Modern British Architecture

If shown this detail out of context, my first instinct would be to attribute it to a Minoan palace, or some other ancient Mediterranean culture. Upon a more thorough examination, the column in this detail is too intricate to be something out of the early Cycladic period, but in many ways the column is similar to those found at the palace at Knossos: the red coloring of the column and the flattened capital to name a couple. Clearly this column is making a reference to ancient Greece, in this case, perhaps, specifically Aegean Greece. So, especially considering that the Greeks were pagans, the fact that this detail belongs to a modern, Christian church is a bit puzzling.

Though the use of the ancient Greek style seems odd to me, the column does have elements that tie it to the rest of the building thematically. For example, the feathery design that fans out at the top of the column. This motif is repeated in many places in the building (indeed, in this image the pattern occurs in the frieze about the column). What does this pattern mean? Is it making some sort of reference to birds? to flight? to something else?

Walking into the south-facing drawing room of Mackintosh’s Hill House, this little table is what first caught my eye.  Well-known, often revered, and more often copied, Mackintosh furniture holds a particularly special place within his buildings, almost always explicitly intended to occupy a single space in a very singular way. This small– perhaps coffee– table is exemplary of the Japanese influences in the architect and designer’s works. A thin black-painted wood grid, the piece is both structurally dense and light, a study in perspective and massing of airspace. It is composed of simple parts in a complex arrangement, and even vaguely references the composition of a pagoda with its layered grid and slightly overhanging top.

It’s difficult to describe this piece without some reference to its surroundings– Mackintosh intended it be just where it is, a function of his building as gesamtkunstwerk, or total work of art. The table, situated in the center of an overwhelmingly white and sunlit space, is a direct reference back to the darkened hallway the visitor had just walked through to enter the drawing room. Within the table there is the same emphasis on extending perspective, and while not as dramatically vertical as the enchanted-forest slats running the length of the hallway and the stairwell, Mackintosh’s love of verticality and is still evident. The structure itself is not entirely a grid, but a series of four flat grids supported by vertical beams. Sunlight glows into the room through the south window, and shadows play across the bright floor as the light filters through the black lattice of the coffee table, yet another example of the architect’s subtle uses of light and shadow to delineate and articulate space. A single small table at Mackintosh’s Hill House– where otherwise it would play the role of a smart surface to rest a cup of coffee and not much else– is a key element in defining light and dark, airspace and mass, verticality and horizontality, and all such devices that the architect is noted for– it is a theoretical Mackintosh interior in miniature.

As a previous post has already described, the Catholic church Our Lady of Good Council, in Dennistoun, Glasgow, is a place for quiet, contemplative worship focused more on God and less on the building itself. The space is, for the most part, unadorned, and this is one of the few flourishes of detailed design by the architectural firm Gillespie, Kidd, and Coia. It is one of a pair of recessed spaces, each above and on either side of the central altar area. These grooves provide an interesting framing device for the altar— however subtle— and suggest a much more common design element— the column. Indeed, the groove on the right (pictured here) is terminated along an angle that, if it does not match precisely, at least suggests the same slant as the roof above it, creating the parallel line that would be present along the tops of columns as they joined the ceiling of the room. As the roof slants downward from left to right, and the groove on the right is shorter than that of the left, it even further enhances the concept of pillars supporting the roof. The left groove (not pictured) is longer than its mate, but its peak slants the other way, creating a somewhat startling asymmetry reminiscent of the asymmetry of the two sides of the roof,

The grooves are of a similar style as the three crosses in the upper-left corner of the larger northern wall, and fit well with the general motif of understated adornment (indeed, even the basin for the holy water is directly part of the low stone wall by the stairs, and not a separate piece of its own). This understated adornment provides for only the suggestion of the grandeur of a Catholic church— reminding the parishioners of their faith without distracting their worship. However, the grooves perform another function. Being located on either side of the altar, and only on the northern wall (the largest wall, the wall that the congregation faces during Mass), the use of grooves instead of columns— of empty space instead of structural elements— almost suggests that there is something else holding up the roof of the church— faith.

Our Lady of Good Counsel, built in the early 1960s in Glasgow, has very few trappings normally associated with a Catholic church. It does not have many elaborate furnishings or a fancy exterior, but rather, reminded me of many Protestant churches back home, where the focus is supposed to be on God, not the building. The church’s most notable features are its tapered roof which creates sharp angles throughout the building, highly opposed to the ornate symmetry of the Glasgow Cathedral which we had visited minutes before, and colored windows on the left wall. The front of the church is quite asymmetrical, with its (for the most part) unadorned brick wall marked with a fairly simple altar in the center, a large wooden crucifix, and the three crosses near the apex of the roof. The crosses are interesting because of their lack of adornment, being made of the same bricks as the wall, and their location in the top left of the church, which make them almost hidden.

The crosses have a very earthy, organic feel to them, as they are made from the same brick as the wall, with the vertical slats sinking into the brick while the horizontal lines are raised from the brick. The unadorned style fits in seamlessly with the style of the church (in fact, the same type of cross can also be seen on the back wall as well). At first, I found it odd that these crosses were placed so far from the altar because in many churches the cross is directly above the altar, acting as a focal point for the congregation during the service. Yet the idea is that, upon entering the church, the tapered roof draws the viewer’s eyes up to the crosses even though they were in shadow. This would give the parishioner a quiet moment of reflection right as they walked in, gazing up as they crossed themselves with the holy water at the entrance. The colored windows cast a faint but noticeable gleam on the crosses when the sun shines in, giving the crosses an ethereal air. The crosses are occasionally illuminated with a spotlight, but only on high holidays. The overall effect is that the crosses are not ostentatious or overwhelming but rather compliment the church that does not shove religious symbols down their parishioners’ throats but rather allows them a quieter, more contemplative experience.

This image is of a stairwell window as seen through the grid pattern punched in top landing’s banister. Although the photo was taken from a slightly contrived angle, requiring some light crouching and weaving on the landing to get this particular perspective, I think the effect is one that Mackintosh designed to occur regularly: shapes and patterns of different sizes are encountered through other shapes and patterns, and light is a major factor. The viewer stumbles upon the contrast of dark wood and bright sunlight, an effect also seen in the Glasgow School of Art’s library, while shadows from the camera’s flash can be seen on the wall behind the grid, reminiscent of the geometric shadows cast by the ornate lighting fixtures at Hill House.

In Hill House or the Glasgow School of Art, Mackintosh might have been tempted to fill these carved holes with brilliantly colored glass, and it is interesting that there is little glass work outside of the green cross and ornate blue heart stained glass windows at either end of the church’s main room. Perhaps the lack of added color is motivated by functionality and practicality: the design in the stairwell is simple and economical and does not draw attention from the main place of worship, all appropriate points for a church building. Yet at the same time, Mackintosh manages to present something interesting and unique - after the anecdote about fastidiousness told by the School of Art guide, it is hard to imagine Mackintosh allowing the banister’s cut-out grid to go undone if he had decided it should be there. During the day, dark wood and light would have played off each other, and in the evening, it seems as though light would have come through the gallery windows and through the door, eventually casting a golden grid onto the stairwell’s opposite and otherwise plain wall. There is something surprising and moving about Mackintosh’s ability to channel detail into sparse perfection: the bed footboard in the master bedroom at Hill House was almost plain except for three tiny pink glass sections. The stairwell at Queen’s Cross is pretty plain too, except for the four-square grid that reveals a slice of the stairwell below and a slice of the outside world, channeling it through three different medium: the wood of the banister, and then the stone and glass of the window. It seems incredible that even this removed and slightly out of the way portion of the church has such a degree of attention paid to it, and for me, it is this care and precision and perfect economy of detail that has begun to define the Mackintosh style.

These niches, located on either side of the chancel of C.R. Mackintosh’s church at Queen’s Cross in Glasgow, were originally intended to hold gargoyle-like stone sculptures; because of the Free Church of Scotland’s objection to ornament, they ultimately remained empty. The detail of the niches themselves, however, is in itself a work of art: a subtle, unique blending of rigid lines and flowing curves that can be seen throughout the church and other Mackintosh-designed buildings.

This image of the niche on the left illustrates its fusion of the geometric and the organic. The framing outlines are simple, straight vertical lines following the rigid verticality of the projecting wall in which the niche is set, coming to an arrowlike point that draws the eye upward to the high ceiling above. The semicylindrical hollow of the niche itself introduces an element of curvature. The really striking detail, though, is the base of the niche. Beneath the flat slab with curved edges on which the statue would rest, the stone flows outward into a dynamic sweep resembling a bird with outspread, sheltering wings. The symbolic image of the bird (a dove, perhaps?) recurs everywhere one looks in the sanctuary; here, it serves as a supporting bracket for the contents of the niche, a seamless blending of practical and artistic function. (Compare the gracefully curved window brackets of the Glasgow School of Art, which exhibit and develop the characteristic Mackintosh rose motif while providing support and reinforcement for the large, multi-paned expanses of glass.)

The niche on the right, while similar at first glance, reveals upon closer examination a subtle but significant asymmetry. While the bird-form on the left is smoothly curved except for the point of the “beak,” the supporting element on the right has a vertical ridge, faint but evident, down the center. With that simple alteration, the outgrowth of stone is transformed from a bird in flight to a ship’s prow–another deeply meaningful element (symbolizing both the spiritual voyage of the church and the livelihoods of much of the congregation) that dominates the church, as the entire ceiling bears an unmistakable resemblance to the keel of a huge boat. Mackintosh’s work in architecture and design shows the influence of the Arts and Crafts movement, with slight irregularities and variations in pattern emphasizing his master craftsmanship and close attention to detail. The Queen’s Cross Church, as well as other Mackintosh buildings, make use of external and internal asymmetry both to deal with the practical challenges of the site and to create a sense of complexity and uniqueness in construction. Here, a tiny change in form shows the care Mackintosh evidently took in designing the church, even down to the smallest detail, and enriches the symbolism that detail possesses.

Alexander “Greek� Thomson’s St. Vincent Street Free Church is quite detail heavy in a way that seems almost randomized in its use of varied styles and structures. Greek, Egyptian and Asian structural elements are jarringly juxtaposed on the exterior, and similar influences are brought into the church sanctuary, including into the large wooden altar backdrop actually designed by one of Thomson’s students.

I found this wooden structure particularly interesting in its incorporation of the church’s organ pipes into the overall design. In the Greek temple portion of the exterior, Thomson used Ionic columns, the main supporting columns on the interior appear Corinthian, and in this central section, the vertical pipes call to mind simple Doric columns. While it is not uncommon for organ pipes to be incorporated into other decorative architectural elements, the set up here seems unique in part because it is not designed in such a way as to emphasize the sizes or numbers of pipes. Instead the pipes are arranged so that they cannot all immediately be seen, and also so that they appear almost standardized in size, working to create the impression of a Greek temple similar to that on the exterior of the church. In using the pipes this way, their purpose seems to become almost structural and a great synthesis between the instrument and the overall look of the church is achieved—an effect all the more tragic considering the organ console, the mechanism of actually using the pipes, has long been removed.

To me, this feeling of waste was felt quite strongly throughout this immense and beautiful space, long holding a congregation much smaller than it was intended to, and because of the needs of its resident denomination, losing the structural idea that music was meant to have a solid place in the space.

 

This photo was taken at Hill House and shows a detail of the front gate at the entrance. Though this design is certainly not vital to the function of the gate, it exemplifies architect Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s attitude that ornament should not be severed from structure. We see this in the use of the same wrought-iron material for both the standard bars of the gate and the decorative elements; rather than “stuck on,” the aesthetics come out of the already present and necessary parts. The Glasgow School of Art (images below) similarly takes the essential - a gate or a window bracket - and elaborates upon it rather than adds to it.

The specific shapes and style of the gate detail here are also typical of Mackintosh’s metalwork. There is a sort of organic geometry at work here, from the small teardrop cutouts in the band at the base to the clover-leaf-like loops to the circle at the top. He plays curve against line, clustering the verticals that are otherwise widely and regularly spaced below the swirling iron bends. Mackintosh seemed interested in such polarities throughout Hill House. Light and dark, courtesy of shadows off the furniture or simply room decor, are in constant tension. Perhaps the most striking of these is the distinction between the roughly-hewn exterior and the meticulous, even delicate, interior. Walking up to the house, one would never guess that the gravelly walls set in blunt right angles would house rooms stenciled with roses, awash in purple and pink. As the entrance to the site, the decorative gate serves as an interesting introduction and invitation to both sides of the home, as soft decorative motifs find expression in a distinctly cold material and forbidding structure.

I noticed this detail first from the interior of the Hill House. Having just passed through the particularly dark, narrow, and angular corridor at the top of the lighter, more open staircase, I emerged into the day nursery. Immediately, the room was far more welcoming, far brighter than its surroundings. My eye was drawn to the source of the light across from me—a large bay window that opens upon the eastern sunrise, flooding the white room with light during the day. I felt more comfortable in this room, not only from the light brought in by the window–its functionality–but by its very shape as well.
From the exterior, the window protrudes from the wall in a curved manner, seemingly embracing the room it illuminates. It provides a sort of gentle cradle for the room, especially befitting of a nursery. Due to the nurturing soft curve of the source of light in the room, the room appears both larger and safer at the same time.

The Mackintosh House is a permanent installation piece in the University of Glasgow’s Hunterian Art Gallery. The work recreates the apartment in which Charles Rennie and Margaret Macdonald Mackintosh lived between 1904 and 1916.

In Mackintosh’s case, visitors seem to demand artistic significance both from exteriors and interiors. Mackintosh was equal parts architect and interior designer. Hill House is a stimulating Helensburgh landmark, but it has not really been “seen� until explored inside as well as out. Mackintosh’s artwork thus renders the private realm public. Conceptually, the Mackintosh House may be his most interesting piece because, like a self-portrait, it operates on a meta level. By visiting the domestic space that Mackintosh designed for himself, we hope to glean some panoramic intuition about his artistic vision as a whole. An architect’s private home seems like the ultimate test of his artistry. He turns the blueprints on himself and reconciles his two identities—those of the artist and the human. In the resulting blend of his private and public life we expect some fundamental truth to shine through.

Interestingly, the Mackintosh House seems to have resided in a rather conventional 18th century townhouse-style building (that, needless to say, Mackintosh did not design). Therefore, only the interior of the apartment has been preserved as a historic work of art. I am fascinated, though, by this door (see photos), the only remnant of the Mackintosh House’s exterior. It is a floating door, perched about seven feet above sidewalk level and set into the Hunterian Gallery’s concrete exterior wall. It serves no functional purpose. Yet despite its inaccessibility to visitors from the outside, the Mackintosh door effectively beckons them toward the museum. It shrewdly advertises the institution’s main attraction; the eminently recognizable stained-glass grids on the lintel and in the center of the door suggest a portal to a magical Mackintoshian world.

This placement of Mackintosh’s front door is in itself a conscious artistic choice. Perhaps the Hunterian Gallery’s curators intended a symbolic bridge between past and present. As Stuart Robinson remarked at our visit to the Mackintosh Church, the architect’s work characteristically married traditional forms with contemporary context. On the surface, the Hunterian’s design concept seems in keeping with this understanding of Mackintosh’s oeuvre because it stamps an early 20th century imprint onto a shell from the 1980s. However, the Mackintosh door ultimately seems to me a rather gimmicky item that actually works contrary to the artist’s notions of functionality in the total work of art. As it stands, the door has nothing to do with the canvas where it appears. Mackintosh may not have designed the exterior of his home (which was unfortunately demolished in the ‘60s), but the front door he built was intended for the building into which it led. Its current positioning renders it a misplaced and dysfunctional transplant.