Our Lady of the Snows

Today is the feast day of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome. Known in Italian as Santa Maria Maggiore, it is one of the four major basilicas (along with St. Peter's, St. John Lateran, and St. Paul-outside-the-Walls). I had the privilege of visiting this marvelous place in September. It is a beautiful church home to many important relics including the icon of the Madonna known as the Salus Populii Romani, the remnants of the manger at Bethlehem, and the body of St. Pope Pius V.

The title Our Lady of the Snows comes from a legend concerning a Roman nobleman and his wife who wished to bequeath their possessions to the Virgin Mary. They prayed for some sign as to where they should put their treasures. The next day, the fifth of August, snow was found at the summit of the Esquiline Hill in Rome, where the Basilica was eventually built.

View of the Nave

Altar in front of the reliquary holding the remains of the Crib of Bethlehem

St. Pope Pius V

Born in a barn

After a long hiatus including - among other things - four months in Paris, I am back in Washington, back at the grindstone of my last year of academic study, and back - incidentally - at the drawing board. Why not inaugurate the year of Our Lord two thousand and fifteen with a bit of paper architecture? This particular design is for a small parish church (seating perhaps 200-300 persons). The seeds of this scheme have been germinating for quite some time now (including while in Paris). The genesis was a small corner of the fascinating architectural museum at the Cité de l'architecture et du patrimoine where there were several models of the wooden structure of European barns exhibited. The one below caught my eye:

Of course, perhaps it says something about a mental imbalance of mine that the first thing I thought of when I saw that model was "man, this would make an interesting church!" Perhaps instead the thought came to mind because it reminded me both of the St. Henry Ecumenical Chapel in Finland and - albeit more tangentially - to Kramer Chapel on the campus of Concordia Lutheran Seminary in Fort Wayne.

Whatever the method, my brain began associating these varying images. One of my personal challenges when I undertake a theoretical design such as the one below - free from all constraints of budget and disobliging clients - is to strike the appropriate note when it comes to traditional architecture. Many have noted well that we may be in the midst of a nascent renaissance [a rebirth about to be born? Etymology...] of Catholic church architecture. Indeed, the "heavy hitters" of the movement such as Duncan Stroik, James McCrery, and others, have already blazed an encouraging path. However, I must confess that it sometimes leaves me a bit unsettled. Perhaps I have been too much indoctrinated by architectural modernists, but I can't help but feeling like much neo-traditional church building is a bit artificial. Much of the work seems archaeological; going to the high Renaissance or the Counter-Reformation for example, and choosing your favorite model to build cheaply.

Of course, I generalize, but I also don't think it need work this way. I am convinced we can develop an architecture that points to God and to Catholic truth without slapping Corinthian columns and pink marble on every sanctuary we come across. Yet, the iconoclasm and disorientation of churches in the dominant contemporary idiom of the moment go in a far worse direction. I certainly don't have all of this figured out - and I probably never will - but I will just reiterate by saying that this intellectual feeling outlined above is constantly in my mind when I put pen to paper for these sorts of little exercises.

Back to the church at hand. Thus inspired by the above precedents and thoughts, I did a few studies of different elements in my sketchbook. I liked how in the original barn model the wood structure was so expressive and layered. I also enjoyed how readable the structural principles were: wooden arch descending to rest on heavy stone walls. Now, nobody goes to church with the intention of a structures lesson, but it speaks to a deeper point nonetheless. Intelligibility and reason are two aspects of God that figure prominently in our thinking about the incarnate logos Jesus Christ. God created an intelligible and ordered universe which we are to have careful stewardship over. Building in a manner consistent with the logic and proportions (and materials) found in nature reveals our thoughts on the universe and our place in it.

After considering what I had drawn, I was unsure what the overall feeling would be, so I quickly built a prototype in SketchUp to see how the trusses would work together. As this was a quick, half-baked study, I just borrowed some elements from a previous design to mock up the sanctuary and the pews, etc. I was pleased with the overall form and impression given by the design. However, in the original model, the roof would've covered the entire structure, allowing daylight only through small windows in the stone walls. In a church I think that lack of light would be inexcusable (though it is the case in some of the more horrific suburban churches thrown up in the 70s). I decided on a sort of skylight method that would allow light in above the main arch of the nave. Playing with the shadow settings in SketchUp, I was pleasantly surprised with the way the light would play off the surface of the ceiling and filter through the trusses.

So, I stopped there for awhile until coming back to the project just yesterday. I've been pretty busy this week working for my professor on a very, very, VERY, tedious project (the joys of being a research assistant!), and I needed some time to do something creative. As the process of this design has been largely an interior matter, I went for an exterior view:

This design is a variant of a couple of aesthetic themes that litter my sketchbooks. The first is the "big triangle". Now, gabled roofs are nothing new in church design, but they are seldom very expressive. The major exception are the small English Gothic parish churches that are often almost all gable but typically feature a little bell-tower at the peak. Perhaps I am being too Postmodern, but I love the symbolism and power of the pure gabled roof (it calls to mind images of home, points the eyes heavenward, and even has a monumental purity because of its descent from the pyramid). Thus, the "big triangle" fits in well with the other theme I enjoy developing which is austerity - particularly in its Art Deco-ish manifestations: pure, largely unornamented geometrical volumes combining in varying compositions.

Thus, in this scheme, there is little exterior ornament. It is applied sparingly where it would be to greatest effect. The most detailed portion of the entire exterior are the portals - arguably where most people would come into direct contact with the building. Thus, I've hinted at perhaps carved tympanums (tympana?) above the doors and perhaps a carved saint or two in the niches flanking the central door. Beyond that, the exterior is quite severe.

Today, I took another look at the interior - paying close attention to the sanctuary, which I had not given thought to in the first SketchUp iteration. Again, ornament and detail is applied where it can be to maximum effect - here it is at the altar and the reredos. The form of the altar and its setting is based on the design of the exterior portals at the front of the church. A symbol often co-opted from the Romans in the basilican churches of the Mediterranean was that of the triumphal arch: Christ's death has opened the gates to heaven, toward which we gaze during the Holy Mass. It is architecturally and theologically fitting, then, that the priest - the alter Christus - would stand at such a gate to offer the holy sacrifice.

The rest of the sanctuary is traditionally arranged. Several steps separate the altar from the floor of the sanctuary, which is itself a few steps up from the nave. Certain folks with certain agendas may say that this engenders a much too clerical view of the mass. However, apart from the purely practical benefit of making the actions of the altar more visible, the elevation of the altar has beautiful scriptural symbolism. I think of the Psalmist singing "Who shall ascend the mountain of the Lord, and who shall stand in this holy place" and Isaiah saying "Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength [...] say to the cities of Judah 'Behold your God!'" and of course one also thinks of the Lord's ascent to Calvary which gives meaning and weight to both images.

A Church

After what seems like months away from my own personal drawing board, I've recently made a creative inroad or two. I've returned to my usual muse, Mater Ecclesia, for a few graphic thoughts on the relationship between tradition and modernity. The program chosen is that of a small parish church (perhaps seating 250-300 people).

click to view larger

I was inspired by a number of historical precedents in the development of this scheme. There are allusions to the Ottonian Hallenkirche of the former Holy Roman Empire. The material patterning hearkens to the playfulness of Siena Cathedral, while the alternating stone surrounding the altarpiece is a small (and very toned-down) homage to Mario Botta - one of the preeminent postmodern masters - and his chapel at Mogno, Switzerland. American Art Deco sensibilities play out in the relative streamlining and minimizing of detail throughout. The image of Christ used for the altar mosaic comes from the Medieval Codex Bruchsal. 

The sanctuary follows a very traditional layout, making it ideal for both the celebration of the Traditional Latin Mass, or a Novus Ordo Mass said ad orientem. Permit me a small digression on the orientation of liturgy. Notwithstanding all of the sound theological reasons for facing toward God as a whole community during worship, having the altar arranged in the more traditional manner often works so much better from an architectural standpoint. A freestanding altar necessarily requires a larger sanctuary, which, depending on the size of the church, can distort the cohesiveness of the sanctuary as a whole. In short - a freestanding altar has a higher probability of getting visually lost in a sea of objects. In this case, I have contrasted an ornately vested altar against a slab of gray stone, so that the eye is naturally drawn toward it, then to the tabernacle, the crucifix, and finally to the Son of God, occupying what in Old Testament theology would be termed the Mercy Seat.  

On a more mundane note, this project was entirely developed in SketchUp, with only the shadows and lighting added later in Photoshop. It's a technique I've been working on for about a year now, and I think I've finally been able to strike an appropriate balance.

A papal palace in Jerusalem

The idea of such a project is enough to get each and every hair on each and every conspiracy theorist's head to stand on end. But, apparently, someone in the early 20th Century did not think the project entirely too far-fetched. Glancing through my copy of The Master Drawings of Otto Wagner the other day, on an entirely different errand, I discovered these beguiling watercolors. The proposal was authored in 1912 by Josef Heinisch, an Austrian architect who was very much a devotee of the Jugendstil, as was Wagner. Further commentary and background information are not provided.

I suspect that this was simply a student project, rather than any sort of official proposal sanctioned by the Holy See. However, at that time Pope Pius X was on the Chair of Peter and the papacy was still essentially a "prisoner of the Vatican". Relations with the Kingdom of Italy were chilly at best, and there was some talk throughout the years previous of the papacy moving. The Ottomans, who controlled the Middle East at the time, were not favorably disposed toward Italy, a stance which could have theoretically engendered an alliance with the popes. In any event, there was enough back story to make this pass muster as a decent theoretical project for a student to undertake.

An aerial view of the complex

The plan, as a whole, resembles that of one of the great French Gothic cathedrals

The elevation. Note the inscription. Rather interesting considering our current Jesuit Pontiff.

Section through the church.

Churches of Quebec

La Belle Province is home to the finest collection of French Colonial architecture anywhere in the New World. Because of Quebec's relatively sparse population and largely undisturbed culture (away from the St. Lawrence, that is), the province is littered with hundreds of beautiful churches dating from the 17th century to the early 20th century. Here are a few to give you a taste. These are taken from the fascinating Flickr group Églises du Québec. Of course, I will remind the readers that I have 300 years of Québecois ancestry on my mother's side of the family, so I have a special interest in the history of that part of the continent.

 

As you can see, there is some stylistic variation, but the uniformity of building materials (granite walls, limestone details, tin roofs) leads to a fairly cohesive architectural genre. Much like the stereotypical white, neoclassical Congregational church of New England, the paroisse stood at the center of the cultural life of New France - first out of a necessity for social cohesion in the face of the wilderness, and later as a bastion against British imperialism. With these two exterior pressures largely gone, Quebec has become one of the most religiously arid places in the Catholic world. Though, in a typical display of Québecois contrarianism, the crucifix remains steadfastly affixed to the wall of the provincial parliament chambers in Quebec City. Only time will tell what the fate of these beautiful buildings will ultimately be.

There is No God in that Church

British-Italian architect, Claudio Silvestrin, is the 2013 Walton Critic at the Catholic University of America. He is with us for three weeks in my studio, teaching and critiquing. Last night, he came to our Theory of Sacred Space class and spoke at length with us in question-and-answer format. Some of his most interesting points, in my opinion, revealed his views on modern church design, and where he sees design flaws. I say they were interesting, not because they were radical, but rather because his criticisms sounded radically traditional. Given Silvestrin's devotion to minimalism, I was taken aback by some of his answers. Here, I have reproduced from my notes, his points relevant to church architecture. These comments were in answer to a variety of questions, but I have reproduced them collected and organized.

Question: How do you understand a church? And, what makes a successful church?

Silvestrin: Well, I have never designed a church yet. I would love to design a new cathedral every week, but the Church has not approached me yet. I do not consider any of my works sacred, as such. That would be blasphemy. It is blasphemy to call a boutique, or a restaurant, or even a house, sacred. It is too far. They have moments that touch the soul, yes, but they are not sacred. As for a church, it is a house for God. An architect must not design for only the client, or worse, only for the satisfaction of his ego. Rather, his work is primarily for God. Architecture, like the priesthood, is a calling. Modern churches have forgotten God. They are acts of ego only. They are not houses of God, they are houses of men. Man is at the center of modern churches. Design decisions are based on man, not on God. I went to Ronchamp. It is a great work of architecture. But, that is it. It is a great design by a great architect. That is what I sensed when I was there. There is no God in that church. 

On my way home to London from holiday, I drove way out of my way into Germany to see Peter Zumthor's chapel. I admire Zumthor. So, I went to the chapel. From the outside, it sits very modestly in the landscape. It is unobtrusive, it has a good material quality. All well and good. But as you enter, you must go through this sharp, aggressive triangular door. It is not at all about God. Inside, it felt like a place for the devil, not a place for God.

The great sacred places are all made from natural materials. They have a certain life and vibration. Stone and wood have vibrations that they bring to a building. Concrete, plastic, steel, glass, do not! They are flat, fake, and empty of all vibration! You cannot make a good church out of concrete! Never! It has no vibration, no soul, no life, no history. It is of the machine. You can feel the cold cut of the machine, not the warmth of man's touch, as in wood or stone.

The architect doesn't design a church for himself, he designs it firstly for God. Nobody knows who the architects of the great cathedrals are. The monks built their monasteries for God. They didn't "design" them. They built them honestly, and with purity of intention. That is what gives them their immense power. There is no ego in a Cistercian monastery [Claudio, being a minimalist, is partial to the Cistercian aesthetic]. The architect must disappear in some cases - to reveal the essence of something.

St Anton Kirche

Zurich is not particularly renowned for its Catholicism. The reformer Huldrych Zwingli succeeded in converting most of the city to his version of Protestantism during the course of the Reformation. Catholics in Zurich, as in Scandinavia, Britain, and other Protestant nations, were largely marginalized until the mid Nineteenth Century. Yet, there are some Catholic gems to be found even in iconoclastic Zurich. This church, in Zurich's fashionable Hottingen neighborhood, was built at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. Karl Moser, the foremost proponent of the Art Nouveau (or Jugendstil) in Switzerland, was the architect.

It's reserved exterior is quite handsome. It preserves the traditional facade of a church, while introducing bits of modernity in terms of the detailing and the materials. It is a very elegant exercise in architectural continuity. The tower is especially lovely, and bears a striking resemblance to the campanile on the campus of Cornell University.

The interior provides many lessons on how church architects today, often faced with tight budgets, might make the most of a parish's resources. It is not overdone in terms of ornament, yet the ornamental scheme that is employed is sound, unified, and beautiful.

Expensive materials are used sparingly around the sanctuary, while the remainder of the iconography is basically all painting. Yet, the richness of the colors and the clear orientation of the painting prevent it from seeming too "tacked on" to the whole. It is a shame that a meager Ikea-table-altar is used instead of the magnificent original high altar.

A Smattering of Giles Gilbert Scott

Giles Gilbert Scott was a British architect of the first half of the 20th Century who was well known throughout the country for many of his designs. His most famous architectural commission was the Liverpool Anglican Cathedral, but he is probably best known as the designer of the iconic red London telephone booths. Apart from these well-known and well-loved designs, he was a prolific designer of smaller churches throughout the United Kingdom. Here are a few photos that describe his Mid-Century Gothic mastery. He successfully blended modern and traditional in a pleasing way, making him a good model as we go forward in uncertain economic times.

Ampleforth Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Ampleforth Abbey, Yorkshire, England

Ampleforth Abbey, Yorkshire, England

St Columba's Cathedral, Oban, Scotland

Carmelite Church, Kensington, London

Carmelite Church, Kensington, London

Koloman Moser in Dusseldorf

Koloman Moser was an important artistic figure of the Vienna Secession - the Austrian variant of Art Nouveau. His most famous work is perhaps the group of stained glass windows he designed for the Church Am Steinhof, the magnum opus of the architect Otto Wagner. Of interest is this unexecuted scheme for the interior decoration of the Church of the Holy Spirit in Dusseldorf. The iconography is quite beautiful and calls to mind the restraint of the Beuronese school.

View toward the sanctuary

Section through the sanctuary and nave

View of the entrance wall and the choir loft

Small Parish Church

Last week I was privileged to hear a lecture by Mr. Jim Leggitt, an architect and architectural illustrator who is the author of a book, Drawing Shortcuts, that was one of my constant companions in studio my freshman year. Mr. Leggitt discoursed at length on how modern technologies and hand drawing techniques can be fused harmoniously to create a pleasing result in less time - an important consideration in these times of shrinking building budgets and shrunken firms. This weekend, I used one of the techniques Mr. Leggitt discussed to develop the drawing below. I began with a simple, monochrome SketchUp model. I exported and printed the view from that model. I then added several layers of colored pencil, rescanned the image and then altered it slightly in Photoshop.

The subject matter is a small parish church in a style that attempts to hearken back to the days of the Church's infancy in the Near East. There is something I delight in when I see materials that are visibly strong in some way. I have explored this concept many times over in my various projects in the studio, but I push it into a more traditional idiom here. The arches are massive and they rest on immense piers. The gilded and painted wood beams give a heaviness to the ceiling. The small clerestory windows pierce the thick, rammed earth wall.

We often think of a church's architecture lifting the mind to the things of heaven, but in this example, I have attempted to marry the things of heaven with the things of earth. The sanctuary is traditionally arranged, but the altar is located in a particularly cave-like apse. This was often the case in the early Christian basilicas. But, more than mere architectural precedent, this decision reflects the mystical meaning of the cave in Christian belief. The central act of our redemption - the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ - centers on burial within a rock-hewn tomb. Additionally, we can recall the early Christians worshiping in the catacombs at the martyrs' tombs.

Yet, though the apse is exaggeratedly small, it is the most resplendently decorated portion of the church. A richly ornamented altar (itself often mystically related to the tomb of Christ - His altar of sacrifice) sits in front of a gilded icon of the Holy Trinity, flanked by two angels bearing incense. This arrangement recalls the Ark of the Covenant and the "mercy seat", whose nature has been revealed to us by Jesus.

Though it is perhaps not as visible at this scale, the decorative elements in the nave and the sanctuary are embellished with vines and other plants. This not only evokes Christ as the True Vine encompassing his Body gathered, but it also recalls the garden - the garden of Eden where we lost God's friendship, the garden where Christ's tomb was located where we are given a chance to regain God's friendship, and the garden of the new creation when all things will be restored in Christ.

A note about the chandeliers: I am of the opinion that many churches nowadays are simply dreadfully over lit (and over sound-systemed). If you light everything equally, nothing is emphasized and you lose the dramatic interplay of light and shadow that so often enlivens a space. The hanging lights are of a design common among the Eastern churches, which would provide ample light to the nave and sanctuary for evening services. I think the apse would have some discreet lighting tucked under the arch someplace, but I also like the thought of the soft light of the six altar candles glinting off the gold mosaic.

Pugin in Tasmania

Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin was the premier Gothic Revivalist. Active throughout the latter half of the Nineteenth Century, primarily in Britain, Pugin breathed new life into ancient Gothic forms with great zeal. Though recognized first and foremost for his works throughout the British Isles, Pugin deserves some recognition for his small churches Down Under. St. Patrick's in Colebrook and St. John's in Richmond are two Tasmanian Catholic churches designed by A.W.N. Pugin, and they are quite refined in my estimation, despite their intimate scale.

St Patrick's, Colebrook, TAS

St. John's, Richmond, TAS

Of parabolic vaults

Here's a little design that I came up with. It is a cross-sectional view through a church, looking toward the altar. Stylistically, it is a bit of a curiosity. It started from a square plan based on some Byzantine precedents. Then, it got a rather Baroque looking altar. Add in some Art Nouveau lines and a parabolic arch reminiscent of the Engelbrekts church in Stockholm, and you have something quite intriguing indeed.

If a may engage in a bit of self-congratulation: this is the type of design that is appropriate for a modern church. Yes, the form, plan, and decor is arranged in a traditional manner. But, the stylistic cues come from very diverse sources. The arch over the apse has a certain Louis Sullivan feel to it. The altar, with its domed canopy, evokes Otto Wagner's work on the Church Am Steinhof in Vienna. Even the slim proportion of the Roman brick hearkens to Frank Lloyd Wright.

Short story long: it is traditional, but not historicist. It cannot be pegged to one time period, but it attempts to synthesize some of the highlights of the past 150 years into a cohesive whole.  

Engelbrektskyrkan

I'm currently perusing Modern Church Architecture, a hefty-but-interesting tome of early-20th Century ecclesiastical design. This church, the Engelbrektskyrkan in Stockholm, struck me as a distinct gem.

It is classic, but with modern touches. The mural of the Crucifixion over the altar is especially fine. The church was designed by Lars Israel Wahlman and completed in 1914. The style is a brand of Arts and Crafts/Art Nouveau common to Northern Europe and perhaps best exemplified in the work of Peter Behrens in the Low Countries.

Something vaguely Byzantine

A little sketch project of the interior of a somewhat Byzantine or Romanesque church. I tend to use the terms interchangeably, as they refer to basically the same architectural movements in the Western and Eastern Roman Empire, respectively. Of course, there are distinctions to be made. As a rule, Byzantine architecture has a deeper focus on the surface and its ornamentation, while Romanesque tends to be focused on massing of architectural elements. The two can form interesting hybrids, though, with Byzantine surface treatments (mosaic, etc.) grafted onto a Romanesque body. And, that's basically what I attempted here.

A few notes are in order. The ceiling is heavy timber and the walls are stone - preferably of the warm, sandy color often found in Romanesque construction, especially in Germany. The nave is rather undecorated, save for a mosaic frieze that runs around the top of the walls, and the windows, which would be stained glass. The sanctuary is dealt with in a detail drawing below.

The sanctuary of any church should be the most rigorously thought-out in terms of iconography and graphic organization. It is the meeting place of heaven and earth during the liturgy, and its artistic scheme should reflect this nexus. In this particular design, I have divided the iconography among three vertical zones.

The first zone is from the vaulted ceiling to the tops of the windows. This zone represents heaven, and is centered on a mosaic image of Christ in Majesty, surrounded by seraphim. The panels to the left and right depict the Twelve apostles, gathered around the heavenly throne. The floral patterns to the far right and left recall the perfection of creation and the restoration of Eden in the New Jerusalem.

The second zone is that of the windows, which represent God's dealings in human history, through the person of Jesus Christ. Windows depicting the Nativity, the Transfiguration, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection, and Pentecost show the working of God throughout the timeline of our earth. The bottom third of the middle three windows is taken up by a depiction of the Last Supper, which graphically connects the image of the Crucifixion with the altar below.

The altar is the focal point of the third zone: that of God's continuing work in the life of humanity. The central crucifix and tabernacle recall the throne of God depicted above, while the gathering of priests and other ministers around the altar recalls the gathering of the Apostles to the throne of Christ. The altar itself is a fairly straightforward model that recalls many of the altars built in this country in the period between 1870 and 1910 or so.

These three zones work organically in the context of the liturgy. The mass, an event taking place at the altar in real time, re-presents the historic sacrifice of the Cross depicted in the central window, and reminds us of the glory of heaven that we are journeying toward.

Churches are theology in stone, and we should strive to have them reflect the divine order of creation instituted by God. We should not make churches mute buildings that we fill with our own meaning. Neither should we be superficial about the way we decorate or adorn our churches. The church building should be a gesamtkunstwerk, a total work of art, where all things within drive home a unified message.

Fountain Street Church

This past weekend, while back in Grand Rapids for ArtPrize viewing, I was able to have a look inside one of my favorite downtown buildings - Fountain Street Church. Founded as a liberal Baptist church in the 19th Century, Fountain Street has remained committed to a loose doctrinal understanding of Christianity and is now someplace deep in the realm of the New Age/Unitarian Universalist/radical liberal/feminist/nonsense Department. However, that is for another day. My point in this post is to draw your attention to their fantastic worship space. The Romanesque/Byzantine hybrid happening in this church is first-rate, and is a model that we would do well to imitate in new construction.

Gothic Doodles

Remember two posts ago when I was going on and on about how creative I've been feeling lately and how much my vision of architecture has solidified in that past few months? No? Well, shame on you for not hanging on my every word. Anyways, below is a little sketch project that I penned in those in-between times of day during school. It's a church of a certain Gothic persuasion with the capacity of about three-hundred persons (just a guess). My specific precedent was Cram and Ferguson's rather reserved South Dutch Reformed Church in New York City.

The nave is one unified space, without columns, bounded by corridor-like aisles. The nave flows directly into the apse, which houses a fairly elaborate English Gothic altar and reredos. Large stained glass windows illuminate the space, evoking the magnificent jewelry box feeling of the Sainte Chapelle in Paris. The exterior is fairly muscular and reserved. It has very little in the way of traditional Gothic detailing, though it has a Gothic body.

As always, click to view larger. Opinions are welcome and appreciated.

Liverpudlian Lutyens

In my estimation, one of the great tangential tragedies of the Second World War and the Great Depression it followed, was the end it put to good traditional design projects. Funds for projects became scarcer during the economic downturn, and after the European modernist architects had been dispersed in the postwar era, many noble project were simply discarded in favor of cheaper, more industrial, more modern, designs. The most monumental victim to this trend was Sir Edwin Lutyens' design for the Catholic cathedral of Liverpool.

Plans for a Cathedral in Liverpool date to the mid-nineteenth century, when the Catholic population swelled due to the Great Potato Famine in Ireland. Edward Welby Pugin, son of the preeminent Gothicist A.W.N. Pugin, was called on to design the structure. He finished only the Lady Chapel, which now serves as a parish church in its own right. Pugin's design was predictably Gothic, and would have more or less matched the style of the Anglican cathedral, which is quite fine in its own right.

As a visual aside, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, the Scottish master of the Arts and Crafts Movement, submitted his own design to the Anglican design competition, which is not without its merits. It has a muscular, sculpted quality about it that one can find echoes of in the architecture of Bertram Goodhue in early Twentieth-Century America.

I digress. Back to Lutyens. Lutyens was commissioned in 1930 to design the Catholic cathedral on a site not more than a half mile from the then newly-constructed Neo-Gothic Anglican cathedral by Giles Gilbert Scott (shown in the first image). Lutyen's proposal was a massive, vaguely Byzantine structure that would have been the second-largest church in the world. The dome would've been the world's largest, outdoing St. Peter's by some thirty feet. Below are two images showing the proposed cathedral in its urban setting. In the first, you can clearly see the architectural challenge it would have been to Scott's Gothic Anglican cathedral.

Thankfully, Lutyens' original scale model, in wood, survived the War and is preserved to this day. The model more clearly shows the immense proportions of his grand design.

Impressive, no? Lutyens, in the tradition of the great cathedral-builders of old, most likely believed that this project would outlive him for several hundred years. Though it is very unlikely to be built as planned, the sheer grandeur and subtle artistry involved in such a mature design are likely to continue to inspire architects. I think the real power in Lutyens' design was his ability to be grand without being gaudy. There is a control and restraint in the design that I think is admirable.

Lest we end this post on a high note, we must continue with the telling of the story. Lutyens' design was scrapped after the war due to its astronomical costs (estimates of what it would take to build such a structure today typically run into the £990,000,000 range), and a third design competition was held. The winning built design for the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King is shown below.

I can hear the Anglicans laughing from here.