patches of artificial light

Subdued light

Walsall

Formed warm light

Diffuse cool light from above

Stuttgart

Side light

Artificial light from the ceiling

Lens

Segmented light

Filtered and reflected light

RPAC, Glasgow

Formed and segmented light

Diffuse light

Lighting conditions

­ alsall does formed light appear within the difW fuse light of the temporary exhibition gallery as an accent, albeit shyly, almost ironically, in the corner. Changing lighting conditions: The two halls of the Scuola dei Carmini unite two very different manifestations of light – intangible light and bodies of light, or diffuse light and flooding light. In the Abteiberg, one sees simultaneously more than two of the many different qualities of light, and Chicago even mixes different light situations: flooding light, moving light, and segmented light, evoking qualities akin to those of a cathedral. Here the lighting conditions are not part of a linear dramaturgy, like in an ancient Egyptian temple, but of a diverse and episodic sequence of spaces. The visitor is constantly “on the go”, and the appearance of light and lighting conditions influences the pace and direction of movement to a considerable degree.



4.18 Views If all buildings of the Acropolis were seen simultaneously head-on, remarked Le Corbusier,197 it would be as if everyone spoke at the same volume. The dramaturgy of views is concerned not just with the motif (“What do I see?”) but also with the way it is seen (“How do I see something?”). Before we can talk about what we see, we first need to clarify how we see. INVOLUNTARY VIEWS   Views respond to impulses. Our gaze searches restlessly, scanning and circling, oscillating between near and far, motivated by both a need to avoid danger and a desire to locate items of interest. To consciously direct one’s gaze requires practice and effort, and even then, it still strays from our control. After wandering and roaming awhile, it comes to rest spontaneously on something of interest. It may be the deepest point in the immediate field of

4.18 Views  255

Direct view

Outward view

Inward view

Through view

Framed views

view, something that engages our attention, a segment very limited in focus or some distant movements such as drifting clouds, running water or passing trains. Often what we see is a combination of these four components. Subjective or situational variants of these “restful images”198 can serve as a casual background to other activities. But if a view is to command our attention – for whatever reason – then the components of these “restful images” – depth, engagement, balanced contrast and movement – must either be brought to a captivating ideal consonance or else their old-fashioned sense of harmony needs to be shaken up. COMPENSATORY VIEWS  As with all sensory activities, our gaze reflexively seeks to balance strain. Consequently, to relax from the focus of reading we gaze up at the reading room roof (we call this successive balance), or we compensate for other negative sensory sensations: for instance, when cold, we instinctively attempt to focus on warm objects (simultaneous balance). If our gaze does not just fall and rest on something but focuses on it attentively, it must be more than just pleasantly warm or bright and shiny. The variants of this “more” can be characterised as follows: THE FRAMED VIEW  The human field of vi-

sion has roughly the form of an egg on its side. Its edges are blurry and its horizon is curved.199 A significant portion of Western art and imagery is, however, rectangular, sharply defined at its edges and oriented around a flat, horizontal horizon. This strategy captivates us by flattening space in such a way that it becomes attractive to us to confront it. In spatial design, the wall facing us is such a confrontation. Even the very simple introduction of a hole into the whole, simultaneously focusing interest and disintegrating the wall, establishes a rich series of relationships between view, blockage, frame and space: –– As an opaque surface facing us, the wall affords us a direct view of itself. –– If this surface is perforated with a hole, it affords us an outward view. –– If our view passes through the hole into another contained space, it affords us an inward view of that space. –– If the following wall is also perforated, the succession of openings affords us a through view of the spaces.

256  Designing the drama of space

Direct views are frontal, fix our gaze and invariably cause us to pause before them – as seen, for example, in the altar walls of the Scuole and in the blank front wall in Giornico. The Philharmonie avoids such arresting views through the polygonal, concave shape of its spaces to stimulate ongoing visual movement. As such, the two diagonal supporting walls and the wall of the control room appear all the more massive when seen approximately head-on. Outward views are used deliberately (in Walsall or Exeter) or incidentally (in the Philharmonie) in many spatial dramaturgies as restful or balancing views. In this function, they exhibit the four components of restful images described earlier: depth, engagement, balanced contrast and movement. In Chicago, the outward views are distorted via the filtering walls, in the RPAC they are transformed into theatrical stage scenes, in Stuttgart into both at once, and in the Langen Foundation into a modernist space-compressed format. Inward views appeal to our voyeuristic curiosity. The surprising view into worlds that are not yet or no longer our own can function as enticing views ahead, melancholic side views or nostalgic views back (in the Abteiberg, in the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista, the views into the sports halls in the RPAC, or the window into the stairwell and Epstein Collection in Walsall). Through views can be used for the simple purpose of bridging secondary connecting spaces or as a means of encouraging movement through an enfilade. But when used sparingly and deliberately for carefully composed complex climaxes, through views of the upcoming destination before one reaches it can be tantalising. For some, through views encourage haste, for others they cause pause regardless of whether inside (I) and outside (O) are configured as I–O–I (Chicago), O–I–O (Nationalgalerie), O–I–I (Giornico), I–I–O (Weiach) or I–I–I (Chicago, Lens, Stuttgart, RPAC). Through views affect us by exposing us simultaneously to more than just one or two atmospheres, lighting conditions and temperatures. They order or obscure relationships, and create a sense of anticipation or wistfulness: in the Teatro Marittimo in Hadrian’s Villa, the emperor looked from his seat over a canal towards a scenery with no less than eleven spatial layers

before his gaze came to rest on the Apennines (see p 94). Through views can be subtly structured by spatial zoning or transitions. A key attraction of all variants of the framed view lies in the fact that the mask of the frame effectively erases the middle ground from the view, placing the silhouette of the foreground in sharp contrast to the background in the distance. The removal of the middle ground and concomitant interruption of vanishing lines isolates the background, so that it appears to float like an image in the frame. In addition, the frame itself, its size, proportions, its articulation and reveals200 define the framed view. The more horizontal its format, the more the eye wanders along lines and movements (the slots in ­Weiach), and the more vertical it is, the more upright and uplifting the image appears to us (in Giornico). Generally speaking: the more elongated the format of the frame, the more attention it commands. The room-high views out of portrait format windows in Vals balance movement and directionality, while the depth of the reveal makes the slopes opposite appear shifted into the distance.

Diagonal views have truly a lot going for them: they present two to three walls as well as the floor and ceiling, resulting in a balanced concave ensemble. If the corner of the room does not lie right in the bisecting line of our field of view, it draws our diagonal view gently around the corner. If the room is accessed from the corner, it offers us the greatest possible depth of view and amount of information immediately on entering (as in the Scuola di San Giovanni Evangelista and in Le Havre). Schinkel’s typical three-quarter perspective in his drawings, and in the urban realm itself, makes even the most convex solitary building less imposing.

THE UNFRAMED VIEW  The directionality of human vision divides our surroundings into the visible and invisible. An unhindered view wanders from front to back and from bottom to top,201 and in many cultures also from left to right. When entering an unknown space, we turn our heads in order to obtain a 180 degree panorama of the room, and once we stand within it, or reach its centre, we turn around completely. If the centre of a space does not allow this form of relaxation, because it is obstructed or inaccessible, we are all the more grateful for an overview from a raised position, either in advance (Vals, Lens), afterwards (RPAC) or occasionally within (Le Havre). Another way of compensating for the lack of a central view is to employ centrifugal spatial gestures and fantastic outward views (Miami).

Sideways glances are always fleeting as they require us to turn our bodies, or even to follow a new path, at which point they cease to be sideways glances. They may wink us over from the sidelines, announcing in advance, or in a view back, where we are or where we are about to go. The slot window in the side wall of the cella of the Langen Foundation even reveals the key to understanding the hinged composition of the spatial ensemble. That dramaturgies of the sublime, such as that of the Nationalgalerie, do not distract with sideways glances, goes without saying.

ANGLE OF VIEW  All these effects also de-

Chicago, on the other hand, could be considered as a single sideways glance taken for a walk, or alternatively equally as a permanent all-round view.

pend on the angle of view. More than any other, the frontal view demands a response (the altar walls in the Scuole, the front wall in Giornico). The frontal view is therefore often softened by an outward view, or received and reflected by a concave hollowing (apsides in basilicas and church-



es), or enriched with semantic imagery or lettering (the gallery of honoraries in Chicago) so as to mediate its silent resistance, or it is relegated to the role of a background through the positioning of other protagonists within the view (the sculptures posing in front of the garden wall in the Nationalgalerie). The further away a facing wall is from us, the weaker its confrontational effect, as the vanishing lines play an increasing role and make us aware of the concavity of the space. And concave spaces are, as a rule, inviting.

The large-format, spectacular views into the halls of the RPAC are arranged as sideways glances as the frontal view would be excessively voyeuristic in character.

Upward views are natural when lying down, which explains the importance of the ceiling

4.18 Views  257

­design in Weiach, Vals, and Le Havre. From a relaxed seated position, they can also be viewed comfortably, which is why the window seat in the tower room of Walsall invites one to look up into the archetypal hood. From a standing position, however, the steep view upwards, the socalled dungeon view, quickly results in a stiff neck, which is why it is only brief, just long enough to register an impression of a spectacular ceiling (in Stuttgart and Exeter) and there after to recall it in one’s imagination. Room heights are more difficult to judge than length and breadth because we cannot measure them by traversing a space physically. Views upwards are also destabilising; they evoke a sense of ­wonder or longing as the visual space can never become haptic space. If a room is very expansive, as in the Pantheon, or in the Nationalgalerie (few ceilings can be compared with that of the ­Nationalgalerie, if any it would be the ceiling of the Pantheon), then we need only raise our eyes slightly and look into the corners to appreciate the firmament of the interior. After all, the sublime is best viewed from a safe distance and a comfortable perspective. The downward view, a term still used in the 19th century, from a raised gallery is identical to the overview and may therefore have fallen out of fashion. The term would then be reserved for steep views downwards, into the abyss as it were, which is altogether more terrifying, adventurous and in fact more dangerous than the steep view upwards. In Exeter and Stuttgart, the reading lecterns and information desks block the steep view down in favour of the overview. Only in the cascading stairs and spirals of the Philharmonie and in Miami does the downward view truly earn its reputation as a literally breath-taking view. Mies van der Rohe, it seems, deeply disliked the downward view; his plinth affords a view outwards and an overview, but the stairs restrict the view. CHOREOGRAPHY OF VIEWS  A system of

views will rarely if ever be composed of a single type of view. In this parameter, repetition and the unchanging conditions of a monodrama run counter to the physiological need for successive balancing views. As such, every system of views requires change or alternation. The rhythm in which they change can be very dense – to the point that the kinds of views become simultane-

258  Designing the drama of space

ous contrasts (as in Chicago) – or aligned with the overall developing drama. While a museum has the task of concentrating attention on the direct view of the artworks, it must also offer long views or diagonal views at sensible intervals to relax the eyes. This pattern is evident even in the three rooms in Giornico, where the room heights and lengths vary (stimulating upward views), and the asymmetrical placement of the doorways stimulates diagonal views into the concave spaces. As a consequence, the frontal view of the blank front wall appears all the more confrontational, and the outward view of the vineyards when returning all the more liberating. In Lens, the appearance of the direct views of the artworks is delayed by first presenting inward views, through views and outward views in the entrance hall with its curved glass cylinders. Only after the turbulent series of changing views at the turning point in the dramaturgy – an exceptionally dense composition of views – do the artworks come into view. The direct views concentrate solely on the respective works of art and their reflections, but alternate continuously with diagonal through views across the hall. In the atrium in Stuttgart, the very first direct view, in the form of a film projection, is preceded by an upward view; in the Legend galleries, a combination of direct views and through views is preceded by the overview; and in the Collection galleries, direct views and outward views are coupled together. In this way, the principle of alternation is manifested not just in the treatment of the themes, the form of the rooms, the colour scheme and the lighting, but also in the types of views. While these relations describe short-term dramatic arcs that arise over the course of a visit, the primary dramatic tension is often a contrast between the opening view and the subsequent dominant kind of view. When the opening view contrasts with the main sequence, it prepares the scene and, through the contrast, makes what follows seem fresh and new. This applies regardless of the situation or the kind of main view, as the table opposite shows. Miami and Yale, on the other hand, employ a pattern of alternation instead of a separate intro-

Initial view (or first view)

Main view (second view)

Philharmonie

Obscured views

Central view

Nationalgalerie

Distant view

Close-up view

Exeter

Upward view from stair

View around in the hall

Vals

Overview

Through, inward and outward views

Stuttgart

Upward view

Inward, outward and through views

Langen

Distant views and views in

Downward views and direct views

Le Havre

Frontal views

Diagonal through views

Lens

Inward, through and outward views

Direct views

Glasgow

Upward view

Through and inward views

Choreography of views for contrasting opening sequences

duction and main section; and in the Abteiberg, in Chicago, in the RPAC and in the Fehrbelliner Platz, the kinds of views change in a non-linear pattern, in accordance with their non-prescriptive structure of spaces. Views are generally hard to corral into a rigid dramaturgical structure because although views can be stimulated, they cannot be enforced. Views are by nature anarchic, unsettled and inquisitive: they drift, double back and slip away, taking in new kinds of views “on the fly”. For example, the hall of the Nationalgalerie stimulates sweeping views and upward views but whether, when and for how long a visitor considers a direct view of the exhibits, and beyond that admires the veined marble cladding of the ventilation ducts is down to each individual. Spaces should, therefore, enable a range of different kinds of views.



4.19 Movements PACE DETERMINATORS  In the performing

arts, the producer determines the pace; in the visual arts, the recipient. But in the same way that a poem must be read more slowly than a page-turner, we walk more slowly in Vals than we do in the RPAC. Which factors prompt or influence the speed of our actions and reactions? Ease of movement: Narrow, low, uneven, obstructed or dimly lit spaces impede movement. Where spaces are light, expansive, empty and level, it is the characteristics of the floor that determine how fast or slow we move: for example, we sink into sand or gravel, but equally we risk slipping on a wet marble floor. The incline of a floor can propel or slow movement even more than its surface quality. But safety requirements

4.19 Movements  259

and expectations of what is comfortable can restrict the available dramaturgical possibilities to a large degree. Degree of information: Assuming safety is ensured, it is the wish for familiarity that determines our pace. The more interesting, not immediately identifiable details an unknown space contains, the slower our progress through it. Destination: If a room has a single point of destination, we instinctively look and move in its direction rather than wandering or moving about the room. And if it is the only attraction in an otherwise unobstructed room, we head swiftly towards it. Atmosphere: An empty Romanesque church is usually easy to move around in, it has few details and one key destination – the altar – and yet we do not rush through it like we would through an empty sports hall. Its atmosphere causes us to take our time. Atmosphere is a quality of space that we sense, and not merely a projection of our mood into a space, clarifies Gernot Böhme. “The spatiality of atmospheres means that they spill indefinitely into the expanse, but also that they are sensed by human beings in their bodily presence.”202 Janson and Tigges define it similarly: “An atmosphere is the expressive force through which a situation that has been engendered by architecture seizes us in affective terms all at once and as a totality.”203 What constitutes atmospheres, they say, is not just what we can sense and perceive but also all that we know: the formal character and spatial bearing, the sensory qualities (e.g. rough or light), mood (e.g. uplifting or gloomy), impression (e.g. inviting) and the incited action (e.g. to settle), along with other immaterial factors such as smell and sound as well as the material and associative qualities of surfaces and their symbolic references. Field of view: The proportions of a room likewise influence how we move through it, and not just through their objective proportions – wide spaces allow us to draw breath, long spaces draw us onwards – but also depending on whether and how the edges of a space fit within our field of view: if the ceiling lies above our field of view, the pull of a long room is weakened. If the space widens and/or grows higher along the length of its axis as one moves through it, one has the

260  Designing the drama of space

sense of not making progress. If it narrows on two or four sides, it appears as if we have a long way to go, only to find ourselves suddenly there. In short: the sharper the angle, the stronger the pull it exerts, while the shallower the angle, the more it appears to impede our progress. DECELERATORS  Entrance halls are inviting because they evoke a sense of trust through clarity. They also often act as decelerators, for example through their high ceiling (thereby raising the naturally lowered gaze) and calm spatial form. The ancient Egyptians in their temples employed an unfailing method of deceleration and concentration using transverse spaces to slow the pace of progression, and successively narrowing the path in both plan and section to focus attention on the point of sanctuary. But churches, too, despite their longitudinal orientation and clear focal point, are not spaces one hurries through, partly because the junctions between walls and ceiling close to us lie outside our field of view, and partly due to the intensity of information and activity in the side aisles, which cause us to stop and look. There are, therefore, quite profane reasons, alongside the quality of light and the solemn atmosphere, that cause us to slow our pace. WAYS OF WALKING  Wandering, roaming, strolling, walking, pacing, hurrying, rushing, jogging, running, sprinting… We associate a different pattern of movement with each of these different speeds: straight lines and clear-cut turns when pacing, wavy lines when wandering or roaming, gentle arcs when walking or jogging, incidental diversions or abrupt changes in direction when strolling, and the shortest path between two points when hurrying, rushing, running or sprinting.

Given the increasingly subjective component of the parameters described here, I venture to describe impressions based on personal observation. In the children’s nursery in Weiach, children run around less because there are no long, featureless corridors. The long, narrow peristasis of the Langen Foundation does not animate one to hurry through either, but instead instils a sense of inward contemplation in which the fresh air, archaic form and abstractness of the scenery acquires a precious quality. When entering the sale superiori of the Scuole Grandi, it is

Floor plans

Longitudinal sections

Inward views

Views back

Spatial form and appearance: Pulling and slowing effects of different room shapes



4.19 Movements  261

4.20 Intensities CONDITIONS  Language provides us with a

vast range of adjectives with which to express our joy of intensive experiences. For the purposes of spatial dramaturgy, we can broadly class intensities of experience in three general groups:

Floor plan and section of the Temple of Horus at Edfu (237–57 B.C.): The telescope-like staggered arrangement of broad and lengthwise oriented rooms directs the view and slows the pace of progression

–– If an experience – for example the atmosphere of a room as we enter it – is merely incidental, subliminal, subtle or superficial, it does not change our previous intention or mood. We are only touched but not moved. –– If an atmospheric change is palpable, moves us or even draws us in, our relationship to it becomes reactive and reflective. Even if we immerse ourselves to the point that we feel “like a fish in water”, we still feel in control of our affective response. If we distance ourselves from the emotional experience, we may then be somewhat “left out”, but the effort of resisting still occupies us. –– If we lose control, if we are captivated, fascinated or stunned by something, we no longer reflect on but yield to it. We are only able to analyse the experience after the event, so immersed are we during the actual event that we do not think about ourselves. The lower threshold between these emotional responses may be called the threshold of attention, the upper one the threshold of self-control.

not just the flood of information but also the arrangement of side entrances, avoiding a central axis, that cause us to draw to a halt. In the transit building of the Fehrbelliner Platz, we still hurry and rush through the spaces despite our inability to comprehend it as a whole, following the conspicuous signal red walls. In the Abteiberg, we look around hesitantly before choosing a direction in which to proceed, only to turn off again later, and in Chicago we expect people to hurry on by at their own particular pace, just like in a public street.

262  Designing the drama of space

MOMENTS OF MOMENTUM  Experiences of nearly unbearable intensity in architecture, as in other art forms, are usually restricted to momentary peaks (not considering involuntary experiences), often at the turning points we discussed in the Parameter 4.14 “Dramatic arcs”. The following moments of momentum, by contrast, describe intensities of a certain duration, intensities that engage our attention over the duration of the time spent in an interior, or even beyond.

Momentum of elusiveness: We find this quality in the Philharmonie and the Abteiberg, both of which feature a labyrinthine, multi-perspectival structure. After a certain amount of time, an attentive visitor’s inability to fully grasp the structure gives way to a desire to prolong the thrill of ongoing discovery – as Nietzsche has his Night Wanderer sing: “But joys all want eternity, want deep, profound enternity!”204 To constitute a brief

Effect

Reactions

Relationship of space to subject

Momenta

“enthralled” succumb to superconscious

encompassing

Momentum of elusiveness Momentum of enclosure

“reflective” engage with conscious

vis-à-vis

Impelling momentum Retarding momentum

stunned

Overwhelmed

captivated

fascinated

Threshold of self-control engaging

Intentional

moving

palpable

Threshold of attention

superficial

Incidental

subtle

“peripheral” touched but not moved subconscious

vague

Momentum of self-evidence Momentum of bemusement

subliminal

Scale of intensity

eternity, the whole must seem irresolvable, always in flux. We call this the momentum of elusiveness.205 Momentum of enclosure: If a space can be quickly appraised, it must possess an especially characteristic atmosphere to hold our attention. Such atmospheres need clear boundaries to contain them and are typical for large halls, as well as for clubs, bars, wayside chapels, memorials or spaces in which time stands still, for example fully equipped but no longer used interiors. This encapsulating effect of containing the atmosphere of a hall or chamber is the momentum of enclosure.



Impelling momentum: In linear progressions of spaces, a series of highly intense moments of enclosure would be exhausting. A more stimulating experience is the tease of the recurring deferral of the point of resolution: ever new, surprising twists and turns impel us onwards, drive us forwards, make us wait and awaken expectations only to refute them before eventually providing a satisfying resolution at the end – a pattern comparable to the plot twists of a classical drama. The architectural work reveals its richness and density only in the course of time. This ongoing, sometimes quite subtle deferral is a characteristic motif in landscape gardens, in Corbusian

4.20 Intensities  263

Promenades architecturales and in Walsall, Miami and the Langen Foundation. We call it the impelling momentum. Retarding momentum: A drama can also be captivating if the individual spaces are so convincingly self-contained –  however much they may need the others – that they appear coherent and consistent within themselves. Similar and different elements, inside and outside, emotion and intellect resonate gently, and we move around without feeling driven, as in the Nationalgalerie, in Exeter and in Weiach. The moment of equilibrium, the balancing moment dominates: what we call the retarding momentum. Momentum of self-evidence: Atmospheres can touch us in passing when their constitutive factors serve the desired purpose or match the prevailing taste – that is they fulfil our immediate expectations. What appears self-evident, however, has formed and evolved over the course of history. For example, in today’s age we generally accept white walls without question as a background for other events to stand out against.206 This is the momentum of convention, the canonical momentum or the momentum of self-evidence. Momentum of bemusement: Sometimes idiosyncratic accents, or specific, special, often unconventional, purposeless or tasteless elements are smuggled into a space without us noticing. Only at a subconscious level do they give rise to pleasure or displeasure or connect things, and surface only later – if at all – in our consciousness. We call this the momentum of bemusement. OPPOSITIONS AND LEVELS OF INTENSITY 

The six momenta elaborated here are opposing pairs. The momentum of elusiveness is a product of complexity, while the momentum of enclosure requires clarity. The impelling momentum results from a temporal succession, the retarding momentum from spatial coherence. The momentum of self-evidence often plays the neglected leading role, the momentum of bemusement an apparently negligible supporting role. They do not, however, neutralise one another, but rather intensify or at least condition one another. If one is present, the other is usually close by: The momentum of enclosure distinguishes the exterior of the ­Philharmonie and the Abteiberg with their con-

264  Designing the drama of space

fusing complexity inside; and in Walsall and Exeter, the impelling and retarding momenta hold each other in check. In Chicago, on the other hand, momenta of elusiveness and of enclosure, all the while impelling, together suppress the retarding momentum. Perhaps this is what makes the effect of the Hagia Sophia so incomparable: it unites these four momenta at every moment. Intensities, therefore, do not solely produce “pure delight” but rather “mixed sensations”,207 that are fragile and that reform not just in the moment but also over the course of time. Those who engage with these sensations quickly realise just how inadequate simplistic superlatives are for relating intensities of experience. When and which intensities are to be heightened, sustained or diminished is different in each case. Just how much dramaturgies affect us depends on many situational and subjective dispositions. As such, our allocation of six intensity-heightening momenta to three aforementioned opposing pairs is not a statement about causal relationships, only tendencies. They help us to question our own response.

Figures of time The question of the temporality of architecture and the character of the time we spend in works of architecture has been ever-present in all our preceding considerations, but we have not yet examined it explicitly. And for a reason: the design of the experience of time in architecture is more than merely a further parameter of spatial dramaturgy; it is its aim. All dramaturgies shape time. Spatial dramaturgies employ architectural operations arranged in space and guide the passage of visitors so that these operations appear, or are encountered, at just “the right moment”. Like things, spaces also have and lay claim to their place and time. But is designing the temporality of spaces just about finding the much-vaunted right point in time, i.e. about getting the timing right,208 or can it not also encompass more prolonged figures of time? In our discussion of the dramaturgical tendencies of musical forms in Part Two, we saw that music has the capacity to encompass clearly identifiable figures of time. To clarify how and to what extent architecture is a temporal art, as well as the ways in which spatial dramaturgies work with figures of time, it is helpful to first briefly look at the relationship between architecture and music. MUSIC AND ARCHITECTURE  Ever since the Renaissance, the relationship between architecture and music has been explored at many levels, not just with respect to their dramaturgical parallels. To the people of the Renaissance, Pythagoras’ then already 2000-year-old discovery (approx. 570–510 B.C.) of the relationship between the length of a vibrating string and the harmonic interval (half the length corresponds to an octave, etc.) appeared like a key to God’s ­divine plan.209 A similar key, so they ambitiously thought, had to exist for the world of vision – not least in order to elevate the profession of architecture to the level of the mathematic arts, alongside arithmetic, geometry, music and astronomy. But as no comparable law of nature was forthcoming, they transferred the rules found in the field of music to the study of proportions and relationships in the visual arts. Music, therefore, became the coveted bride of architecture not because “music be the food of love,”210 but because

266  Designing the drama of space

musical harmonies can be traced back to physical principles. In the Baroque, an entirely different path was taken, highlighting the principal differences in acoustic and visual perception. Musical intervals reach the ear undistorted, but optical intervals reach the eye distorted by foreshortening. Questions of proportion are here no longer determined by mathematics but by the judgement of the eye.211 Such views and conclusions did not prevent the Baroque from exploring synaesthetic effects, and artists of the era created Gesamtkunstwerke in which both sensory delight as well as mathematics pervade every detail in equal measure. The many periodically recurring attempts to pair architecture and music as the two primary constructive (as opposed to mimetic) arts seem to focus on parameters (high-low, long-short, etc.) and metaphors (foundation, ornamentation, scaling, etc.), giving less consideration to compositional techniques. Architecture too has transitions, but no exactly codified modulation laws; music has pillars, for example sound columns, but no comparable five classical orders. And only vague consideration was given to the forms of works – the rondo has only occasional and the fugue only partial analogies in architecture. At the level of individual works, eventually, a comparison would be even less precise: the Hammer­ klavier Sonata and the Hagia Sophia are both extraordinarily complex and also exhilarating and sublime, but in completely different ways. Such comparisons – although legitimate and helpful at a personal level – ultimately reveal little more of general validity than an individual analysis would. The sum is no more than its parts, and the parts sometimes also contradict one another. An attempt at comparison is therefore little more than a crutch. The more concrete and detailed the level of focus, the more trivial and tenuous the original irrefutable analogies become. Renewed impetus in the search for relationships came in the age of German Romanticism, in which much mention was made of “architecture as frozen music” or “music turned to stone”,212 phrases still merrily used today but that are as

vague as ever. In many cases, the utterer means merely to proclaim a similar degree of enjoyment in the experience of architecture as in listening to music, as a way of giving life to an otherwise incomprehensible dead mass. Those, however, who see architecture literally as an inanimate block that has imprisoned the spirit of music within it, fail to grasp the visual and spatial experience of architecture as a process that unfolds over time. If, on the other hand, seeing is understood as a spatial and temporal process that liberates architecture from its apparent rigidity, in other words if architecture is only frozen music until the moment a listener comes who is able through the process of looking to recreate the origins of the architecture in the spirit of music, successively constructing architecture in his or her mind’s eye – then the phrase is useful. We could then even conclude that built architecture is like a musical score, with us as the “musicians” who determine the tempo along with other aspects through our “reading” of the score. Architecture could then be classed as both a visual as well as a performing art, an art form that allows the recipient the greatest possible participation through the means of their free movement in time213 and in space.214 THE TEMPORALITY OF THE SPATIAL AND THE SPATIALITY OF THE TEMPORAL Music always has a spatial component – as manifested in the many architectural metaphors in the musicological vocabulary (pitch, scales, modulation, passages, carpets of sound, terraced dynamics, chord constructions, supporting chords, etc.). It is a spatial art that can make built spaces virtually palpable and that enriches and enlivens space. It can at times also be so enchanting that it makes us oblivious of any space, such is its ability to stimulate our productive imagination. A listening experience always evokes spatial qualities.215 Music fills built spaces with life and builds felt spaces within us.

Its other key quality is to give form to time. Music not only takes shape in time but also shapes time itself.216 Whether architecture affords a similar degree of richness with respect to time as music does is the touchstone for whether it merely possesses a temporal component or whether it is itself also a temporal art, an art of working with time. Does the dramaturgy of spac-



es offer us similarly distinct figures of time, despite the fact that we have much greater possibilities in manipulating and shaping time in a building than we have in music? Is it perhaps the distinctness of the figures of time that establishes the link between architecture and music? How does time “pass” in spaces, and how does it “appear” to us when we relive it afterwards? In the spatial configurations of our case studies, we encountered at least five of the figures of time discussed for musical forms in Part Two. We may not always have been aware of them in the course of our visit, but they always revealed themselves afterwards. UNRESOLVED TIME  The time we spend ap-

pears to fly by. We forget to measure it and indeed forget it altogether, eventually leaving the spatial continuum with the feeling of having dipped into a not quite rationalisable rush of ­impressions. Reflecting on our experience will never reveal as much as a renewed visit. The time we spent in the building continues to occupy our minds but remains unresolved. To be overwhelmed means not being able to make sense of our impressions. The images and words that continue to assail us offer no help as every facet, every view, every unexpected discovery, every chink of memory appears just as valuable as the next and therefore contradicts all prior attempts to make sense of them. This is how one feels after visiting the Philharmonie – which, as Max Frisch related in a letter to Hans Scharoun,217 is a building one does not even want to comprehend, only experience anew again and again – and also after visiting the Abteiberg. The spatial continua of both buildings have enough structure to not appear chaotic yet conceal their structure beneath a masterly, frequently witty, even ironic, celebration of the moment. The spatial alter ego of this figure of time is the labyrinth. SUSPENDED TIME   The longer we walk through a building, the more our perception of what we see at a particular moment is enriched and overlaid by what we have already seen. We see everything in relation to our prior experience. We turn rooms into mental images, and in the same way we turn series of spaces into se-

Figures of time  267

quences of images. Sometimes these are so consistent that they meld into a single mental construct which is stable enough not to need constant recomposing. Such composite images arise when reflecting on the Nationalgalerie after the successive experience of the four protagonists floor–ceiling–walls–perimeter-wall, or of Exeter with its archaic domestic order. A principle that we only understand in retrospect can be more fascinating than the individual moment which it identifies. The sense of comprehending the underlying order on leaving such buildings gives us, more than any of the other figures of time, a sense of satisfying conclusion. By considering and reflecting we overcome time, and time becomes an image – comparable with a lyrical image or the way a poem tries to condense the succession of lines into a complex sense of simultaneity. The spatial alter ego of this figure of time are hierarchical, stable room arrangements such as single-room buildings. ENCAPSULATED TIME  Although the ther-

mal baths in Vals and Le Havre have been perfectly inserted into their respective surroundings, it still comes as a shock to leave them, such is the power of the worlds they have constructed around and within us during our stay. We immerse ourselves in their specific atmospheres with their own densities and flow, and we sense ourselves more clearly, observe ourselves, enjoying how we adapt to them. We sense sounds and smells more consciously and willingly and gradually forget the passing of time. Departing such highly charged atmospheres is suddenly sobering. The nuanced elegance of Walsall, the ironic understatement of Yale, the fluid space of the canyons in Glasgow or the cheerful cannibalism of Chicago all evaporate in a matter of seconds after leaving the building. Spatial dramaturgies of these kinds create self-contained sequences of spaces, and that is also how we experience the time we spend within them, as a time of its own, as encapsulated time, as autonomous caves hidden away from the time of the world outside. The spatial alter ego of this figure of time is an enclosed place: a garden of paradise, a space station, a prison… FLOWING TIME  The experience during and after is quite different for interiors that are

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homologue to their surroundings. That does not necessarily mean that the exterior need be part of the dramaturgy of the interior, or that space blurs the boundary between inside and outside, but rather that there is a structural and atmospheric kinship between the interior and its surroundings – regardless of how thick the walls between them may be. They are compressions of space, points along a path rather than end points or breaks. This applies, for example, in the Langen Foundation as well as in Lens, Stuttgart and Giornico. Leaving these interiors and their dramaturgies is less noticeable because we never truly leave them: the experience continues on into the surroundings. The time we spend within them is not clearly divided into a before, now and after but becomes one – gentle or powerful, linear or turbulent – threshold in the flow of time in everyday life. The spatial alter ego of this figure of time is a node. LINEAR TIME  In functional buildings – and all buildings are ultimately functional – we just want to get to our destination unhindered. Even when a building entices us with charm and esprit to do differently, thereby liberating time from being purely functional – as is the case at Fehrbelliner Platz, in Miami and at the RPAC – it is ultimately the way we came, and the path we moved along that we commit to memory rather than an image or a sequence of images. Time remains directional. The spatial alter ego of this figure of time is a path.

Plenty of other analogies arise: a souk with its ever expanding similar cells bores its way through a Muslim city like a musical motif through a passacaglia – small wonder, given that this means “to walk along a street” – giving form to the figure of striding time… The endless halls of an Arabic hypostyle mosque are built minimalist music, and like it present an image of suspended time… In many Baroque interiors intensive and extensive time transition seamlessly into one another like in a Beethoven sonata movement… Situationists are rehabilitating the idea of indeterminate time in the urban realm in the same way that the protagonists of aleatoric techniques have done in music… Skeleton frame structures, their grids expanding in endless variations, are experienced as struc-

tured time… Groups of islands, like serial music, are examples of time manifest in space… Atrium buildings are experienced, like the rondo, as manifestations of ever recurring time… The Wexner Center by Peter Eisenman weaves themes and countersubjects together in a manner similar to a fugue in directional time… Obviously, there are cases in which identical figures of time are based on entirely different structures in architecture and music. Likewise, the figures of time described here are neither exhaustive nor objective; how could they be, given that we are talking about experienced time? But they are backed by evidence and can therefore serve as a bridge over which we can wander back and forth between musical and spatial dramaturgies. In the forming of time, music and architecture operate at the same level, and exhibit similar qualities of diversity and plasticity. Our question at the outset of “whether architecture merely possesses a temporal component or whether it is itself also a temporal art, an art of working with time” has now been answered. Architecture is as much a temporal art as it is a spatial art, and as such, dramaturgy, as the study of the design of time, is just as fundamental for architecture as the study of sculptural composition. Dramaturgy is composition + time. Fritz Schumacher, the early-20th-century architect and author, defined architecture as the “art of dual space design through the design of bodies”.218 Today, we can take his idea (as described on p 93–94) one step further and incorporate it into an extended definition: Architecture is the art of designing time using dual space design through the design of bodies.



Figures of time  269

The dramatic situation in spatial dramaturgy  We have identified the parameters of spatial dramaturgy, as manifested in space, time and through bodily perception, in built examples. We have also examined the proximity of architecture to other arts through figures of time. The significant role that dramaturgy has or can have for architecture has become clear in many examples, but we have not yet examined it as an overall result. Both the kinship between architecture and other arts regarding the dramaturgical component as well as the importance of dramaturgy for architecture can be clarified by pursuing the question of whether there is a common idea that underlies dramaturgy in all its manifestations, and if so, in what way the idea of dramaturgy should manifest itself in the spatial dramaturgy of architecture. As dramaturgy operates with concrete situations, we can come back here to the idea of the “dramatic situation” discussed earlier in Part Two as a basic feature of dramas in theatre and film. Can we identify a space-related dramatic situation as the unfolding essence of each and every architectural drama? THE WORLD AS REFERENCE  Common to

all architectural works is that they serve a specific purpose and fulfil the same basic function: to provide spaces for activities and actions that cannot take place in the same way outside. A traffic structure, for example, may be able to fulfil its purpose self-consistently: it primarily serves a range of well-defined activities and is not subject to unpredictable human actions. The situation becomes more complex as soon as less well-defined human actions come into play; not only are these more unpredictable, but they are motivated by the contradictory pairing of “concentration on oneself” and “communication with others”. In a concert hall, these two basic purposes can be more or less separated spatially and in time – the arrangement of the processes can be dualistic and not dialectic. But in other public buildings, such as public libraries, children’s nurseries, schools, sports buildings or public baths, these two purposes inevitably and constantly collide. Even without all the individual situations that frequently complicate the mat-

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ter further, such as changes in the definition of the building’s functions during the planning, construction or use phases, the original commission, architecture in itself and its function – or in more general terms its relationship to the world – is inherently and deeply contradictory. Why? Because the two purposes of “concentration on oneself” and “communication with others” cannot be reconciled without contradictions. If the relationship of a building to the wider world is inherently contradictory, what about its relationship to itself as a work? THE WORK AS REFERENCE  A building employs a range of means – functional and atmospheric, constructional and climate-regulating – to fulfil its purpose. As these different means conflict frequently at various points – for which there are no lack of examples – decisions must be made which can only occur at a higher, more abstract level, namely in the composition of space and form in the design process. The composition of volumes and spaces strives for the best possible inner coherence and consistency, and ultimately, therefore, to an autonomy that it paradoxically can never reach due to the utilitarian nature of architecture. What matters here is that even if architecture were able to dispense with the need to serve a purpose in the world, it could not reach such an ideal state: within the work itself, the composition of volumes inherently opposes those of the composition of spaces. For example, the boundaries of an ideal body, which would be closed, must be compromised to allow light into the space within, and to enter the space. Jan Turnovský, in The Poetics of a Wall Projection,119 aptly portrays the tragicomic inevitability of the inherent contradiction of a work, and the limits of the ideal quality of a work. The higher level of the design of volumes and spaces can therefore neither resolve the inherent conflicts of a work nor that of its relationship to the world. In fact, the inevitable conflicts inherent in a work further compound the conflict between the work and the world. THE SPATIAL DRAMATIC SITUATION 

Both key references for a work of architecture are therefore themselves contradictory in their

motives and contradict each other. There is an opposition of concentration versus communication in the reference to the world, and in an opposition of volume versus space in the self-reference of a work; and there is the contradiction between the purpose-based reference to the world and the autonomy-based self-reference of the work. Both references, however, share a common motive: to create a work that radiates into the world. Let us recall the definition of the “dramatic situation” discussed in Part Two, which Bernd Stegemann puts in opposition to a “non-situative dialogue”. In his discussion of the dramatic situation, he refers to the idealistic aesthetics of Hegel: “In [Hegel’s] idealistic aesthetics, it is the competing intentions themselves that create the joint world as an inherently paradoxical construction. […] Each character must have an opposing and a connecting will with respect to their opposite number. This rule most closely approximates the dialectics of the dramatic situation.”220 Spatial dramaturgy can be conceived accordingly in this framework. When competing requirements in architecture are dealt with in a conventional, compromise-oriented way, a “non-situative dialogue” results between them; the joint and opposing spatial operations remain unaffected by one another, they are unconnected and without consequence. A “spatial dramatic situation” emerges when the contradictory requirements within and between the references of a work of architecture are made articulate, rub up against one another, intensify one another – initiating a dialectical process that strives towards a solution. In this sense, the task of architecture is not – contrary to popular practice – to build “the solution” but to constantly sustain the inner contradictions throughout the work of architecture, to manifest them as processes within the built work and therefore to keep the work as a whole open. The treatment of the walls in six of the art galleries in our case studies serves as an example to reveal to what degree and with which means the respective “spatial dramatic situation” is real­ised: INTERPLAY  Common to all walls in architec-

ture is the need to support a roof and to separate rooms or spaces from one another. Aside from



that, a museum’s relationship to the outside world requires outward-facing facades and blank inner surfaces on which paintings and reliefs can be hung. In the Langen Foundation, however, the self-reference of the work requires that all surfaces be unfaced, smooth-shuttered exposed concrete, rhythmically punctuated by shuttering joints and formwork holes. Hanging works of art effectively disfigures and even damages such pristine surfaces. The two motivations are incompatible. A conceptually acceptable but conventional and non-situative solution would be to celebrate the exposed concrete walls in the serving spaces and to use white walls in the exhibition spaces. Instead, the preceding paths and spaces are made so extensive that the white walls appear very late on the scene, as an antagonist practically duped of its role and further undermined by the fact that the concrete protagonists are given repeated opportunities to interrupt and interject in the halls. The dramatic situation of the space is given renewed impetus through rooms of unusual shape (the long peristasis), the monumental dead-end (the open-air stairs) or the occupation of a room with an architectural element (the long dog-leg ramp in hall 2, which is not strictly necessary but still occupies half the room), all of which challenge the primacy of art as much as confirm it. REJECTION AND IMPULSE  Where the Lan-

gen Foundation performs an ongoing interplay between reference to the world and reference to the work, Lens reiterates one and the same message in every room: the walls assert their reference to the world through their capacity as reflectors and in all other respects remain aloof and untouchable. A Louvre with walls that declare “Hands off!” to the works of art is not merely a provocative “Aha!” statement, but sets up an ever recurrent and extraordinarily productive tension. A similarly productive tension, not just for the visitors but also for the works of art, can be observed in the hall of the Nationalgalerie: the wall, floor and ceiling are so obviously unsuitable for displaying works of art that the space seems predestined for spatial installations – until Imi Knoebel elected to entirely line the glass walls with Japanese paper in the exhibition Zu Hilfe, zu Hilfe (2009). Rejecting the relationship to the world stimulates the creation of an own world that acts on the building, which in turn – as before – reflects back on the world.

The dramatic situation in spatial dramaturgy  271

GESAMTKUNSTWERK  Interplay, reflection

and rejection-and-impulse are architectural operations that emerge from the spatial dramatic situation. To openly manifest the architectural conflict between aspiring for maximum autonomy and serving its purposes, the Langen Foundation, Lens and the Nationalgalerie make use of the freedom afforded by the “placelessness” of modern works of art.221 Yet, however strong the creative impulses sparked by the Nationalgalerie may be, they are of a temporary nature: an installation will never permanently hold its ground in the great hall. Would it be an option then that the contradiction between the reference to the world and the self-reference of the work be resolved instead through the melding of art and building into one, into a Gesamtkunstwerk222 In the Abteiberg, the best spatial installations have long begun to become one with the building, like coral in a reef, and the curatorial aspiration must be the permanence of the installation.223 The specific spatial, lighting and material qualities as well as architecture’s contextual simulations (creating “stages” for the presentation of art) paradoxically have both a generative and an immobilising effect, they are interpretative as well as mobilising – things become works and remain in the world, because and although a timeless ideal condition cannot be reached. Nowhere does the architecture appear untouchable, instead encouraging interaction – all the while interjecting with comments of its own. Everything is in negotiation, in process. While here (as in many other locations since the 1990s), the boundaries between museum collections and exhibition halls are blurred, in Walsall they are clearly delineated. Here both kinds of relation to the world demand and are given their own particular spaces and enclosures. As in the Abteiberg, they too seek to bind art to a specific place through metaphorical suggestion, to immobilise it. Both worlds are, however, not frozen in their opposite worlds in a non-situative way but are instead interwoven using flashbacks and citations (materials, views), intensifying each other through their recombinations – in turn lending a voice to the architecture’s desire for autonomy. ROLE ATTRIBUTION In Giornico, are not art and architecture inseparably one? Certainly, the bronze reliefs are so fused with the wall and radiate into the room in unison that it would be

272  Designing the drama of space

sacrilegious to ever remove them. They appear made for this place. But the treatment of the walls reveals once more the dual motives of the spatial drama. The building differentiates demonstratively, in the interests of both the building and the artworks, between exhibition wall and blank, empty wall. Any switch or shift in roles would be an irredeemable violation. While Giornico resists all change, it is never static thanks to the different roles attributed to the walls. ARCHITECTURAL OPERATION  The simu-

lations in the Abteiberg, the suggestions in ­Walsall and the role attributions in Giornico are operations that sustain the spatial dramatic situation and aim to bind the works of art to their respective location. In this light, the white boxes of much museum architecture would seem to be little more than temporary tents. The anchoring of the exhibits to place is paradoxically a product of the fact that these three works of architecture not only strive to serve their declared purpose but also uncompromisingly assert their character as works of architecture, and find an appropriate level of dialogue between the two. The option they present is not the self-important and anticipatory resolution of contradictions, but the upholding of dialectical interdependencies in the gradual discovery, enjoyment and comprehension of the building. As museums, they are neither ideal nor perfectly serviceable but rather the product of intertwining their aspirations with respect to the world and to themselves as works. Where a work of architecture is not willing to both invite the world in and hold it at bay, where it is not willing to throw its own preoccupations into the ring, there can be no successful spatial dramaturgy. We have come full circle: the dramatic situation in the dramaturgy of space leads us back to the architectural operations that we defined at the beginning of the book. Architectural operations can now be described as ways of activating and sustaining the dramatic situation in spatial configurations. Spatial dramaturgy conceives of the material manifestations of architecture as silent actors who performs operations within the work.

REALISATIONS  A building cannot dispense

with its relationship to the world, but likewise it does not disappear in it. The dual motivation behind the material manifestation of a building thus remains. The transformation of an impending non-situative dialogue between contradictions into a spatial dramatic situation is, for the visitor, nothing other than the ongoing stimulation – or activation – of a reflective perception of the work in its own right, at the same time enabling, or even improving enjoyment of the purpose of its relationship to the world. In the ­Scuole, the reference to the world can no longer be experienced today, only reconstructed – a deficit that allows us to see the work-related architectural operations much more clearly. Possibilities for realising the spatial dramatic situation are as numerous as there are works of architecture. They invite us in subconscious, surprising or fascinating ways to adopt not only the role of the user but also that of an open-minded perceiving subject. Realisations of the contradiction between work and world relationships are, for example, the empty centre of Exeter, in which there is no place to read, or that of Stuttgart in which there are no vehicles, just a fleeting projection kissing the wall.224 Others include the abstractness of the polyfunctional bodies and rectangular cubes in Vals, Weiach and Le  Havre, the comical exaggeration in the “too high/too low” storeys in Miami, the excess of the figures of movement and paths in the Philharmonie or in the staggered walls at Fehrbelliner Platz, the views into the atmospherically and functionally contrasting spaces in the RPAC and in Chicago, the overtone montage at Yale or the synaesthesia in Glasgow. A building’s relationship to the world may inspire the realisation of spatial dramaturgical ideas, but it does not have to. However, buildings that fail to stimulate open-minded engagement, that are merely functional in use, will remain a shallow experience. And without a dramatic situation, every attempt at developing a dramaturgy will lack an underlying idea. It is the self-reference of the work, and its friction with the world as reference, and our respect for this friction, that gives rise to dramaturgy. The task of architecture is therefore neither to refute nor to overcome but rather to activate the spatial dramatic situation.



The dramatic situation in spatial dramaturgy  273

CODA  The reader will have noticed that over

the course of this Part Four of the book we have repeatedly made reference to the exhibition wing of the Wexner Center for the Visual Arts (1983–1989) by Peter Eisenman in Columbus, Ohio. It has, in effect, almost become a smaller 19th case study strewn throughout this last section. This is no coincidence, and also not inappropriate, as Eisenman’s work, more than most, can be seen as the repeated realisation of con­ tradictions and the rejection of conventional solutions. The building has been perceived predominantly from the viewpoint of its production-aesthetics, i.e. based on a meticulous reconstruction of its generative transformations and the ideologies that underlie them. As a consequence, the built work appears reduced to an almost incidental residue of this transformation. The “rest” of the building, however, is so striking that it does not fail to make an impression, even without the help of official guidance. In a book in which fascinating buildings are, so to speak, our original texts, it seems appropriate to end not with words but with a drawing: here we show a section of the Wexner Center with its small stair leading off to nowhere.

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Axonometric drawing of the Wexner Center for the Visual Arts (1989) by Peter Eisenman



The dramatic situation in spatial dramaturgy  275

Notes

i Fritz Schumacher: Das bauliche Gestalten. Basel, 1991 (1926), p 42. ii Friedrich Nietzsche: The Gay Science. Book Four, 280 (1882). Transl. Josefine Nauckhoff, KSA, Cambridge, 2001, p 159–160. 1 Alfred Brendel, cited in Alexander Cammann: “Wie viel Geist braucht große Kunst?” In: DIE ZEIT, 18/09/2014. 2 This was the title of August Schmarsow’s inaugural lecture at Leipzig University in 1893. 3 Ulrich Müller showed in: Raum, Bewegung und Zeit im Werk von Walter Gropius und Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Berlin, 2004, that Walter Gropius not only drew inspiration from De Stijl and cubism, and the impulses offered through their artistic depictions of time and space, but also conversed at length over a period of many years with the physicist Felix Auerbach in Jena. 4 Helmuth Plessner developed the fundamental category of “eccentric positionality” in: Die Stufen des Organischen und der Mensch. Frankfurt, 2003 (1928). 5 Klaus Stichweh: “Musik und Zeit.” In: Musik und Kirche 4, 1996, p 201. Edmund Husserl elaborated his fundamental insight into the consciousness of internal time in his lectures On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time, originally published in 1928, English edition transl. John Barnett Brough, Dordrecht, 1991. He structures time-consciousness into the acts of primal impression, retention and protention. In this context, he introduces a number of related terms including act, horizon, apperception, meaning-intention, evidence, appresentation, presence, longitudinal and transverse intentionality. 6 Alban Janson, Florian Tigges: Fundamental Concepts of Architecture. Transl. Ian Pepper, Basel, 2014. 7 Le Corbusier, in: Towards a New Architecture, London, 1923 (French: Paris, 1923), p 5. 8 Benedetto Croce uses this term in the essay “Theory of Art as Pure Visibility”, written in 1911 on Konrad Fiedler’s aesthetics. See Lambert Wiesing, p 119. 9 Norbert Huse interprets their activities as “compensation” for their powerlessness and refers to the conservative state theorist Gasparo Contarini, who even sees the toleration of the Scuole’s economic activities as a key reason for the citizens’ loyalty to the patrician republic (Huse, p 61–62). 10 See Huse, p 66. 11 A good documentation of the still existing Scuole Grandi and Piccole in Venice can be found in Silvia Gramigna and Annalisa Perissa: Scuole Grandi e piccole a Venezia tra Arte e Storia. Venice, 2008. 12 The twin function can be seen in the facade design of the Scuole, which partly follows the typology of profane buildings, and partly that of sacred buildings. According to Wolters (Wolters, p 198) there were originally also pulpits in the sale superiore, all of which have since disappeared. 13 For further details of the processions, their temporary architecture and their influence on the spatial development of the city, churches and Scuole, see Franco Posocco: La Vicenda urbanistica e lo spazio scenic. Cittadella, 1997. 14 Huse sees the sala terrena as a makeshift programmatic solution: “Beneath the sala was a large room for various functions that was not strictly necessary, were it not for the fact that the sala had to be on the upper storey. For the architects of the Renaissance, building for the cittadini was an opportunity to celebrate the architecture of the interiors almost for its own sake, and to build halls and ceremonial staircases of a kind not even seen in the Doge’s palace” (Huse, p 68–69). Wolters even thought it possible that the sale terrene were used for the burial of

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members of the confraternity up until well into the 15th century (see Wolters/Huse, p 120) For more information on the building process and distribution of roles, see Wolfgang Wolters: Architektur und Ornament. Munich, 2000, especially p 28–29. Manfredo Tafuri, Venice and the Renaissance. Cambridge, 1995 (Italian original: Venezia e il Rinascimento. Turin, 1985), chapter 4, “The Scuole Grandi”, p 81–101. See the documentation and discussion of the different church facade designs from around 1769 in Posocco, op. cit. In the four other Scuole Grandi – Scuola Grande di Carità (today part of the Accademia), Scuola Grande di San Marco (today part of the hospital), the unfinished Scuola Grande di Misericordia and the Scuola Grande di San Teodoro – the interior decorations are, for one reason or other, only partially intact. This “disappointment” is not meant as negative criticism, just with respect to what the visitor has been led to expect. Terrazzo was by no means an inferior material compared to opus sectile. Other masters of spatial dramaturgy who argue for a more balanced and measured approach driven by practical utility, such as Andrea Palladio (I, 22, p 85), expressly recommend its use. A very good genealogical and typological discussion of Venetian ceilings (e.g. Lacunare, communicative frames, rhythmic coffers, scrollwork, etc.) can be found in the chapter on modulated ceiling decorations in Wolters, p 232–233. In their book Sound and Space in Renaissance Venice. New Haven, 2009, Deborah Howard and Laura Moretti offer convincing evidence that church spaces in 16th-century Venice were increasingly conceived with a flat ceiling, for musical and acoustic reasons. It is only unfortunate that their study, which is equally grounded in art history and in experimental acoustics, does not also concern itself with the Scuole. For more information on the painting or coloured wallpapering of the ceiling beams, see Wolters, p 236ff. Umberto Franzoi and Franca Lugato: Scuola Grande dei Carmini. Ponzano Veneto, 2003, p 94–95 and p 104, argue that it is almost certain that the 18th-century ceilings of the archivio and albergo should originally have been gilded. S. Philip L. Sohm: “The Staircases of the Venetian Scuole Grandi and Mauro Codussi.” In: Architectura 8, 1978, p 125–149. Like the SGE, the SR also initially had a linear, double-aisle scala tribunale, but it was demolished after only 24 years of use in 1545. An extensive illustrated discussion of the different stair designs for the SR can be found in Gianmario Guidarelli: Una Giogia Ligata in Piombo. Venice, 2002, chapter “La Vicenda della Scala a Tribunale”, p 35–59. Jacob Burkhardt: Die Kunst der Renaissance in Italien. Frankfurt, 1997 (1867), p 742 (§94). See Chiara Vazzoler: La Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista. Venice, 2005, p 33. Gernot Böhme: The Aesthetics of Atmospheres. Ed. Jean-Paul Thibaud. Abingdon/New York, 2017 (German original: Atmosphäre. Frankfurt, 1995, p 48). Ibid., p 33–34. Janson, Tigges, op. cit., p 26–29. See, for example, Pfankuch, p 290. Here, one can assume this is an explicit interpretation of the character and role of the namesake, St. John, who at the time was held, in addition to some letters, to have made an essential contribution to the New

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44

45 46 47 48

Testament with his Gospel and Apocalypse of John, which is symbolised throughout the Scuole through the depiction of a book. Other common symbols for St. John are an eagle, cross and a serpent in a chalice. Christof Kneer: “Zwei Zentimeter.” Süddeutsche Zeitung, 04/07/2016, on the penalty shootout duel between the goalkeepers Neuer and Buffon in the Germany–Italy soccer quarter-final (6:5) of the UEFA Euro 2016 in France. See citation in Michaela Krützen: Dramaturgie des Films. Frankfurt, 2011 (2004), p 19. Lehmann, Hans-Thies: Postdramatic theatre. London, 2006. Divjak citing Dirk Baecker: Studien zur nächsten Gesellschaft. Frankfurt 2007, p 180. Paul Divjak: Integrative Inszenierungen. Bielefeld, 2012, p 125–126. Divjak, op. cit., p 126. Two quotes, one descriptive and informative, the other delightfully polemic, illustrate contrasting views on the effect of alienation: “As a performative process, theatre exhibits a specific temporality which is difficult to define. It can ‘numb’ our normal perception of time through obstinate repetition, apparent immobility, inversion of causal consequences, changes in time and shock-like surprises. Extremely long or rapid sections can likewise alter our perception of the measurable progression of time.” (Lehmann, p 318) And: “The audience’s patience is put to the test so that the passage of time becomes hard to endure. […] The movements are repeated endlessly so that the audience begins to feel a sense of ‘dialectic annoyance’; to begin with it doesn’t seem to progress (boredom), then one grasps the fact (I’m supposed to be lulled into boredom) and finally one becomes a voyeur (I wonder how long they will keep it up and whether it changes in the process)” (Stegemann, p 39). These are the three main characteristics described by Szondi in: Peter Szondi: Theorie des modernen Dramas (1880–1950). Frankfurt am Main, 1963, p 14ff. Frank den Oudsten: “Szenografie. Obszenografie.” In: Ralf Bohn and Reiner Wilharm (Eds.): Inszenierung und Ereignis. Bielefeld, 2009, p 402. “The essence of music is sound and motion. […] as music has no prototype in nature and expresses no definite conceptions. […] Its kingdom is, indeed, ‘not of this world’”, wrote Eduard Hanslick in his to this day much-discussed treatise The Beautiful in Music: A Contribution to the Revisal of Musical Aesthetics. Transl. Gustav Cohen. 7th enlarged and revised edition. London, 1891, p 67/ 70 (German original: Vom Musikalisch-Schönen, 1854). A knowledgeable and astute discussion of problematic terms in the context of absolute music such as form, content, substance, idea, essence, aesthetic feeling and many more, along with their origins and contexts can be found in Carl Dahlhaus: Die klassische und romantische Musikästhetik, especially Chapters II: “Dschinnistan oder das Reich der absoluten Musik”, IV: “Von der Systemphilosophie zur Kulturkritik” and V: “Arbeiten des Geistes in geistfähigem Material”. The origin of the song Frère Jacques is unknown, though various theories abound. It was reportedly first published in the late 18th century. The music has been ascribed to the composer Jean-Philippe Rameau (https:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frère_Jacques; accessed on 01/06/2017). Robert McKee: Story: Substance, Stucture, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. New York: Regan Books, 1997, p 244. See Charles Rosen: The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven. Expanded edition. New York and London, 1997. Ibid., p 59. Particularly fascinating is “Fragment 222” (1948) in which Adorno tries to describe the poetics of extensive sections of Beethoven’s work that had until then not been given much attention, using the Archduke Trio as an example: “The form draws breath. […] it looks around. In the extensive type Beethoven’s music attains something resembling self-contemplation. […] The expression is that of […] an afterwards. Perhaps the deepest reason why the extensive style sets time free is to be found here. […] It seems to me that […] its outsize expansiveness – the far-travelling quality of the epic – constitutes its essence.” In Theodor W. Adorno: Beethoven: The Philosophy of Music. Transl. Edmund Jephcott, published by R. Tiedemann, Cambridge, 1998, Chapter 7.

49 An extensive analysis, focusing in particular on the harmonious movements of the Hammerklavier Sonata can be found in Charles Rosen, op. cit., p 409–434. 50 Richard Klein: Musikphilosophie. Hamburg, 2014, p 125. 51 The works of Giacinto Scelsis and Karlheinz Stockhausen, for example, have little in common aside from this aspect. 52 Klein, op. cit., p 126. 53 For example, the Berlin choirmaster Kai-Uwe Jirka and his dramaturge Christian Filips have done this in their revival of the romantic oratorio Die Kreuzfahrer (1866) by Niels W. Gade, interleaving it movement by movement with Sphärenmusik (1916) by Rued Langgaard, additionally underlining the alternation by changing lighting situations. Such practices shift the listening/viewing standpoint from that of immersive identification to distanced critical appraisal. 54 Manfred Pfister: The Theory and Analysis of Drama. Cambridge, 1993 (1988, German original: Das Drama. Theorie und Analyse, Munich 1982). 55 Terminology according to Pfister (see Pfister, op. cit., p 50). 56 This pleasing play on words was used by Beil/Kühnel/Neuhaus in Studienhandbuch Filmanalyse, Paderborn, 2016 (2012), for the heading of their chapter on montage. 57 Eisenstein 1930, p 191f. 58 According to Hitchcock himself in an interview for the CBC TV series Telescope, 1964. 59 Gilles Deleuze: The Movement-Image. Minneapolis, 1986 (French original: Cinéma 1. L’image-mouvement. Paris, 1983). The book is referenced frequently, for example in Beil/Kühnel/Neuhaus, op. cit., p 7, or in Elsaesser/Hagener. 60 See Beil/Kühnel/Neuhaus, op. cit., p 101–102 and 156–157. 61 François Truffaut: Hitchcock. New York, 1985, p 72. This statement also embodies the fundamental difference between classical film aesthetics and performance art as well as post-dramatic theatre-like aesthetics “with its radical assertion of real time as a jointly experienced situation” (Lehmann, op. cit., p 327). 62 Lehmann, op. cit., p 331. 63 Stadler and Hobsch base their findings in Die Kunst der Filmkomödie (Vol. 1, p 63–) on a study of exactly 1,000 films. 64 Eva Bucher: “Ach du Scheiße, es geht wieder los”. In: DIE ZEIT, 01/09/2016. 65 Konrad Paul Liessmann: Ästhetische Empfindungen. Vienna, 2009, p 137. 66 Truffaut, op. cit., p 64. 67 Lehmann, op. cit., p 312. 68 According to Pfister, p 144ff. 69 Ibid., p 145. 70 Ibid., p 143. 71 According to Gustav Adolf Seeck: Die griechische Tragödie. Stuttgart, 2000, it is precisely the interleaving of long-term and short-term tension rather than the mere succession of separate episodes that explains why the Greek sagas have been passed down in Homer’s version rather than that of another author. 72 Ibid., p 146. 73 G. W. F. Hegel: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik. Frankfurt 1986 (1835–1838), p 235–236. 74 Ibid., p 266–267. 75 In his elaborations on the classification of situations as “situationless” and “The Specific Situation in its Harmlessness”, as seen, for example, in statues of the Greek deities, Hegel characterises these situations repeatedly as “heiter” (delightful), while “ernst” (gravity) is used only in connection with situations involving collision (Hegel, op. cit., especially p 257–283). 76 Bernd Stegemann: Lektionen 1. Dramaturgie. Berlin, 2009, p 24–25. 77 Ibid., p 32–33. 78 Also shown, for example, in Krützen, op. cit., p 69, and in Hant, op. cit., p 139. 79 See Krützen, op. cit., p 112 and 270. 80 Ibid., p 31. 81 Lehmann, op. cit., p 351.

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82 Schiller’s words in a letter to Goethe written on 2 October 1797; cited from Correspondence between Schiller and Goethe, from 1794 to 1805. Transl. George H. Calvert, New York, 1845. 83 Szondi, op. cit., p 43–44. 84 See Szondi, op. cit., p 35–36. 85 According to Aristotle there is no set rule for the length of a drama. Rather it is the psychological preparation for the turning point of the drama that determines its length. See Aristotle: Poetics. (Peri Poietikes, approx. 335 B.C.), Chapter 7. 86 Aristotle, quoted from http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0056%3Asection%3D1452a (last accessed 25/6/2017). 87 Aristotle, quoted from http://www.identitytheory.com/etexts/poetics18. html (last accessed 25/6/2017). 88 Seeck, p 191. 89 According to Wikipedia, the three unities of Aristotle were first made widely available in La poetica di Aristotele vulgarizzata, published by the humanist Lodovico Castelvetro in 1570; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Lodovico_Castelvetro, last accessed on 30/01/2017. 90 See Gustav Freytag: Die Technik des Dramas. Leipzig, 1912 (1863), p 119. 91 Ibid., p 117. 92 Freytag himself varied his pyramid in his diagrams for Schiller’s Wallenstein (p 183). 93 See the well-known debate in letters between Schiller and Goethe in: Stegemann, p 181ff. 94 Peter Hant: Das Drehbuch. Waldeck, 1992, p 102. 95 Soap operas likewise interweave ever more storylines, sometimes over the course of many years, each of which may be at a different stage. The individual episodes do not have a happy end but usually end with a dramatic conflict, a so-called cliffhanger, leaving one waiting for the next episode. Film director Hans W. Geißendörfer has used the term “braided dramaturgy” to describe the structure of interwoven narrative threads (https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seifenoper; last accessed 05/02/2017). 96 Bernd Alois Zimmermann’s opera of the same name (1965) is equally powerful, and stays close to the original text. 97 Volker Klotz: Geschlossene und offene Form im Drama. Munich, 1985 (1969), p 148. 98 See the author’s additional notes at the beginning of the 1975 edition of his book. 99 See Klotz, p 101–102. 100 Otto Veh (p 14–15) describes the lack of attention given to Procopius’ work in his introduction to the German translation. 101 According to Juhani Pallasmaa in: The Eyes of the Skin. Chichester, 2005 (1996), p 26–27. 102 The famous passage is in IV, 2, p 156: “For the sake of brevity, however, let us define them as follows: Beauty is that reasoned harmony of all the parts within a body, so that nothing may be added, taken away, or altered, but for the worse.” 103 For further information on Alberti’s love of the country and his (no longer existent) garden for the Rucellai family, see Liane Lefaivre: Leon Battista Alberti‘s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili. Cambridge, 1997. 104 On the subject of security and control, Alberti recommends that “a tyrant will find it very useful to have secret listening tubes concealed within the fabric of the wall so as to eavesdrop on the conversation of guests or family” (V, 3). Le Camus de Mézières recommended his clients to have a hidden gallery or an entresol near to the kitchen to spy on the servants (p 96). Beatriz Colomina begins the chapter on “Interiors” in her study Privacy and Publicity (Cambridge, 1994) with the question: “But […] can there be […] a detective story of detection itself, of the controlling look, the look of control, the controlled look [?]” (p 233). She goes on to reveal, as a detective schooled in psychoanalysis, Adolf Loos’ handling of views as an especially refined instrument of power and control in domestic settings and between genders. 105 See the excellent presentation in Robin Middleton’s essay, in the introduction to the English translation in the 1992 edition. 106 For more on its reception in German-speaking countries, see Hanno-­ Walter Kruft: Geschichte der Architekturtheorie. Munich, 2013 (1985),

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p 174–175, and Regine Heß: Emotionen am Werk. Berlin, 2013, p 57–66, and for the English-speaking countries the dissertation by Louise Pelletier (published online) as well as the aforementioned essay by Robin Middleton. 107 A succinct overview of the aesthetics of Einfühlung – a movement that began with Robert Vischer’s concept of Einfühlung (empathy) coined in 1872 as “the observer who imaginatively projects herself into the contemplated object”, elevating it to a basis for aesthetic experience – can be found in the essay “Einfühlungsästhetik. Zur Psychologie der Architektur” by Jörg Gleiter in his book Architekturtheorie heute. Bielefeld, 2008, p 113–126. 108 Sergei Eisenstein: “Montage and Architecture.” assemblage 10, December 1989, p 110–131. In this text, discovered in his estate after his death and probably written between 1937 and 1940, Eisenstein cites Choisy’s entire chapter on the Acropolis. That Eisenstein was enamoured with the Acropolis is understandable as the changes in perspective can be read as an early instance of “dialectic montage”. 109 On the many, varied references to the Acropolis made by Le Corbusier in his lifetime, see Turit Fröbe: Die Inszenierung eines Mythos. Le Corbusier und die Akropolis. Basel, 2017. 110 The most diametrically opposed typology to the centrifugal arrangement of the Acropolis is the Labyrinth: “The middle of the labyrinth is the middle of a surprising arrival, and the architectural means of its expression is the long and winding path. […] We see labyrinthine architecture as a special form of centrally-oriented architecture that does not use visual accents and centering methods of the Baroque – the axes, vista, perspectives or monumental exaltation – but the ‘peripatetic’ means of the long back and forth until one finally arrives at the destination of the path. […] The labyrinthine as an ordering category of architectural space is, so to speak, the inversion of axial arrangements and its derivatives.” – according to Jan Pieper in his pioneering study Das Labyrinthische. Über die Idee des Verborgenen, Rätselhaften, Schwierigen in der Geschichte der Architektur. Braunschweig, 1987, p 38–39. 111 Greg Lynn: “Folding in Architecture.” AD Architectural Design, 102, 1995. 112 Patrik Schumacher: “Parametricism.” AD Architectural Design, 79, 2009. 113 See note 115. 114 Regine Heß: Emotionen am Werk. Berlin, 2013. 115 Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret: Œuvre complète. Vol. 1, 1910–1929 (1995). 116 Colin Rowe: “La Tourette.” (1961) In: The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa. Cambridge, MA/London, 1976. 117 Ibid., p 204: According to Rowe, centrifugal movement dominates in the “sandwich volumes”, such as Villa Savoye: “To borrow a term from Vincent Sully, it is one of Le Corbusier’s megaron volumes, one of those tunnel spaces compressed between vertical planes”. Colin Rowe, “La Tourette”. (1961) In: The Mathematics of the Ideal Villa and Other Essays. Cambridge, MA/London, 1976, p 197. 118 For Colomina, op. cit., Chapter “Windows”, Le Corbusier’s villas are themselves built frames in which the disaffection of the residents with themselves comes to light, as these are in effect only eye, camera, observer, register, visitor: “‘To inhabit here means to inhabit a picture. […] It is this domestication of the view that makes the house a house, rather than the provision of a domestic space. […] The house is a frame for a view” (p 314ff.). 119 Samuel: “The Jacob’s ladder route from darkness to light […] is the basic promenade type” (p 103). 120 Eleonore Büning: “Die übertriebene Träne ist nicht richtig.” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 07/07/2014. 121 As far back as 1874, the illustrious Friedrich Nietzsche, in his On the Use and Abuse of History for Life, cautioned against the use of all available cultural mechanisms intended to help us master life, but that in the cognition of “all history” rob us of the ability to experience what “happens” for what it is. 122 That central perspective does not correspond to human sight but that its tacit assumptions constitute “rather bold abstractions from reality, if by ‘reality’ we mean the actual subjective optical impression” was demonstrated in virtually classical fashion by Erwin Panofsky in his lecture

“Perspective as Symbolic Form”, held in 1927 (transl. Christopher S. Wood), New York, 1997, p 29. 123 One need only think of how compelling images from films such as those by Michelangelo Antonioni, Andrei Tarkovsky or Wim Wenders continue to persist in the face of the flow of time. 124 Hans Scharoun occasionally named successions of spaces after urban situations, for example in his memo on the competition for an old people’s home in the Tiergarten (Pfankuch, p 218). It would have been equally plausible to compare the places he created with situations in the landscape or with maritime architecture. But here we are concerned with a building for Berlin’s urban society. 125 The coloured windows were designed together with the architect Alexander Camaro, the floor on the ground floor by the sculptor Erich Fritz Reuter and the spherical lamps by Günter Ssymmank. 126 Arnold Schönberg coined the term “Developing Variation” in his two essays “New Music, Outdated Music, Style and Idea” (1946) and “Bach” (1950), drawing parallels between this style and “the style of homophonic-melodic composition” of the Viennese School (p 114). While he recognised the key characteristics that they share, such as “transition liquidation, dramatic recapitulation, manifold elaboration, derivation of subordinate themes […]” (p 116) in Johann Sebastian Bach’s compositional approach, he was referring, in my opinion, to the general techniques of developing motifs and themes. Strictly speaking, however, developing variation is understood as meaning that the composition material is barely present as core form and derivations thereof but develops as predominantly dissimilar but equally important motifs. (As this kind of complexity is characteristic in particular for the work of Johannes Brahms, as it is for Schönberg’s own works, Schönberg is attributed with having introduced this term in his essay “Brahms, the progressive” (1933, substantially revised in 1947) despite the fact that it is never used.) All three essays can be found in the collection Style and Idea collated by Schönberg himself in 1950 and revised and expanded in 1975. 127 In an email conversation held in German, Kurt W. Forster recalled that: “When it comes to rejections or warnings of that kind, it is Pevsner who springs to mind for me. He held a lecture on the day of inauguration of the school and took the opportunity to promote orthodox modernism, warning against such capricious moves as those by Paul Rudolph! I was there and to me it was a like a ’warning shot’ … although it obviously did little to dissuade others. All the same, the building got caught in the repercussions and it took a long time before its qualities were recognized for what they were.” In addition, he remembers the moods in the building as originally being more marked than “they now seem with the new lighting that was installed to meet the regulations. They varied more, they were moodier…”. In his recollection, the carpets were originally “an even brighter orange. They reminded me of the colour of minium [red lead oxide]. Until well into the 1960s, the steel profiles used in many buildings were coated with minium as an anti-rust primer. For a while, this striking colour could be seen on building sites across America. Rudolph ‘immortalised’ this colour in the carpets of the Art and Architecture Building. The ceilings were sprayed with asbestos as a fire-retardant – a fatal decision as it turned out, because air convection distributed the fine fibres throughout the building. Paul Rudolph is one of the few architects to have died as a consequence of their material choices. He died of lung cancer as a late consequence of the asbestos.” 128 The metaphor of how overtones resonate in music was used, for example, by Sergei Eisenstein in his description of his cinematic montage techniques in “The fourth dimension in film” (1929). In the Russian original, he uses the German word Obertöne in an attempt to consciously incorporate “secondary tendencies and intensities” in a particular scene (Elsaesser/Hagener 2007, p 38–39). 129 Most impressive is the perspective of pedestrians coming from the Reichpietschufer, as from this perspective, the plinth and pavilion appear to rise out of an undulating meadow. 130 Those who speak of the classicism of the Neue Nationalgalerie risk overlooking how much the progression of spaces is characterised by the radically new evaluation, recoding, shifting or elimination of traditional spatial structures. At the upper level – except for the peristasis, which is

unusually open due to the small number of columns – there is no buffer zone, no transitional entrance space, no narrow-dark-low versus spacious-bright-high, just the entrance hall as an exhibition space. Julius Posener found this dual function particularly grating, causing him to write a respectfully scathing review of the Nationalgalerie entitled “Absolute Architektur” (Posener 1973). The transition from outside into the hall does not go unnoticed, despite its transparency; the acoustic and atmospheric difference still communicates the impression of having crossed a threshold. 131 That is not as obvious as it may seem at first glance: in the 50×50 house, the columns are still placed directly in front of the glazing, and the Nationalgalerie is probably the only post-war building by Mies with a cantilevering roof slab. 132 In the flowing space, there are two square rooms in which the central columns have been incorporated. The reflection of medieval and Christian sacral spatial typologies (the refectory, apsis, the three-aisled arrangement, the monastery garden…) in Mies’ work has seen little research up to now, but lies outside the scope of this book. 133 Here one could argue that in art exhibitions, one’s view is oriented exactly as it is in the gallery. The most compelling exhibitions in this space have been those that – like the work of Rudolf Stingel, Ulrich Rückriem or Jenny Holzer – engage the floor and ceiling rather than inserting display walls into the space. 134 Comparable with the technique of liaison des scènes in classical French dramas (p 75). 135 Were not the separate acts and rhythms so carefully related to one another, one might speak of four monodramas instead of four protagonists. 136 In: Louis Kahn: “Order and Design”, first published in: Perspecta III, 1955, p 59–60. 137 For more on the aesthetics of Einfühlung (empathy) and the idea of substitution – i.e. the ability of a subject to place themselves into an object – see note 107 and Heinrich Wölfflin: Prolegomena zu einer Psychologie der Architektur. Munich, 1886. (English edition: Prolegomena to a Psychology of Architecture. Cambridge, 1976.) 138 This clock tower even corresponds at an urban scale with the campanile of the church on Hohenzollernplatz in Berlin, designed by Fritz Höger and Ossip Klarwein (1930–1934). 139 Schmarsow 1884, p 470. Schmarsow actually seems to mean that we always stand in the centre of the space we perceive with our facial senses. 140 Here we should note that the cladding was not originally part of the room’s design, and was probably installed against the architects’ will. The tower room was also originally a restaurant and not an exhibition space. Taking this into account, our interpretation is certainly a little more exaggerated than the architects originally intended, but firstly, here we are concerned with the present condition of the building, not its original condition, and secondly, the modifications intensify the existing situation and do not constitute a reinterpretation. 141 … and in the architect’s original designs was intended to have an own metro station, according to Martin Kläschen, a professor at IIT in a conversation with the author. 142 Janson, Tigges, op. cit., p 233. 143 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe 1938, in his “Inaugural Address as Director of Architecture at Armour Institute of Technology” (today IIT), cited in Fritz Neumeyer: The Artless Word: Mies van der Rohe on the Building Art. Transl. Mark Jarzombek, Cambridge, MA/London, 1991, p 317. 144 In: Konrad Paul Liessmann: Ästhetische Empfindungen. Vienna, 2003. 145 Dorothea and Georg Franck (2008) describe quite convincingly, using the example of the Seagram Building, why the Miesian language has become outmoded – and classical! 146 See Rem Koolhaas’ definition of “cannibalize” in S,M,L,XL (New York, 1995, p 76). 147 Karl Rosenkranz: Ästhetik des Hässlichen, Königsberg, 1853 (English edition: The Aesthetics of Ugliness – A Critical Edition. Transl. and eds. Andrei Pop and Mechtild Widrich, London, 2015). 148 Ibid., p 405. 149 Ibid., p 7–8.

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150 Michael Hauskeller: Was ist Kunst? Munich, 2008 (1998), p 62. 151 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, in: Baukunst und Zeitwille (Building Art and the Will of the Epoch), 1924, cited in Neumeyer, p 245. 152 See the critical assessment of Mies’ reading of St. Augustine in Neumeyer, p 369–70. 153 The enclosure of M 6 was later revised after the opening. The current design is by Atelier Markgraph, and its contents change. 154 In his essay “The fourth dimension in cinema” (1929, published in: Sergei Eisenstein: Selected Works, Vol. I: Writings, 1922–34. Ed. and transl. Richard Taylor, London, New York, 2010) Sergei Eisenstein divides his montage technique in five stages: metric montage, rhythmic montage, tonal montage, overtonal montage and intellectual montage (see also note 59). Metric montage is described as a structure defined by the “absolute length of the shots” (p 186) which are joined together through simple formula-based relationships (for example acceleration was achieved by shortening from 3/4 to 2/4 to 1/4 length). Rhythmic montage, “the degree to which the content fills the shot”, is described as determining the “actual” length of the shot: “Abstract scholastic determination of the lengths is replaced by a flexibility in the correlation between actual lengths” (p 187). He demonstrates one of the options for “actual” modulation of the length – creating tension through intensification – ­using the example of the Odessa Steps scene in Battleship Potemkin: “The final build-up of tension is produced by switching from the rhythm of the soldiers’ tread as they descend the steps to another, new form of movement – the next stage in the intensification of the same action – the pram rolling down the steps. Here the pram works in relation to the feet as a direct staged accelerator. The ‘descent’ of the feet becomes the ‘rolling down’ of the pram” (p 188). 155 Peter Eisenman has studied self-referential signs in architecture in numerous essays. In his essay “Aspects of Modernism” (Log, no. 30, 2014, p 139–151) he reflects the schematic framework of Le Corbusier’s Maison Dom-Ino, which due to the disconnected nature of its elements, he reads as a modernist manifesto of self-referentiality. One can read the multi-storey car park as a rhythmically varied image of the Maison Dom-Ino submitted to the influences of a real location. 156 Aristotle: Poetics. Transl. S. H. Butcher. London, 1902, p 41. 157 Ibid., p 33. 158 Walter Benjamin: “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.“ In Walter Benjamin: Illuminations. Transl. Harry Kohn, ed. Hannah Arendt. New York, 1969, p 222 (German Original: “Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner technischen Reproduzierbarkeit”, 1935). 159 This was Steven Holl’s conceptual idea as presented in the text accompanying the competition (see also note 178). 160 Richard Wagner: Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg (1868), Act 3, Scene 2. 161 Anke Naujokat: “Schichtung Überblendung Collage.” In: Philipp Hubmann and Till Julian Huss: Simultaneität. Bielefeld, 2013, p 171–190. 162 Naujokat does not refer here to the time of perception but the simultaneous presence of different historical periods within the same building. 163 Roger Scruton: The Aesthetics of Architecture. Princeton, 1979, p 87–88, referring to the example of the groups of columns of the Palazzo Madama in Rome. 164 Alban Janson and Thorsten Bürkli: Auftritte/Scenes. Basel, 2002, p 82. 165 Colin Rowe, Robert Slutzky: “Transparency: Literal and Phenomenal”. Perspecta 8 (1964). 166 Tom Steinert notes in Komplexe Wahrnehmung und moderner Städtebau. Zurich, 2014, p 208, that Rowe and Slutzky had planned a third essay on transparency – “Part 3 was to examine the relationship between floor plan and elevation” – which, however, was never written. 167 Schubert: op. cit., in particular p 155–294; tabular overview of the “Solutions for resolving the conflict between body and space”, p 161. 168 A study comparable to Schubert’s consideration of the wall but focusing instead on the “space-containing ceiling” (including but not only in the Baroque) or the “space-containing floor” (for example in the work of Carlo Scarpa) or both ceilings and floors (as seen in Le Havre) would make an interesting research topic. 169 Hans Jantzen, in particular his essay “Über den gotischen Kirchenraum” (Berlin, 1951) and Kunst der Gotik (Reinbek, 1960).

280 Appendix

170 Janson, Tigges, op. cit., p 341. 171 To my knowledge, Paul Frankl is the first to have undertaken a detailed analysis of arithmetic operations as a characteristic of the respective epochs, in Principles of architectural history (1914, English translation 1968): Additive spatial compositions are characteristic for the Renaissance, divisive spatial compositions for the Baroque. In his terminology, divisive means the same as interleaved. Multiplication and subtraction are not mentioned. 172 Joseph Imorde: “Adolf Loos – Der Raumplan und das Private.” Kritische Berichte 2 /06, p 37. 173 This applies only to the Bains ludiques in our case study. The primary difference to the Bains thérapeutiques are the much narrower and taller proportions of the rooms. 174 Hugo Riemann: Musikalische Dynamik und Agogik. Hamburg, 1884. 175 Thomas Mann’s ambivalent aesthetic term for Wagner’s leitmotif technique. 176 See “liaison des scènes”, p 75. 177 For further information on the mental models of the relationship between body and space up to the pre-Socratics, see Schubert, op. cit., p 571–572. 178 “A thin translucent materiality in considered contrast to the masonry of the Mackintosh building – volumes of light which express the school’s activity in the urban fabric embodying a forward-looking life for the arts.” (www.stevenholl.com/projects/glasgow-school-of-art, last accessed on 21/03/2017). 179 The terms “first-order spaces” and “second-order spaces” are used by Wolfgang Meisenheimer in “Of the Hollow Spaces in the Skin of the Architectural Body.” Daidalos 13 /1984, p 103–111. 180 On opening gestures and threshold spaces see also Janson and Tigges (p 207–209 and 331–335), Janson and Bürkli (p 217 and 226) and Till Boettger: Threshold Spaces. Basel, 2014. On paratexts: Gérard Genette: Paratexts. Thresholds of interpretation, Cambridge, 1997 (French original: Seuils, 1987). 181 Elisabeth Blum: Le Corbusiers Wege. Braunschweig, 1991, p 50–51. 182 Dorothea and Georg Franck: Architektonische Qualität. Munich, 2008, p 39. 183 A classification of paths oriented around the spatial characteristics, scales and requirements of landscape architecture has been undertaken by Hans Loidl and Stefan Bernard in Open(ing) Spaces. Basel, 2002, p 102–103. 184 Gustav Freytag, op. cit., p 117. 185 Not just the “irreplaceability of the parts” but also their “non-­ interchangeability” characterises closed dramas according to Max Kommerell  – or in Aristotle’s terms: the unity of the plot and its whole. 186 According to Lautréamont – a sentence that has since become one of the most popular definitions of surrealism – in: The Songs of Maldoror (1924; French original: Les Chants de Maldoror, 1868), 6 / 1. 187 One should note that the embedding of scenes within the larger scene in the Nationalgalerie and the Abteiberg, while designed with the best intentions, are somewhat impractical in everyday use as they are hard to supervise. 188 According to Bertolt Brecht in paragraphs 42 and 43 of his “A Short Organum for the Theatre”, in: Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Ed. and transl. John Willet. London, 1964, p 192. 189 Pfister, op. cit., p 145. 190 An instructive read on the theological, sociological and art-historical questions raised by such a provocative arrangement of a protestant, former garrison church can be found in the catalogue accompanying the exhibition “Akzeptiert Gott Beton? Die Ulmer Pauluskirche im Kontext” (Would God accept concrete? St. Paul’s Church in Ulm in Context) by Klaus J. Philipp (Tübingen, 2010). 191 Juhani Pallasmaa: The Eyes of the Skin. Chichester, 2005 (1996). 192 Böhme, op. cit., and Architektur und Atmosphäre. Paderborn, 2013 (2006). 193 On the relevance of fresh air as a design factor, see Ulrike Passe and Francine Battaglia: Designing Spaces for Natural Ventilation. New York, 2015. 194 LIVE exhibition, 2010.

195 A pioneering study of soft spatial boundaries and their associated social practices is: Heidi Helmhold: Affektpolitik und Raum. Zu einer Architektur des Textilen. Cologne, 2012. 196 Henry Plummer, in The Architecture of Natural Light. New York/London, 2009, uses the expression “atomized light”. He was inspired by the words and observations of Lucretius Carus (De rerum natura) and Italo Calvino (Six Memos for the Next Millenium). 197 In Towards a New Architecture (1924): “Architectural buildings should not all be placed upon axes, for this would be like so many people talking all at once” (p 189). The figure shown in conjunction with this (p 188) is the second of Choisy’s four perspectives (see p 91–92). 198 To paraphrase a term coined by Klopfer (op. cit.). 199 For more on psychological studies of the field of view by Hermann von Helmholtz and others, and a reflection on their relevance for artistic production, especially in the work of Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso, see Marianne L. Teuber: “Formvorstellung und Kubismus oder Pablo Picasso und William James” (1980), in the exhibition catalogue Kubismus. Edited by Siegfried Gohr. Bonn, 1982. 200 An exhaustive discussion of this problem can be found in Karsten Schubert: Körper Raum Oberfläche. Berlin, 2016. 201 According to Paul Klopfer, op. cit., p 150. 202 Böhme, op. cit., 2006, p 25. 203 Janson and Tigges, op. cit., p 26. 204 Friedrich Nietzsche: “LXXIX. THE Drunken Song”. In: Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Transl. Thomas Common, Project Gutenberg Ebook #1998, release date November 7, 2008, p 694. 205 The “elusive” quality of an experience alludes, of course, to the sublime, which since the 18th century has been posited as another aesthetic ideal alongside beauty. Due to the many forms, definitions and connotations of the sublime, we have opted for the more closely-defined term “elusiveness”. 206 The atmosphere produced by pure white is, however, by no means neutral but can be uplifting, sterile, chic, sophisticated, sober, calming or animating, depending on the situation. It appears clean, timeless and untouched and can therefore hold all manner of possibilities and promises for the future. Wolfgang Meisenheimer writes in his Choreografie des architektonischen Raumes (Düsseldorf, 1999, chapter 4.12) that a space reveals the potential of its possibilities as we enter it. This applies particularly to the white box as we see it today. 207 See Konrad Paul Liessmann, Ästhetische Empfindungen. Vienna, 2009, an eminently readable analysis of the term “sensation” in the aesthetics of the 18th and 19th centuries and its revealing use in contemporary art. 208 We have consciously not included a quantitative consideration of time periods as seen in Hollywood screenwriting handbooks. The well-known three-act division of 120-minute Hollywood films in 30-60-30 minutes pioneered by Syd Field has been disproven by Krützen in a study of many Hollywood blockbusters (Krützen, op. cit., p 101–102). Likewise, Eisenstein’s “proof” (Eisenstein: “Organic Unity and Pathos in the Composition of the Film Battleship Potemkin. In: Eisenstein, Notes of a Film Director, New York, 1970, p 53–61) that the climax of a film must lie at exactly six-tenths of the film length (i.e. at the end of the third act in a five-act drama, or at the golden section of the film duration) does not hold true in an age of diverse dynamic dramaturgies. 209 See Rudolf Wittkower: Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism. London, 1949, especially the chapter “Musical Consonances and the Visual Arts”. 210 The refrain in the song of the lovesick Duke Orsino in Shakespeare’s comedy Twelfth Night, or What You Will (1601). 211 See Wittkower, op. cit., chapter “The Break-away from the Laws of Harmonic Proportion Architecture”. 212 The circulation of this comparison in its various wordings is traced and discussed by Ulrich Müller in: Raum, Bewegung und Zeit im Werk von Walter Gropius und Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Berlin, 2004, p 128–129. 213 Whereby, of course, we cannot disregard the inescapability of the objective progression of time: “That the passage of time is inescapable in character means, in comparison to space, that: while we, put simply, have space, with time it is the opposite: time has us. […] We cannot move

freely in time, in fact: we can’t move ‘in’ time at all.” Stichweh, op. cit., p 198. 214 Whereby the differences between the visual and the performing arts after several decades of avant-garde and experimentation have since become more gradual and are no longer categorical. 215 When Stichweh, op. cit., p 202, writes: “The first impression of those who immerse themselves in music is not that of time passing, but rather an experience of an almost static world which through changes in its external appearance suggests the continuation of an aesthetic sense of pleasure,” then the world he speaks of is almost synonymous with spatiality. When happily immersed, the figure of time usually only becomes apparent afterwards. 216 Richard Klein ascribes the origin of this idea to Hegel: “For Hegel a work of music is not so much subject to time as that it shapes, processes and sublates time. The point is not that musical events occur in time but that the work incorporates the events in time into a coherent form that represents time itself.” (Klein, p 121). He ends his perceptive elaborations in the chapter “Die Frage nach der Zeit” (The question of time) with the ambivalent assertion that “The theory of time in music is at its beginnings”. 217 Max Frisch wrote to Hans Scharoun in a letter dated 20 April 1964: “A labyrinth: by that I mean, however much I look around, I cannot rationalise it, just as a landscape cannot be rationalised. And at the same time, I feel guided, not lost: guided by its delights. Never once do I feel it forced upon me, just enthralled by the ideas of the architect […].” Cited in: Edgar Wisniewski: Die Berliner Philharmonie und ihr Kammermusiksaal. Berlin, 1993, p 22. 218 Schumacher, op. cit., p 37. 219 Jan Turnovský: The Poetics of a Wall Projection. London, 2009 (German original: Die Poetik eines Mauervorsprungs. Basel, 1997). 220 Stegemann, op. cit., p 24–25. 221 With the early capitalism of the Florentine age came the introduction of canvas paintings as an easy-to-transport medium which went on to become the dominant art form of the modern age. 222 Consideration of the value of contradictions in architecture brings to mind Robert Venturi’s essay Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. As stimulating as his work may be, it overlaps only marginally with our line of enquiry. His work considers architecture primarily as a visual art. The tensions he studies are figurative tensions, isolated moments, so that his book gives little consideration to moments of relaxation as well as the gradual unfolding of a work over time. 223 To the “provisionally permanent” room-specific installations and hangings belong the rooms ur 11, 2, 7 and 10 by Gregor Schneider (1988–1993), About two Artists by Braco Dimitrijevic (1977), the wall drawing for the vaulted room (Untitled, 2006) by Richard Wright as well as 8 Grau (1975) by Gerhard Richter and a six-part cycle by Sigmar Polke (1986). 224 Sylvia Lavin, in her fascinating essay Kissing Architecture (Princeton, 2011), describes the projection of images on walls as kisses that are neither legible as such nor attempt to focus attention on them but rather aim to have an effect on us (Lavin, p 30). She interprets this affixation not as a personal but as a political act (p 112–113).

Notes  281

Timeline of the three Scuole Grandi

Ceiling

Walls

Floors

Fittings

Year

SGE

1261

Founding

SR

SdC

1286

Building of the Venetian Carmelite monastery

1300

Founding of the Order of the Carmelites

approx. 1350

Capitals (now in the sala terrena)

1369

Acquisition of a relic of the true cross

1414–57

First building phase

1477

Founding

1478

Permission granted to care for the sick

1478–81

septo marmoreo

approx. 1480

Various conversions in the style of the early Renaissance

Pietro Lombardo

1485

Acquisition of a relic from St. Roch of Montpellier

1489

Building of the preceding building, now the so-called scoletta

1494– 1502 1498

Artist

Painting cycle I Miracoli della Croce in the sala superiore

Pietro Perugino, Vittore Carpaccio, Gentile Bellini and others

Double-f light staircase (scalone tribunale)

Mauro Codussi

1517–60

First building phase

1525

Double-flight staircase (scalone tribunale)

1541

The goldsmith A. Caravia writes a poem accusing the Scuole of being overly extravagent

1542

Pietro Bon, Sante Lombardo, Antonio Scarpagnino

Purchase of tapestries for the sala superiore albergo

1544–46

New staircase (scalone imperiale)

1544–46 1564-88

Painting cycle by Tintoretto

Jacopo Tintoretto

1575– 1581

Painting cycle by Tintoretto on the ceiling of the sala superiore

Jacopo Tintoretto

ab 1580

New cycle of paintings on the life of Saint John in the sala superiore 1582 1587–1612

Jacopo Tintoretto and others albergo

?

Altar and statues in the sala superiore

Francesco Smeraldi, Tommaso Contin, Girolamo Campagna

1594 approx. 1600–42

282 Appendix

Founding Altar in the sala superiore

Ceiling

Walls

Floors

Fittings

Year

SGE

SR

1628–44

Artist

First building phase: L-shaped layout

Francesco Caustello

Carved benches in the the sala superiore

1657–76 1664–74

Francesco Pianta Ceiling in the sala superiore

Domenico Bruni

Wall paintings in the sala superiore

Antonio Zanchi, Gregorio Lazzarini and others

1668–70

Second building phase: completion of the block

Baldassare Longhena

approx. 1670

Benches made of walnut with caryatids in the archivio

Giacomo Piazzetta

Wall paintings in the albergo

Ambrogio Bon, Antonio Balestra and others

approx. 1665– 1705

1697– 1703 1727–69

Comprehensive redesign with raising of the roof of the sala superiore by 5m to 11m

Giorgio Massari

1728–39 1728–29

Cycle of grisailles in the sala terrena

Niccolò Bambini

Stucco ceiling of the staircase

Alvise Bossi

Altar and altar wall in the sala superiore

Abbondio Stazio

Altar in the sala superiore

1728–29 1731–33

Design of the sala superiore

1732

Giorgio Massari

Altar statue of St. John

1732–33

Giovanni M. Morlaiter Ceiling paintings in the sala superiore

1740–49

Giambattista Tiepolo

Altar in the sala terrena

1741

Carved reliefs in the altar area

1741–43 1749–53 approx. 1750

Giovanni Marchiori Ceiling paintings in the archivio and albergo

Gaetano Zompini, Giustino Menescardi

Floors in the archivio and albergo

unknown

1752

Opus Sectile in the sala superiore

Giorgio Massari

1759

Campiello paved with trachyte with Istrian stone inlay

Giorgio Massari (?)

sala superiore

Central painting by Giuseppe Angeli

1760–62

Promoted to the status of a Scuola Grande

1767 1784–88 1784–88

Redesign of the oratorio

Bernardino Maccaruzzi

Ceiling paintings in the oratorio

Francesco Maggiotto

1797 1806

End of the republic Dissolution

Dissolution

1840 1856

Refounding Founding of an associa­ tion to maintain and manage the remaining artworks of the former Scuola

1882– 1895

Renovations Opus Sectile in the sala capitolare

1884



SdC

1929

Refounding

1969–71

Drainage and raising of the floor of the sala terrena to avoid flooding

Pietro Saccardo

Timeline of the three Scuole Grandi  283

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Music Adorno, Theodor W.: Beethoven. Transl. Edmund Jephcott, ed. R. Tiedemann. Cambridge, 1998 (German original: Beethoven. Frankfurt, 1993) Büning, Eleonore: “Die übertriebene Träne ist nicht richtig.” In: Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 7/7/2014 Cammann, Alexander: “Wieviel Geist braucht große Kunst?” In: DIE ZEIT, 18/9/2014 Dahlhaus, Carl: Klassische und romantische Musikästhetik. Laaber, 1988 Hanslick, Eduard: The Beautiful in Music. Transl. Gustav Cohen. Enlarged edition London, 1891 (German original: Vom Musikalisch-Schönen. 1854) Klein, Richard: Musikphilosophie. Hamburg, 2014 Riemann, Hugo: Musikalische Dynamik und Agogik. Hamburg, 1884 Rosen, Charles: The Classical Style: Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven. Expanded edition New York/London, 1997 Schönberg, Arnold: “New Music, Outdated Music, Style and Idea.” (1946) In: idem: Style and Idea. Transl. Leo Black, ed. Leonard Stein. Berkeley, 1975, p 113–124 Stichweh, Klaus: “Musik und Zeit.” In: Musik und Kirche, Heft 4/1996, p 194–203 Performing Arts Aristoteles: Poetics. Transl. S. H. Butcher. London, 1902 (Greek original: Peri Poietikes. Approx. 335 B.C.) Beil, Benjamin/Kühnel, Jürgen/Neuhaus, Christian: Studienhandbuch Filmanalyse. Paderborn, 2016 (2012) Brecht, Bertolt: “A Short Organum for the Theatre.” In: Brecht on Theatre: The Development of an Aesthetic. Ed. and transl. John Willet. London, 1964 (German original: “Kleines Organon für das Theater.” Berlin, 1953) Bucher, Eva: “Ach, du Scheiße, es geht wieder los.” In DIE ZEIT, 1/9/2016 Deleuze, Gilles: The Movement-Image. Minneapolis, 1986. (French original: Cinéma 1. L’image-mouvement. Paris, 1983) Den Oudsten, Frank: “Szenografie. Obszenografie.” In: Bohn/Wilharm (Eds.): Inszenierung und Ereignis. Bielefeld, 2009 Divjak, Paul: Integrative Inszenierungen. Bielefeld, 2012 Eisenstein, Sergei M.: “The fourth dimension in cinema” (1929). In: idem: Selected Works, Vol. I: Writings, 1922–34. Ed. and transl. Richard Taylor. London/New York, 2010 Eisenstein, Sergei M.: “Antworten zum ‘Panzerkreuzer Potemkin’ aus der Hollywooder Diskussion von 1930.” In: idem: Schriften 2. Munich, 1973, p 187–192 Eisenstein, Sergei M.: “Montage and Architecture.” (Approx. 1937) Quoted from: assemblage, 10, December 1989, p 110–131 Eisenstein, Sergei M.: “Organic Unity and Pathos in the Composition of the Film Battleship Potemkin.” (1939) In: idem: Notes of a Film Director. New York, 1970, p 53–61 Elsaesser, Thomas/Hagener, Malte: Filmtheorie. Hamburg, 2013 (2007) Freytag, Gustav: Die Technik des Dramas. Leipzig, 1912 (1863) Goethe, Johann Wolfgang/Schiller, Friedrich: Correspondance between Schiller and Goethe from 1794 to 1805. Transl. George H. Calvert, New York, 1845 Hant, Peter: Das Drehbuch. Waldeck, 1992 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich: Vorlesungen über die Ästhetik. Frankfurt, 1989 (1832–1845) Klotz, Volker: Geschlossene und offene Form im Drama. Munich, 1985 (1969) Kneer, Christof: “Zwei Zentimeter.” In: Süddeutsche Zeitung, 4/7/2016 Krützen, Michaela: Dramaturgie des Films. Frankfurt, 2011 (2004) Lehmann, Hans-Thies: Postdramatic theatre. London, 2006 (German original: Postdramatisches Theater. Frankfurt, 1999) McKee, Robert: Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. New York, 1997 Pfister, Manfred: The Theory and Analysis of Drama. Cambridge, 1993 (1988, German original: Das Drama. Munich, 1977) Seeck, Gustav Adolf: Die griechische Tragödie. Stuttgart, 2000 Shakespeare, William: Twelfth Night, or What You Will. 1601 Stadler, Franz/Hobsch, Manfred: Die Kunst der Filmkomödie. Vol. 1. Frankenthal, 2015 Stegemann, Bernd (Ed.): Lektionen 1: Dramaturgie. Berlin, 2009 Szondi, Peter: Theorie des modernen Dramas (1880–1950). Frankfurt, 1963

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Illustration credits

Photographs All photographs are by the author, with the exception of those noted below. Thank you to the following photographers and to the owners of the respective buildings for the permission to use their photographs: Iwan Baan: p 204, 206, 207 Hélène Binet: p 148 right, 150, 156 right, 159–161 Emanuelle Blanc: p 191 Camerafoto Arte Venezia: p 23, 25, 30 top right, left and bottom right, 31, 32 right, 33–35, 38–44, 45 left, 46, 47 right, 54–56, 58 Didier Descouens: p 14 Kay Fingerle: p 15, 18 top right, 24, 45 bottom right Google Earth: p 16 Zsolt Gunther: p 18 bottom, 19 bottom left, top and bottom right, 30 top left and middle left, 45 top right, 62 Carsten Krohn: p 122, 125, 127 Philippe Ruault: p 186 right, 189 Sabrina Scheja: p 208–211 David von Becker: p 126 Xiao Wu: p 116 right, 118, 119 top, 121 Drawings The drawings were drawn by: Part 1: Leona Jung and Maxine Shirmohammadi, Max Wieder Part 2: Anja Trautmann Part 3: Philharmonie: Pia Friedrich, Caroline Mekas Yale: Lars Werneke Nationalgalerie: Erik Schimkat Exeter: Pia Friedrich Fehrbelliner Platz: Pia Friedrich Abteiberg: Ömer Solaklar Vals: Nicole Duddek Giornico: Anja Trautmann, Elena Fuchs Walsall: Pia Friedrich, Yubeen Kim Chicago: Xiao Wu RPAC: Pia Friedrich Stuttgart: Pia Friedrich Langen Foundation: Kristin Bouillon, Pia Friedrich Le Havre: Hannelore Horvàth Miami: Pia Friedrich, Erik Schimkat Louvre-Lens: Julia Pietsch, Pia Friedrich Glasgow: Pia Friedrich Weiach: Pia Friedrich Part 4: Anja Trautmann (also Wexner Center) and Pia Friedrich, Leona Jung, Erik Schimkat, Nicole Duddek in cooperation with the author. The author holds the copyright of all drawings.

286 Appendix

About the author

Holger Kleine studied architecture at the Cooper Union in New York (B. Arch.) and architecture and musicology at the TU Berlin (diploma). His built works include the Schreibhaus am Steinhuder Meer (2002–2004), the German Embassy in Warsaw (2001–2009) and the housing project “Jules et Jim” (2010–2014, together with Jens Metz) which have been published widely and have received numerous prizes. In 2010, he was appointed Professor of Design at the Interior Architecture Department at RheinMain University of Applied Sciences in Wiesbaden. In 2014, he published the book New Mosques with Jovis Verlag. He lives and works in Berlin and Wiesbaden.



About the author  287

Subject index

Types of drama  Circular type  212 Polar type  212 Finality type  212 Transitorial type  212

This index provides an overview of the different subjects, themes and topics and encourages the reader to make connections between them. As such, it is not arranged alphabetically but according to the elaboration of subjects and themes in the book. The page numbers refer to the respective topics, even if the term itself does not appear on the respective page. All terms in the book, including those elaborated in the 20 parameters in Part Four, are included in the index. From-to page numbers refer to key passages detailing the respective topic.

Monodramas  216, 279 Complementary dramas  216 Alternating dramas  218 Triadic dramas  218 Developing dramas  218 Round dance  73f., 208ff. Revue  140ff., 249f. Station drama  81, 148ff., 249

Archetypes

Architectural operations Architectural operations  14, 22, 29, 36, 47, 65ff., 134, 207, 272 Positioning Shifting accents  20, 233 Backward shift  57 Inverting  28, 66, 231f., 236 Layering  45, 57f., 89, 95, 135, 195, 210, 220ff., 224–227, 256 Mirroring  31, 39f., 44f., 49ff., 61f., 65f., 82, 125, 130, 134, 168, 182f.,    198ff., 216ff., 221, 227, 238, 245, 254f., 271f. Relating Directing accents  22, 230 Combining  18ff., 41ff., 65, 126, 236f., 244 Counterpoint  9, 26, 43f., 57, 120, 206, 218, 238 Contrasting  6, 9, 38ff., 46, 50, 57ff., 65f., 73ff., 84ff., 97, 120, 130,    156, 165, 169f., 191, 196f., 208ff., 212, 223, 228ff., 233–238, 248,   250–259, 273 Turning, see Turning point/Peripeteia (see Parameters 8, Drama­   turgical relationships, Tension/Relaxation) Delimiting Dissolving  22, 24, 26, 65 Transcending 46 Framing  32ff., 43, 54, 58f., 61, 65f., 125, 135, 138, 166, 192, 201, 210,    217f., 222, 226, 229, 232ff., 256f. Forming Profiling 24 Stretching  22, 31f., 36, 41, 207 Flowing  33ff., 44, 67, 219ff., 227, 229, 231, 251, 279 Fluidity  43, 93, 278 Forward shift  57 Vaulting  19, 30ff., 36, 45 Gestures Elevate  38, 57, 66, 230, 238 Canopy  45f., 136, 183 Oscillating  43f., 219, 231, 257 Disrupting 26ff. Encircling  34, 37, 173 Interlocking  40f., 239 Subdividing Perforating  24ff., 37, 210, 227, 251, 270 Punctuation  65, 233 Articulation of framework  24 Intermitting  20, 52, 76ff., 113, 165, 190, 200, 212, 237, 271 Zoning  22, 26, 257

288 Appendix

  Archetypes  14, 37, 49, 65ff., 129, 210, 216ff. Adjacent wall and ceiling  136, 217 Adjacent wall and floor  18–22, 43, 122ff., 129, 143ff., 162, 186, 231,    236, 261f., 268, 271f. Adjacent walls  159, 217f., 220 Basin  39, 54, 66, 216ff. Bay  41, 44, 49, 57, 97, 210, 216f. Cave  106ff., 146f., 151, 186, 207, 217f., 227ff., 237, 239, 247, 250ff. Ceiling  31–36, 49f., 124ff., 130ff., 136, 143f., 151, 155, 162, 167, 186ff.,    202, 254f., 257f., 259, 260f., 271 Clasp  41, 49, 210, 216f., 226 Corridor  16, 96, 126, 148, 158f., 166, 180f., 204, 217, 237 Envelope  28, 41ff., 150, 161, 173, 186, 190, 192, 202, 216ff. Floor  18–22, 43, 122ff., 129, 143ff., 162, 186, 217, 231, 236, 261, 268,   271f. Framework  24, 217 Hood  41ff., 66, 159, 184, 216ff., 258 Mirrored floor and ceiling  39, 44, 168, 216ff. Mirrored walls  44, 216ff., 220 Niche  57, 60f., 95, 120, 186ff., 217 Portal  39, 46, 53ff., 66, 129, 200ff., 212, 217 Ring  37f., 95, 108, 116ff., 124, 133ff., 148, 186, 190, 208, 216ff., 221,   225, 227 Seat 217 Shelter  112, 217 Stage  144, 217, 251 Tent  44, 106ff., 217f. Tunnel  45, 66, 148, 179, 188, 202, 217, 238, 278 Wall  22–29, 37ff., 44, 50ff., 57ff., 65f., 106ff., 124ff., 135ff., 150ff.,    180ff., 202f., 219ff., 225ff., 236f., 239, 243ff., 256ff., 264, 270–273

Parameters 1 Archetypes  see above 2 Configurations  15, 65ff., 135, 150, 174, 216, 218–223, 227f., 239, 243f.,    263, 267 Enfilade  152ff., 218, 221, 225, 256 Visual continuum  24ff., 166, 218, 221 Flowing space  219ff., 227, 229 Directing wall  130, 136ff., 219ff., 225 Guiding wall  219ff., 225 Destination wall  154, 219 Flowing space – The Miesian approach  126f., 151, 220 Volumetric continuum  221f. Volumetric continuum – Scharoun’s approach  222 Interleaving space  223 Fields/Playing field/Force field  95f., 136, 162ff.

3 Body-space relationships  9, 89–96, 95, 103, 126, 129, 136, 161, 183, 186, 223–229, 231f., 234, 236, 254, 270 Body within space  224 Body at perimeter of space  224 In-between space  224f. Space-containing body within space  225, 234 Ring-shaped body  225 Structured space  225 Layered space  97f., 225f. Rivalry between adjoining areas  95 Space-enclosing boundaries  96f., 226f. Spatial ground  227 Concavity/Convexity  95f. 4 Arithmetic relationships  227ff., 280 Additions  92, 183, 227ff. Multiplications 228f. Subtractions 228f. Divisions  92, 228, 234, 280 Combinations 229 5 Proportions  9, 16, 37–44, 49f., 57, 84, 89f., 94, 96, 113, 126, 188, 230ff.,   260f. Repetition 230 Scaling 230f. Modulations 231 Variations 231 Modifications 231 Inversions 231f. 6 Rhythms  28, 38, 40, 43, 50, 63, 92ff., 129, 152ff., 192ff., 220, 230,   232ff. Uniform 232 Alternating 232 Agogic 232 Syncopated 233 Oscillating 233 Polyrhythmic 233 7 Correspondences  37ff., 45, 129, 233ff. Kinds of correspondences  233f. Transposing  144f., 186, 233 Decontrasting  198ff., 233f. Repeating  123, 149, 153, 193, 234 Corresponding motifs  234 Scenographic  234 Gestural  234 Elemental  234 Surface-textural  234 Directional  234 Constructional  234 8 Dramaturgical relationships  63ff., 72–80, 218, 234ff., 239ff., Repetition 234f. Contrast  6, 9, 18, 22, 27, 38, 40f., 46, 50, 57ff., 65f., 73ff., 82, 84, 86,    88, 97, 120, 126, 130, 146, 156, 165ff., 170, 191, 196f., 208f., 218, 223,    228, 230f., 233ff., 238, 240, 248, 253f., 256ff., 273 Maximum contrast  58, 235 Complementary contrast  32, 66, 96, 128f., 203, 210, 216, 236f. Inversion  28f., 66, 166, 204, 230ff., 236, 278 Combination  18ff., 37, 65, 159ff., 173, 216ff., 229, 235f., 244, 256,   258, 272 Dialectic  9, 66, 74, 77, 79, 111f., 129, 179, 235ff., 270ff., 277ff. Subordination 237 Interruptions  237 Reductions  237 Escalations  237 Contrasts  237 Tension/Relaxation/Suspense  50, 60, 62, 65f., 71ff., 76,    78–84, 95ff., 120, 135, 150, 154f., 218ff., 229, 232, 235–240, 247,    249f., 258, 260, 263, 271, 277, 280



“What tension”  78, 83ff., 238 “How tension”  78f., 83, 238 “Whether tension”  78ff. “How-so tension”  78f. Long-term/Short-term dramatic arc  78ff., 218, 248, 251, 258,   277 Distraction  239, 247 Realisation 273 Resolution  29, 73, 81f., 219, 229, 244, 263, 268, 272, 274 Postponing/Retardation  20, 51, 78, 138, 180ff., 219, 264 Dominance  156ff., 194 Developing variation  115 Stimulating and retarding moments  81f., 180ff., 212 Cohabitation 156ff. Compensation  156ff., 256 Conflict  27, 29, 57, 71, 76, 79, 93, 161f., 196, 244, 270ff. Competition 156ff. Peripeteia/Anagnorisis/Turning point  46, 52f., 66, 81f., 111, 147,    184, 198–203, 212, 216, 228, 235, 244, 249f., 258, 260, 272, 278 Switching 97 Increase/Intensification/Rise  18, 20, 22, 50, 66f., 74, 78, 81f., 125,    158, 173, 185, 245, 249, 251, 254, 273, 280 Surprise  9, 29, 74f., 77, 82, 86, 92f., 97, 121, 138, 140, 151, 156ff., 173,    182, 190, 243, 246f., 249f. Outshining  28f., 50 Interplay  40, 57, 79f., 82, 89, 112, 213, 251, 271f. Escalation  182, 237 9 Beginnings  71, 81, 170, 237f., 240, 259 Opening gestures  237 Direct openings  238 Successive openings  238 Deferred openings  238 Announcements  136, 238, 247ff. Initial view, see views Opening irritation  97 Imperative of invitation  237 Triadic opening sequences  238 10 Paths  86f., 94, 96ff., 204, 239–243 Types of paths  239 Channeled paths  50, 53, 127, 180ff., 239 Suggested paths  50, 239 Optional paths  53, 127, 213, 220, 239f. Individual paths  53, 239f. Figures of movement  50ff., 110, 115, 239–243, 262 Figures of movement (1st to 6th order)  239–243 Lines  239f. 110, 239f. Forks  Branches  222, 239f. Intersections  233, 239f. Parallels  82, 239f. Spirals  80f., 174ff., 240f., 258 Cascades  29, 88, 159, 240, 258 Loops  50ff., 62, 71, 108, 173, 179, 185, 203, 240, 244, 250 Serpentines  110, 240 Comb-like structure  240 Network of paths  87, 239 Dead ends  243 Circular route  51, 240, 243 Shapes of paths  221, 243 Promenade architecturale  65, 91, 94, 96f., 182f., 236, 249, 264 Promenade de conscience  97 Promenade allusive  183 Promenade dirigée  180ff. Promenade enterrée  182f., 236, 246 Place vs. path  96 Forward run and return paths, see Endings (Parameter 11) Detours 250

Subject index  289

11 Endings  73, 97f., 243ff. Return paths Reprise  74, 108, 115, 174, 179, 243 Short reprise  51, 243f. Signalled full circle  243 Sudden full circle  243 Closing scenes  244 Resolution  73, 81f., 219, 229, 244, 263, 268, 274 Farewell  244 Conclusion  45, 50, 127, 159f., 231, 268 Summary  240, 244f. Acceleration  73ff., 138, 173ff., 179, 244, 280 Fade-out  20, 244f. Balance  73f., 127, 245, 264 Openness  243, 245 Showdown  70 Jubilation  179, 245 Deus ex machina  78 False ending  66, 182f., 244 Expulsion 243 Kiss-off 82 View back, see Views (Parameter 18) 12 Scenes  54, 58f., 70ff., 75–78, 96f., 128, 150, 156, 164f., 173, 177, 184f.,   245ff. Use  94, 150, 212, 245f., 270, 273 Process  65, 115, 197, 245, 267 Segmentation  75, 245 Sequencing  77, 89, 129, 161, 195, 218, 239f., 245ff., 255ff. Selection  74ff., 245 Grouping  242f., 246 Alienation effect  146f., 166f., 198ff., 246f., 251 Liaison des scènes  75, 129 Sceneries  26ff., 86, 108, 130, 166, 184, 243, 246, 256, 258, 262 Comical scenes Basic types  77f., 166 Humour/Wit  146f., 150, 243 Irony  120f., 140, 166ff., 174 Parody, Pastiche  119f., 166ff. 77 Double twist  Exaggeration  150, 273 Alienation  146 Closing scenes, see Endings (Parameter 11)



Competing turning points  140ff., 162ff., 250 Contraction to a single point  80, 129, 250 Compression  97, 179, 206, 245, 268 Circles  80, 208 Spirals  80, 174ff. Shafts 80 Orbits 81 Interrupted lines  81 Pyramids 81f. Interwoven threads  82

15 Synaesthetics  70f., 115, 150, 170, 198ff., 204ff, 250f., 262ff., 273 Synchronizing sensory impressions  250f. Contrasting them  250f. Subordinating them to each other  250f. Contextualising them  250 16 Surfaces  59, 63, 94f., 108f., 121, 156ff., 186, 198ff., 207, 227, 233ff.,    251–253, 260f., 271 Qualities  Colour  37, 58f., 120f., 128, 136ff., 146f., 166f., 188, 208ff., 235,   251f., 279 Main colours  120, 138, 208ff., 235, 251f. Secondary colours  251f. Accent colours  108ff., 188ff., 251f. Monochromy/Polychromy  24, 58f. Roughness  20, 251f. Hardness  20, 32, 252 Shine  37, 58f., 84, 138, 186ff., 198ff., 253ff. Pattern  18, 20, 22, 59, 61, 129, 167, 253f., 271 Materiality  32, 130ff., 155, 186, 251, 254 Brightness/Darkness  40f., 45, 59, 66, 71,85, 95, 126, 130, 140,    150, 152–155, 168, 186, 200 Refinement/Enrichment  59, 97 Continuity 138 Sampling 168 Coding 219

13 Sequences  88, 96, 212, 218–233, 238ff., 247ff. Early announcement  247 Late distraction  247 Reassuring retrospect  247 Transitional interleaving  248 Gradual revelation  248 Unexpected continuation  248 Startling revelation  248 Montage  76f., 120, 165, 173, 273 Triadic sequences Release-expansion-conclusion  36 Announcement-distraction-arrival  238, 247f. Pause-turn-introduction  52 Welcome-overview-appropriation  130

17 Light  6, 45, 59–62, 66, 84f., 93ff., 97, 253ff. Appearances of light  140, 146, 253f. Blinding light  253 Flooding light  253 Diffuse light  146, 159, 253 Dappled light  33, 60, 227, 253 Formed light  71, 206f., 253ff. Segmented light  166, 254 Reflected light  133ff., 190, 202, 254 Moving light  54, 254 Lighting conditions  254 Uniform  254 Alternating  177ff., 196f., 254 Changing  60, 66, 152, 200f., 236, 248, 255 Soft graduations  59 Directed lighting  6, 24–29, 39, 45, 57ff., 85f. Illuminating wall/illuminated wall  27 Slots of light  60, 151 Light ground  224, 227 Chiaroscuro  29, 34, 60, 253

14 Dramatic arcs Dramatic arcs  63ff., 72–80, 218, 247f., 247, 249f. –  without turning point  186ff., 210, 249 –  with intermediary hinge points  249 –  with central turning point  28f., 33f., 52, 66f., 81f., 111,    198ff., 216ff., 235f., 249, 259f., 263 –  with multiple turning points  212, 249 Rising alternation with several turning points  195ff., 249 Alternation with early turning point  130, 148, 249 Framed alternation  174ff., 250 Converging lines  18ff., 159ff., 250

18 Views  45, 60ff., 84–98, 255–261 Types of view Involuntary views  255f. Close up view/Distant view  192ff., 245, 258f. Eye-catcher  61, 255f. Restful image  93, 255f. Spreading view  258 Reunion  96 Compensatory views  256 Simultaneous balance  256 Successive balance  256

290 Appendix

Framed views  95, 97, 256 Direct view  201, 256, 258f. Inward view  201, 246, 256 Through view  148, 201, 256f. Outward view  203, 256 Formats  257 Unframed views  257 Angles of view  257 Frontal view  62, 91f., 150, 257ff. Diagonal view  45, 61, 91, 186, 257ff. Alongside view  61 Sideways glances  243, 257 Upward view  33, 52, 130, 201, 244, 257ff. Downward view  61, 134, 244, 258f. Overview  60f., 148, 201, 245f., 258f. Panorama  184, 202, 258f. Spherical views  61f. Choreography of views  84–98, 258 Initial view  60f., 259 Fragmented view  62 Prospective view  97, 182f., 238, 244, 246, 248, 258 Retrospect  51, 74f., 97, 173, 180, 182f., 208, 238f. 244f., 248f.,   257f., 267 Final view  62 Afterimage  202 Crucial view  61 Field of view  136ff., 208, 260f. 76 Mediated perspective  Panning shot  76, 170f. Tracking shot  76, 148, 173, 226

Time Figures of time  72ff., 266ff. Memorable time  72 Cyclical time  72 Flowing time  72, 268 Suspended time  73, 267f. Striding time  73, 268 Directional time  73f., 268f. Unresolved time  73, 267 Balanced time  73 Recurring time  73f., 269 Intensive and extensive time  74, 268 Structured time  74, 268 Time manifest in space  74, 268 Indeterminate time  75, 268 Encapsulated time  268 Experienced time  10, 269 Simultaneity/Succession  6, 9, 81, 89, 91, 93ff., 97, 121, 129, 164f., 170, 18f., 225, 247f., 251, 256, 264, 268 Synchronicity/Asynchronicity 77 Shortening time  78f. Fast-motion 173

19 Movements 259ff. Pace determinators  259f. Ease of movement  259f. Degree of information  260 Destination  52, 57, 61, 212, 238, 247f., 251, 260f. Atmosphere, see Atmospheres (Parameter 20)  Field of view, see Views (Parameter 18)  Decelerators 260 Ways of walking  88, 260ff. Parallax 88 Space of movement  112f., 212, 224, 236 Impulses of movement/of halt  49f., 58, 164, 212, 218f., 251, 257 Waves, see Dramaturgical relationships (Parameter 8) Moved light, see Light (Parameter 17) Figures of movement, see Paths (Parameter 10) 20 Intensities  59f., 63f., 115, 151, 166, 197, 235, 243, 254, 262ff. Conditions 262f. Incidental->Overwhelmed  262f. Moments of momentum  262 Momentum of elusiveness  88, 262ff. Momentum of enclosure  263ff. Impelling momentum  263ff. Retarding momentum  264. Momentum of self-evidence  264 Momentum of bemusement  265 Atmospheres  37ff., 46, 59, 62f., 83, 85, 108, 113f., 120f., 128, 133,    143, 146, 150f., 154, 161, 165ff., 188ff., 195, 208, 212, 235, 240, 245,    252, 256, 260ff., 268, 281 Sensory qualities  63, 260 Mood  63, 260 Symbolic resonance  63 Invitation  260



Subject index  291

Index of referenced buildings

For better clarity, this index does not include the three Scuole examined throughout Part One, or the case studies in Part Three. The individual case studies are listed in the table of contents and contain all drawings and photos of the respective buildings – with the exception of the three storyboards of the Neue Nationalgalerie Berlin (p 220), the Berliner Philharmonie (p 222) and the Thermal Baths in Vals (p 226) which appear alongside the description of the topical parameters in Part Four. The extensive crossreferences to the case studies in Part Four are highlighted directly in the text of that part for easier comparison.

Acropolis of Athens  91ff., 255, 278 Alte Nationalgalerie Berlin (Friedrich August Stüler)  245 Architecton (Kazimir Malevich)  208

La Tourette (Le Corbusier)  97, 278 Lincoln Road Mall (Morris Lapidus)  192 Lucerne Culture and Congress Centre (Jean Nouvel)  104 Maison de Verre (Pierre Chareau)  245 Maison Dom-Ino (Le Corbusier)  280 Marina City (Bertrand Goldberg)  192 MAXXI Rome (Zaha Hadid)  93 Metropolitan Museum of Art (Richard Morris Hunt)  245 Müllersches Volksbad public baths in Munich (Carl Hocheder)  247 Museum of Modern Art in Frankfurt (MMK) (Hans Hollein)  247f. Newton’s Cenotaph (Étienne-Louis Boullée)  88 Normandy (Transatlantic Steamer)  224f. Old people’s home in Berlin Tiergarten (Hans Scharoun)  278 Palazzo Madama in Rome  280 Pantheon  88, 258 Parco della Musica (Renzo Piano)  104 Parliament buildings in Brasilia (Oscar Niemeyer)  236 Philharmonie de Paris (Jean Nouvel)  104 Queen Mary (Transatlantic Steamer)  225

Barcelona Pavilion (Ludwig Mies van der Rohe)  233, 251 Bauhaus Dessau (Walter Gropius)  251

Reims Cathedral  227 Roman baths of Caracalla  190

Campo Santa Margherita  224 Campus buildings for the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC) (Walter Netsch)  224, 228 Campus buildings for the Free University in Berlin (Candilis Josic Woods) 228 Canareggio Project (Peter Eisenman)  232 Capitoline Hill (Campidoglio)  90f., 97 Castelvecchio (Carlo Scarpa)  104 Center of the Universe, Albuquerque (Bruce Nauman)  232 Chambord 88 Church on Hohenzollernplatz in Berlin  279 Crystal Palace (Joseph Paxton)  88

Scuola Grande di Carità (today Accademia)  31, 276 Scuola Grande di Misericordia  276 Scuola Grande di San Marco  31, 276 Scuola Grande di San Teodoro  276 Seagram Building in New York (Ludwig Mies van der Rohe)  279 Sequence of squares in Lucca  89 Sequence of squares in San Gimignano  89 Stourhead (English Landscape Garden)  87 St. Joseph’s Church in Le Havre (Auguste Perret)  237 St. Michael’s Church in Hamburg  93 St. Paul’s Church in Ulm (Theodor Fischer)  248, 280 St. Peter’s in Rome  90 Szczecin Philharmonic Hall (Barozzo Veiga)  104

Doge’s Palace (Palazzo Ducale)  16, 41

Temple of Horus in Edfu  262

Elbphilharmonie (Herzog & de Meuron)  104

Uffizi (Giorgio Vasari)  27 Unité d’Habitation in Marseille (Le Corbusier)  97

Fondazione Querini Stampaglia (Carlo Scarpa)  104 Fontainebleau 88 Glasgow School of Art (Charles Rennie Mackintosh)  204, 280 Ground Zero  236 Green Mosque, Broussa  93 Hagia Sophia  84f., 93, 111, 264, 266 Hermitage 77 Hombroich Island  180, 184 House with Curtains (Raimund Abraham)  252 House with Curtains (Shigeru Ban)  252 House 50 × 50 (Ludwig Mies van der Rohe)  279 House 93 (Rachel Whiteread)  236 House VI (Peter Eisenman)  236 House X (Peter Eisenman)  232 House XIa (Peter Eisenman)  232 Il Gesù  88 Kunsthal Rotterdam (OMA/Rem Koolhaas)  252

292 Appendix

Valley Temple of Gizeh  240 Villa Aldobrandini (gardens)  88 Villa Conti (gardens)  88 Villa Cornaro (Andrea Palladio)  86 Villa Hadriana (Hadrian’s Villa)  95, 183, 256 Villa La Roche (Le Corbusier)  94, 96f., 247 Villa Savoye (Le Corbusier)  243, 278 Villa Stein (Le Corbusier)  97, 226 Walt Disney Concert Hall (Frank Gehry)  104 Wells Cathedral  248 Wexner Center for the Visual Arts (Peter Eisenman)  240, 269, 274f.

Index of names

Aalto, Alvar  146 Abraham, Raimund  180, 252 Ade, Maren  80 Adorno, Theodor W.  74, 277 Alberti, Leon Battista  85f., 278 Altman, Robert  80 Anderson, Paul Thomas  82 Ando, Tadao  180, 203 Antonioni, Michelangelo  81, 279 Aristotle  81f., 201, 278, 280 Arnheim, Rudolf  95f. Atelier Markgraf  280 Auerbach, Felix  276 Augustus 121 Bach, Johann Sebastian  279 Bachelard, Gaston  84 Baecker, Dirk  71, 277 Ban, Shigeru  252 Barozzo Veiga  104 Battaglia, Francine  281 Beckett, Samuel  80, 83, 240 Beethoven, Ludwig van  74, 115, 237f., 268, 277 Beil, Benjamin  277 Bellini, Gentile  16 Benjamin, Walter  202, 280 Bernard, Stefan  280 Beuys, Joseph  143 Blum, Elisabeth  96f., 239, 280 Boettger, Till  280 Böhme, Gernot  63, 250, 260, 276, 281 Böhmermann, Jan  77 Bohn, Ralf  277 Bollnow, Otto Friedrich  84 Borromini, Francesco  96 Boulez, Pierre  74f. Boullée, Étienne-Louis  88 Boyce, Martin  244 Brahms, Johannes  73, 279 Brecht, Bertolt  246, 280 Brendel, Alfred  9, 276 Bucher, Eva  277 Büning, Eleonore  102, 278 Bürkli, Thorsten  224, 280 Burckhardt, Jacob  46, 276 Burke, Edmund  85 Cage, John  75 Calvino, Italo  281 Canaletto 16 Camaro, Alexander  279 Campbell, Joseph  80f. Cammann, Alexander  276 Candilis Josic Woods  228 Carpaccio, Vittore  16 Caruso St John  156 Castelvetro, Lodovico  278 Chaplin, Charlie  78, 82, 120 Chareau, Pierre  245 Chekhov, Anton  81



Cheops 203 Chephren 203 Choisy, Auguste  91f., 278, 281 Codussi, Mauro  276 Colomina, Beatriz  278 Contarini, Gasparo  276 Croce, Benedetto  276 Dahlhaus, Carl  277 Deacon, Richard  183 Debord, Guy  84 De Certeau, Michel  84 Deleuze, Gilles  77, 277 Den Oudsten, Frank  71, 277 Dimitrijevic, Braco  281 Divjak, Paul  71, 277 Dürckheim, Karlfried Graf  84 Eisenman, Peter  155, 232, 234, 236, 240, 269, 274, 280 Eisenstein, Sergej  76f., 91, 195, 277ff. Elsaesser, Thomas  277, 279 Ernst, Max  150 Feldman, Morton  74 Fiedler, Konrad  276 Field, Syd  281 Filips, Christian  277 Fischer, Theodor  248 Forster, Kurt W.  279 Franck, Dorothea  240, 279f. Franck, Georg  240, 279f. Frankl, Paul  92f., 280 Franzoi, Umberto  276 Freud, Sigmund  140 Freytag, Gustav  81, 82, 98, 243, 247, 278, 280 Frisch, Max  267, 281 Fröbe, Turit  278 Gade, Niels W.  277 Ganders, Ryan  70 Gehry, Frank  104 Geißendörfer, Hans W.  278 Genette, Gérard  280 Georgsdorf, Wolfgang  71 Gerhaher, Christian  102 Giedion, Sigfried  95 Glass, Philip  73 Gleiter, Jörg  278 Godard, Jean-Luc  82 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang  278 Goeyvaerts, Karel  74 Gohr, Siegfried  281 Goldberg, Bertrand  192 Goldsmith, Myron  168 Gramigna, Silvia  276 Grant, Cary  121 Gropius, Walter  276, 281 Guidarelli, Gianmario  276 Gwathmey & Siegel  116 Hadid, Zaha  93 Hadrian 95 Hagener, Malte 277, 279 Hanslick, Eduard 277 Hant, Peter 82, 277f. Hauser, Fritz 150 Hauskeller, Michael 169, 280 Heerich, Erwin  180, 184

Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich  79, 104, 151, 271, 277, 281 Hejduk, John  155 Helmhold, Heidi  281 Helmholtz, Hermann von  281 Herzog & de Meuron  104, 192 Heß, Regine  94, 278 Hirschfeld, Christian Cay Laurenz  86f. Hitchcock, Alfred  76ff., 277 Hobsch, Manfred  277 Hocheder, Carl  247 Höger, Fritz  279 Holl, Steven  204, 236, 280 Hollein, Hans  140, 143, 247, 280 Holzer, Jenny  279 Horn, Roni  151 Howard, Deborah  276 Hubmann, Philipp  280 Hunt, Richard Morris  245 Huse, Norbert  276 Huss, Till Julian  280 Husserl, Edmund  9, 276 Ibsen, Henrik  80 Imorde, Joseph  280 Iñárritu, Alejandro  82 James, William  281 Janson, Alban  11, 63, 224, 260, 276, 279ff. Jantzen, Hans  227, 280 Jeanneret, Pierre  278 Jirka, Kai-Uwe  277 Joedicke, Jürgen  103 Josephson, Hans  154 Justinian 84 Kähler, Heinz  95 Kahn, Louis  97, 102, 130, 135, 218, 279 Kant, Immanuel  85 Kläschen, Martin  279 Klarwein, Ossip  279 Klein, Richard  277, 281 Klopfer, Paul  93, 281 Klotz, Volker  82, 278 Kneer, Christof  70, 277 Knoebel, Imi  271 Koolhaas, Rem  104, 162, 169, 252, 279 Kommerell, Max  280 Kraume, Lars  82 Krützen, Michaela  80, 82, 277, 281 Kruft, Hanno-Walter  278 Kühnel, Jürgen  277 Langen, Viktor und Marianne  182 Langgaard, Rued  277 Lapidus, Morris  192 Lautréamont 280 Lavin, Sylvia  281 L3P Architekten  208 Le Camus de Mézières, Nicolas  87f., 96, 278 Le Corbusier  14, 91, 93ff., 97, 182f., 186, 237, 243, 247, 249, 254f., 264, 276, 278, 280 Lehmann, Hans Thies  71, 77, 277 Lenz, Jakob Michael Reinhold  82 Liessmann, Konrad Paul  78, 168, 277, 279, 281 Limón, José  96

Index of names  293

Loidl, Hans  280 Loos, Adolf  140, 208, 221, 228f., 278, 280 Loriot 140 Lubitsch, Ernst  82 Lucae, Richard  88 Lugato, Franca  276 Lukrez 281 Lynn, Greg  93, 278 Mackintosh, Charles Rennie  204, 236, 244, 280 Malevich, Kazimir  208 Mann, Thomas  280 McCall, Anthony  71 McKee, Robert  72, 277 Meisenheimer, Wolfgang  96, 280f. Merleau-Ponty, Maurice  84 Merz, HG  174 Messiaen, Olivier  74 Michelangelo  89f., 91 Middleton, Robin  278 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig  97, 122, 129, 147, 151, 162, 167f., 220, 222, 258, 276, 279ff. Moretti, Laura  276 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus  73, 75, 135 Müller, Ulrich  276, 281 Naujokat, Anke  280 Nauman, Bruce  71, 232 Netsch, Walter  224, 228 Neuhaus, Christian  277 Neumeyer, Fritz  279f. Nietzsche, Friedrich  6, 262, 278, 281 Nouvel, Jean  104, 186 Oppenheim, Meret  208 Palladio, Andrea  86, 130, 155, 276 Pallasmaa, Juhani  250, 278, 281 Panofsky, Erwin  279 Panton, Verner  140 Passe, Ulrike  281 Pelletier, Louise  278 Perissa, Annalisa  276 Perrault, Claude  87 Perret, Auguste  237 Pevsner, Nikolaus  95, 279 Pfister, Manfred  75, 277, 280 Pfankuch, Peter  276, 279 Philipp, Klaus J.  280 Piano, Renzo  104 Picasso, Pablo  281 Piene, Otto  183 Pieper, Jan  278 Piper, Fredrik Magnus  87 Piranesi, Giambattista  106 Plato 95 Plessner, Helmut  9, 276 Plummer, Henry  281 Polanyi, Michael  84 Polke, Sigmar  146, 281 Pop, Andrei  280 Poppe, Enno  74 Posener, Julius  279 Posocco, Franco  276 Predock, Antoine  170 Procopius 84f. Proust, Marcel  58

294 Appendix

Pückler-Muskau, Hermann Fürst von 86f. Racine, Jean  75 Raffael 202 Rameau, Jean-Philippe  277 Rauch, Neo  150 Rembrandt 202 Reuter, Erich Fritz  279 Richter, Gerhard  143ff., 198, 281 Riemann, Hugo  232, 280 Rosen, Charles  74, 277 Rosenkranz, Karl  169, 279 Rowe, Colin  97, 225, 278, 280 Rudolph, Paul  116, 280 Rückriem, Ulrich  279 Rümmler, Rainer  136 Ruff, Thomas  198 Saint Phalle, Niki de  184 St. Augustine,  280 St. John  276f.  St. Roch of  Montpellier  17 Samuel, Flora  96ff., 278 SANAA 198 Scarpa, Carlo  234, 280 Scelsi, Giacinto  277 Scharoun, Hans  65, 97, 103, 106, 140, 222f., 267, 279, 281 Schiller, Friedrich  278 Schinkel, Karl Friedrich  234, 257 Schmarsow, August  9, 89ff., 276, 279 Schneider, Gregor  281 Schönberg, Arnold  74, 115, 279 Schubert, Karsten  227, 280f. Schumacher, Fritz  6, 94f., 269, 276, 281 Schumacher, Patrik  93, 278 Scruton, Roger  219, 280 Scully, Vincent  278 Seeck, Gustav Adolf 277 Shakespeare, William  75f., 83, 169, 281 Shostakovich, Dmitri  115 Sitte, Camillo  89 Siza, Álvaro  180 Slutzky, Robert  97, 225, 280 Smeraldi, Francesco  282 Sohm, Philip L.  276 Sokurov, Alexander  77 SOM 168 Sophokles 80 Ssymmank, Fritz  279 Stadler, Franz  277 Stegemann, Bernd  79, 271, 277f., 281 Stein, Gertrud  281 Steinert, Tom  280 Stichweh, Klaus  9, 276, 281 Stingel, Rudolf  251, 279, (252) Stockhausen, Karlheinz  74, 277 Strindberg, August  81 Ströker, Elisabeth  84 Stüler, Friedrich August  245 Szondi, Peter  277f. Tafuri, Manfredo  16, 276 Tarkovsky, Andrei  279 Teuber, Marianne L.  281 Thompson, D’Arcy  93 Tiedemann, Rolf  277 Tiepolo, Giambattista  32

Tigges, Jacob  11, 63, 260, 276, 280f. Tinguely, Jean  184 Tintoretto, Jacopo  17, 29, 34, 60 Truffaut, François  77, 277 Turnovský, Jan  270, 281 Tykwer, Tom  82 UNStudio 174 Van Doesburg, Theo  129, 220 Vasari, Giorgio  27 Vazzoler, Chiara  276 Veh, Otto  278 Venturi, Robert  147, 281 Veronese, Paolo  46 Vinterberg, Thomas  80 Vischer, Robert  278 Vitruvius  84, 230 Wachowski, Lana and Andy  82 Wagner, Richard  75, 216, 219, 243, 280 Wenders, Wim  279 Whately, Thomas  86f., 96 Whiteread, Rachel  236 Widrich, Mechtild  280 Wiesing, Lambert  276 Wilharm, Reiner  277 Wilhelm II  174 Wittkower, Rudolf  281 Wölfflin, Heinrich  88f., 92f., 279 Wohlhage, Konrad  103 Wolters, Wolfgang  276 Wright, Frank Lloyd  129, 140, 220 Wright, Richard  281 Zevi, Bruno  95 Zimmermann, Bernd Alois  278 Zucker, Paul  94 Zumthor, Peter  148

Colophon

Translation from German into English: Julian Reisenberger Layout, cover design and typesetting: Miriam Bussmann Cover design on the basis of a photograph by Werner Huthmacher of the “Schreibhaus am Steinhuder Meer” by Holger Kleine Architekten Production: Kathleen Bernsdorf Editor for the publisher: Andreas Müller Copyediting of the English edition: Michael Wachholz

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