Architecture, great or ordinary, ageless or temporary, is one of the best tools to analyse the society who built it. As is often the case, the greater the distance the easier the analysis – notice the authority with which we speak about classical Greek architecture. Apart from an objective distance, it helps when there are no contemporaries left to contradict us.
This makes our job as critical observers less risky, and less controversial. But the same method we use to describe (with the official tone of an encyclopedia) how Egyptian pharaohs used pyramids to free them from the inescapable oblivion of time can be used to analyse the world that surrounds us today.
We do this in the heat of the moment (and certainly at risk of being a little bit controversial) but we also do it with an infinitely more accurate sense of context, and with the experience of their existence at our fingertips.
A good place to start is a public space of cultural significance where we can all meet: the Tate Modern. The dark, looming Southbank structure will help us understand how architecture can be stripped of its veil and looked right in the eye, like an equal. Architecture is, after all, one more way of expressing our human selves, and it deserves to be examined as such. Like the oft-used metaphorical onion, architecture is better understood as a series of layers.
The buildings that were erected only a few years ago are just as susceptible to our analysis and our criticism and they too will be one day analysed from time’s distance. But why do we wait? Why not start now? From its material manifestation in the outer skin to its conceptual creation at the core, we must strip these layers in order to grasp at the significance of a building. Some buildings have more layers than others of course and, in some buildings, certain layers are particularly thick. In the case of the Tate Modern, the immovable layer between its formal concept and materialisation is the role museum architecture plays today beyond its basic function as a house for art.
The buildings erected only a few years ago are just as susceptible to our analysis and our criticism and they too will be one day analysed from time’s distance. But why do we wait? Why not start now?
Art and religion are often seen as opposing forces in a contemporary setting but, when it comes to architecture they are treated as products from the same stock. This is clear as soon as we enter the Tate Modern museum, crossing the threshold into the long axis of the building to encounter a vast, multi-storey space before us: the Turbine Hall. Standing in this colossal room, we immediately become aware of our own scale, minimised by the dimensions of the space around us. It’s a feeling all-too-familiar for those of us acquainted with Christian cathedrals and their dramatic central naves.
It is an impressive sight, and not just because of its alienating scale. As it makes its way down from the heights, the natural light from the roof-lights gets tangled with the nested cubes that hang from the walls four, five, six floors above us. The light is bright but somehow eerie, with an undefined source that speaks of transcendence.
Light and form in architecture, much like in painting, are powerful tools for setting the mood. The mood so far, as we stand still in the central nave, is one of reverence. We find ourselves in a place of worship. Children keep quiet here, despite the absence of signs asking them to do so. No one need tell us we ought to act respectfully and humbly; the architecture has made it clear on its own.
The industrial materials that dominate the aesthetic reminds us the building used to be a power station, but this is only a flickering thought. The axial arrangement of the building; the tall and narrow windows facing the Thames; the vastness of the scale; the vertical circulation on the sides; the constant presence of the central nave. The spatial relationships are those of a church. Indeed, in a way, the Tate Modern is a temple, a place of worship for art.
The artistic treasures inside the museum also add to the religious aura of the Tate Modern, and even the long vertical shaft that used to serve as a chimney is reminiscent of a bell tower, making the museum recognisable to peregrines from afar. Like orthodox iconography uses abstraction as a tool to emphasise the sense of mystery of its subject, the lighting and the form of the museum eulogise its contents by engaging the visitors in spatial relationships that generate admiration and awe.
But, why would a museum follow the design guidelines of a cathedral? It is not just because both spaces are intended to generate social interaction, self-reflection, and connection to something bigger than ourselves. It turns out historical references translate very effectively into first impressions, and that walking into high, mysteriously lit spaces generates reverence whether or not we subscribe to any faith. And reverence is what is at stake in this case.
Something is slowly replacing the traditional role of religion in our society, and the architecture of today points at that something being art. It could be argued that science too is stepping into the role, with influential artists such as Damien Hirst affirming science is the new religion, and with scientific leaders like the late Stephen Hawking becoming more and more relevant figures in our lives.
Something is slowly replacing the traditional role of religion in our society, and the architecture of today points at that something being art
Some of us could also argue, or rather hope, that education is the new religion, but is it? How many schools or university buildings can we identify as places of pilgrimage, or even name as independent from their institution? Most importantly – what are today’s most prominent architects concentrating their efforts on?
Much like how the venerated Iktinos and Kallikrates secured their place in the history books because of the Athenian Parthenon, Frank Gehry’s design marked this millennium’s architectural trajectory (so far) with the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao. Daniel Libeskind secured further controversy with his extension to the Royal Ontario Museum. Herzog & De Meuron shined with the reconversion of the Tate Modern in London. Zaha Hadid gained worldwide fame with the Heydar Aliyev Center in Baku. Farshid Mousavi is working on the design of the Ismaili Centre in the USA less than a decade after the opening of her Museum of Contemporary Art in Cleveland.
Museum architecture is the space to shine because museum architecture is what matters nowadays, just as St. Peter’s Basilica mattered in the times of Bramante, Michelangelo, and Bernini. Museum architecture is where the biggest investments are being made, investments that hope to see their products regarded in the future like we regard St. Peter’s Basilica today: as an immutable symbol of greatness. A banner of power.
Today’s architecture is telling us that, as a society, we are placing on the art establishment the values that we used to place on religion. This is interesting at its best and worrying at its worst: what happens if the art establishment gains the authoritative power that religion once had? After all the word sacred carries many dangers with it. In a scenario like this, it might be up to science, religion again, or something else entirely to challenge the status quo. And if it doesn’t? Well, in that case we might be on the brink of an enlightened age guided by the qualities we associate with art: culture, respect, and freedom. Time will tell.
