Plane Talk
Every architectural era is eventually given a name. Particular favorites of mine
are Gothic, with its soaring spirituality, the Renaissance for its rebirth and
Baroque’s near-riot of form. In our time, we have been graced with numerous
variations on modernism.
On a flight from Zurich to New York, Christopher Hyland began snapping pictures
of the man seated next to him—the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava—as he
sketched.
The early 21st century should be called the Calatravan period, due to the sheer
brilliance of Santiago Calatrava, the Spanish architect who is based in
Switzerland and New York. From the most functional of spaces, such as the
Pfalzkeller Emergency Service Centre in St. Gallen, Switzerland, to the
singular, iconic building of this new century, the Milwaukee Art Museum,
Calatrava breathes new life into what has become—with the exception of
outstanding architects such as Frank Gehry—a moribund era dominated by the
clichéd modern glass box.
There is a sensuality and warmth in Calatrava’s
work. It soars like the Gothic, is a riot of form like the Baroque and is a
rebirth, like the Renaissance. But in this case, his work signals the rebirth of
modernism.
Calatrava’s architecture fits anywhere, even in the most
traditional of precincts. It employs fine detail without being persnickety. It
can be monumental, yet because it is inspired by human and bird forms, it
retains a direct relationship with nature. Nobody uses glass and steel in as
daring a fashion. Walking the interiors of some of his structures must seem like
passing through a well-ordered series of human arteries.
During a
first-class flight from Zurich to New York, I was fortunate to observe Calatrava
in close quarters without knowing, at first, who he was. In a seat to my left, a
gentleman took out watercolors and paper and proceeded to create bold, brightly
colored forms, depicting apparently inanimate objects. Intermittently, he
shifted his artistic effort to a small drawing book and sketched the human
figure. I felt at once I was witnessing something unique. His concentration
remained steady as I photographed him from every angle. Not a word was spoken.
Moving in to photograph his hands, I realized he was creating images of
buildings. And, as abstract as they were, they incorporated aspects of the human
figure that he was drawing in his smaller book. There was an obvious synergy
between his simultaneously sketching a human form and abstract shapes that could
be preliminary architectural design concepts. Only later, when I read Alexander
Tzonis’ Santiago Calatrava: The Complete Works, did I realize the full extent to
which Calatrava integrates the human form in his architecture.
I, who
live in a Greek Revival apartment, would be very pleased to look out my windows
onto any building he designs. Banished is all architecture that alienates. In
its place is the indomitable soaring spirit of the Calatravan age.
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