Modern British Architecture

The British Library, if nothing else, contains promise. Within it is the promise of the future of literary texts, the promise of growing culture, and also the promise of bringing up a neighborhood out of a somewhat grimy past. Some would say that the British Library cannot possibly succeed in transfiguring the area around it while at the same time becoming a centre for intellectual growth and culture. However, I think that with the slow expansion of the Library and the increase of transit to and from this destination, ultimately it is possible for books to bring on a revolution.

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In 1938, the renowned architect Erno Goldfinger began to build 2 Willow Road for himself and his family in Hampstead. The house was completed in the summer of 1939, very shortly before the start of the World War Two in September of the same year.

At 2 Willow Road, Goldfinger merged more traditional Georgian styles with the concepts celebrated by the Parisian avant garde movement of the nineteen-thirties. This allowed him to create a house that was both widely different in its organization from traditional structures, but one that also blended with the surrounding Georgian architecture.

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This detail is a panel made of dark wood hanging from the back balcony of Queen’s Cross Church. Technically, it is an incomplete cross with a motif of circles laid in descending lines of wood. However, the arrangement of the lines and circles allows the viewer to finish forming the cross with the vertical planes. The design is quite subtle, so much so that the viewer doesn’t immediately realize that they are looking at a crucifix. Carved from a dark, smooth, wood and lacking coloration, this detail would be a way of representing the presence of God without distracting the viewer from the main altarpiece.
Though Mackintosh never wrote of his works, it seems clear that the number of circles used in this panel was not arbitrary. There are seven circles across in a line and three circles descending in a line (with one central circle shared). The three could likely represent the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, while the seven in a horizontal line could represent the seven days of creation. As well, if the shared circle is taken away, three sets of three circles remain, again stressing the trinity.
The panel is one in a series of identical panels that hangs down from the back balcony. Though it is impossible to count the total number of panels now, I would guess that it is either a multiple of three panels, or seven, that line up together. The panel is similar to that found hanging in the Glasgow School of Art Library. However, unlike the library, where each panel differs slightly from the next, in Queen’s Cross Church all the panels were exactly the same. The symmetry of each panel as well as their identical nature reinforces a natural symmetry that exists in the church (much more so, at least, than in many of Macintosh’s other works).
This detail shows a present, but understated, representation of God within the church. Similar to many other details within Queen’s Cross (like the bird and the bee), there appears to be a hidden symbolism (the number of circles used, and in fact the existence of the cross in what appears at first to be a wholly decorative panel) that is not immediately apparent. This seems to me a brilliant decision for a building that people will come back to again and again. It allows people interpret, and reinterpret, these details each time they visit the church, and to find some new meaning in them. However, because each of the details is done in a manner which is not ostentatious, and which does not overwhelm, the large number of the details doesn’t disrupt the calm of the church.

To be honest, I often don’t notice the effect that architecture has on my experiences and day-to-day existence. There have only been a handful of times where I have felt that the architecture of a building truly helped to shape a lasting and influential memory. My first experience at the Getty, though, was shocking in that it actually had an impact on the way I viewed the city I live in. The Getty is nestled in the Santa Monica Mountains, somewhat removed from both the city on the southern side and the valley on the northern side. And, though I can’t claim that it’s really a very impressive art museum, the sight it presents is incomparable. The first time I went to the Getty was the first time I actually saw Los Angeles in its entirety. On a clear day, you can actually see Hollywood, Downtown, Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Santa Monica, and the ocean, a distance that it is somewhat difficult to express. But from so far away, all of these areas, which often seem so disparate and unrelated, started to look very similar. And strangely enough, it actually seemed to be drawn together as a reflection of the rough-cut mottled cream stone that was used to create the art museum.

The Getty is light and open, and the most of the museum is actually outdoors. The walking, sitting, and eating areas are all outside, while only the actual exhibits are housed in buildings. Like the city, there are separate areas to go to, with no real central area. Also, from really any area “inside� the building, you can see part of the city or mountains. When you can see a bit of both, I think, you have the unnerving feeling that a large stone building is blending right into the landscape.