It’s not that I’m an expert in Gothic cathedrals, but I do know my way around all that stone and stained-glass. I don’t have a favorite, but I like Salamanca a great deal. León has the best stained glass. Segovia is such a late Gothic that it isn’t really Gothic at all. Burgos is total class, and Seville is monumental. There is little question that all of that carved stone heaped up in such a way as to create a sort of enormous stone cave is impressive. The vaults, the aisles, the alters, the choirs, the organs, the chapels all add up to an impressively chaotic and fractured version of reality. The cathedrals raise their stone arms up to heaven in a imposing array of arches, vaults, columns, and flying buttresses. This is supposed to be a big house, God’s house. The Gothic cathedral is built with an underlying theme–the pointed arch, which is used thematically throughout the entire building. What is difficult, at times, to stomach are the multiple layers of decoration which have been hung on the inside of the cathedral like so much ugly makeup. Cathedrals are really about lines of force, the harnassing of stresses, gravity, wind, and curves, and how all of those intersecting lines add up to a massive pile of stone. In the end, the cathedral is not the natural or logical outcome of the building process. Form and function are at odds with each other from the initial corner stone to the final key stone, and the laws of physics will be trying to pull down that stone roof even before it is put into place. The Gothic cathedral is a metaphor, then, for the struggle between man and stone to create an anti-natural structure based on the creative genius of man and his imagination to challenge those same laws of physics that are used to make those stone arches stay in place. Cathedrals are a living paradox of contrasting laws of nature where man has choosen to put his alters and proclaim his faith. I could do without most of the Baroque, Roccoco, or Neo-classic decoration and just roam the unadorned aisles as bovedas and arches sore above my head, knowing full-well that the columns and buttresses are all working overtime to keep the stones off of my head. Elaborate interior decorations do not speak to either my faith in God or my faith in man. Regular blocking, clean curved arches, and colorful rose windows tell me more about the art and skill of the tradesmen that built the place than the awful aesthetics of those who determined what would go into them at some later date, centuries after the builders had left. Today these stone monstrosities are a tribute to persistence and craftsmanship that is both forgotten and unappreciated. Unfortunately, many of the Gothic cathedrals of Europe are now located in regional backwaters that have long ago lost their importance as centers of power or eclessiastical greatness, and local parishes struggle to keep the lights on and the stone roofs from caving in. Cathedrals, at least to some extent, are anachronistic dinosaurs leftover from a time when building a big building was a big deal that not just anyone could do. Today, the Gothic cathedral is dwarfed by massive sports arenas, megalithic sky-scrapers, and gravity defying bridges that the medieval stone mason might have dreamed about, but never built.
Category Archives: architecture
On cathedrals
It’s not that I’m an expert in Gothic cathedrals, but I do know my way around all that stone and stained-glass. I don’t have a favorite, but I like Salamanca a great deal. León has the best stained glass. Segovia is such a late Gothic that it isn’t really Gothic at all. Burgos is total class, and Seville is monumental. There is little question that all of that carved stone heaped up in such a way as to create a sort of enormous stone cave is impressive. The vaults, the aisles, the alters, the choirs, the organs, the chapels all add up to an impressively chaotic and fractured version of reality. The cathedrals raise their stone arms up to heaven in a imposing array of arches, vaults, columns, and flying buttresses. This is supposed to be a big house, God’s house. The Gothic cathedral is built with an underlying theme–the pointed arch, which is used thematically throughout the entire building. What is difficult, at times, to stomach are the multiple layers of decoration which have been hung on the inside of the cathedral like so much ugly makeup. Cathedrals are really about lines of force, the harnassing of stresses, gravity, wind, and curves, and how all of those intersecting lines add up to a massive pile of stone. In the end, the cathedral is not the natural or logical outcome of the building process. Form and function are at odds with each other from the initial corner stone to the final key stone, and the laws of physics will be trying to pull down that stone roof even before it is put into place. The Gothic cathedral is a metaphor, then, for the struggle between man and stone to create an anti-natural structure based on the creative genius of man and his imagination to challenge those same laws of physics that are used to make those stone arches stay in place. Cathedrals are a living paradox of contrasting laws of nature where man has choosen to put his alters and proclaim his faith. I could do without most of the Baroque, Roccoco, or Neo-classic decoration and just roam the unadorned aisles as bovedas and arches sore above my head, knowing full-well that the columns and buttresses are all working overtime to keep the stones off of my head. Elaborate interior decorations do not speak to either my faith in God or my faith in man. Regular blocking, clean curved arches, and colorful rose windows tell me more about the art and skill of the tradesmen that built the place than the awful aesthetics of those who determined what would go into them at some later date, centuries after the builders had left. Today these stone monstrosities are a tribute to persistence and craftsmanship that is both forgotten and unappreciated. Unfortunately, many of the Gothic cathedrals of Europe are now located in regional backwaters that have long ago lost their importance as centers of power or eclessiastical greatness, and local parishes struggle to keep the lights on and the stone roofs from caving in. Cathedrals, at least to some extent, are anachronistic dinosaurs leftover from a time when building a big building was a big deal that not just anyone could do. Today, the Gothic cathedral is dwarfed by massive sports arenas, megalithic sky-scrapers, and gravity defying bridges that the medieval stone mason might have dreamed about, but never built.
On Koricancha
Koricancha, or the Incan Temple of the Sun in Cusco, Peru, or at least what was left of it after the Spanish built the Dominican convent of Santo Domingo on top of it, is a must stop if you have gone to the trouble of going all the way Cusco and Machu Picchu. Cusco was an original Inca city and a major axis within their empire during both the 14th and 15th centuries. Koricancha, or “Courtyard of Gold” was a major shrine within the Incan empire, and its walls were lined with gold, gold that was eventually looted by the Conquistadores, but not enough gold to save the last Incan emperor, Atahualpa. Only a few walls of the original temple are still left, but they do bear witness to the exquisite craftsmanship of the Incan masons whose elegant work far outstrips the clumsy common blocking of the Baroque style convent that rises above the ramparts of the original temple. The temple, or its remnants, is an icon of an empire that totally collapsed under the invasion of the Spanish. The scourge that is colonialism–invade, conquer, occupy as much space as possible, strip out everything of value, redefine language, laws, and religion, isolate the locals outside of the circles of power, redefine all cultural values–is only too obvious in the baroque church built on top of Koricancha, essentially putting it under erasure, shoving it out to the margins of history. I understand how offended my modern post-post-modern post-colonial sensibility is, but I don’t condemn the Spanish for doing any of what they did because they were doing to the Inca what the Inca had been doing to other cultures and societies up and down the Andes. Invade and conquer, it’s an old story in human history. The “Leyenda Negra” of the Spanish has long since been chucked on the ash heap of world history, but their colonial legacy as a fallen empire still echoes within Peruvian society, and the Conquistadores (i.e., white Europeans) are, with a few minor exceptions, still running the government in Peru, and the local indigenous people are marginalized into slums in the urban areas or super-marginalized in the rural highlands where modern social amenities–medicine, schools, housing, utilities–are rare, lacking, or non-existent. Indigenous incomes in the high mountain mesas are almost nothing at all. The role of indigenous people working in the numerous Peruvian mines is particularly troubling, boasting a horrific safety record of numerous deaths and injuries. Koricancha is a kind of synecdoche for the entire Spanish enterprise in the “New World.” Of course, the Spanish did the same thing in Iberia when they kicked the Muslims out of Córdoba, building a Gothic cathedral in the middle of the famous mosque. Carlos V actually built a palace in the middle of the Alhambra. The Visigoths built a church on top of a Roman temple in the same place. Invaders have always felt it necessary to exert their power over the conquered by building their own temple on top of the sacred space of those they have conquered. So when you go to Koricancha you will be assaulted by conflicting images of Incan art and architecture within the context of a Baroque Christian church. The conclusions that you draw about this odd juxtaposition of cultures and technologies will be your own. All of the involved parties have long since turned to dust, and the caretakers of the site today are only the genetic shadows of the movers and shakers of 16th century Cuzco. The important thing about Koricancha is to go there, see it, experience it, and be a witness, albeit four hundred years after the fact.
On Koricancha
Koricancha, or the Incan Temple of the Sun in Cusco, Peru, or at least what was left of it after the Spanish built the Dominican convent of Santo Domingo on top of it, is a must stop if you have gone to the trouble of going all the way Cusco and Machu Picchu. Cusco was an original Inca city and a major axis within their empire during both the 14th and 15th centuries. Koricancha, or “Courtyard of Gold” was a major shrine within the Incan empire, and its walls were lined with gold, gold that was eventually looted by the Conquistadores, but not enough gold to save the last Incan emperor, Atahualpa. Only a few walls of the original temple are still left, but they do bear witness to the exquisite craftsmanship of the Incan masons whose elegant work far outstrips the clumsy common blocking of the Baroque style convent that rises above the ramparts of the original temple. The temple, or its remnants, is an icon of an empire that totally collapsed under the invasion of the Spanish. The scourge that is colonialism–invade, conquer, occupy as much space as possible, strip out everything of value, redefine language, laws, and religion, isolate the locals outside of the circles of power, redefine all cultural values–is only too obvious in the baroque church built on top of Koricancha, essentially putting it under erasure, shoving it out to the margins of history. I understand how offended my modern post-post-modern post-colonial sensibility is, but I don’t condemn the Spanish for doing any of what they did because they were doing to the Inca what the Inca had been doing to other cultures and societies up and down the Andes. Invade and conquer, it’s an old story in human history. The “Leyenda Negra” of the Spanish has long since been chucked on the ash heap of world history, but their colonial legacy as a fallen empire still echoes within Peruvian society, and the Conquistadores (i.e., white Europeans) are, with a few minor exceptions, still running the government in Peru, and the local indigenous people are marginalized into slums in the urban areas or super-marginalized in the rural highlands where modern social amenities–medicine, schools, housing, utilities–are rare, lacking, or non-existent. Indigenous incomes in the high mountain mesas are almost nothing at all. The role of indigenous people working in the numerous Peruvian mines is particularly troubling, boasting a horrific safety record of numerous deaths and injuries. Koricancha is a kind of synecdoche for the entire Spanish enterprise in the “New World.” Of course, the Spanish did the same thing in Iberia when they kicked the Muslims out of Córdoba, building a Gothic cathedral in the middle of the famous mosque. Carlos V actually built a palace in the middle of the Alhambra. The Visigoths built a church on top of a Roman temple in the same place. Invaders have always felt it necessary to exert their power over the conquered by building their own temple on top of the sacred space of those they have conquered. So when you go to Koricancha you will be assaulted by conflicting images of Incan art and architecture within the context of a Baroque Christian church. The conclusions that you draw about this odd juxtaposition of cultures and technologies will be your own. All of the involved parties have long since turned to dust, and the caretakers of the site today are only the genetic shadows of the movers and shakers of 16th century Cuzco. The important thing about Koricancha is to go there, see it, experience it, and be a witness, albeit four hundred years after the fact.
On Machu Picchu II
So yesterday I got my first taste of Machu Picchu in person, and today I had the opportunity to re-traverse with a little more tranquility of spirit the thirteen switchbacks between Aguas Calientes and the high plateau where Machu Picchu is located. Today the climb was less demanding physically, but we started out this morning, for the first twenty minutes or so, in the fog and the mist and the rain, which completely changes the whole feeling of Machu Picchu. After two visits in as many days, I find the place even more stunning than when I first walked in. As I had written in my previous note,the place is strangely three-dimensional, and I am emphasizing this three-dimensionality because most of us live in two-dimensional worlds . You look across the buildings and your eye is immediately drawn upwards toward the heavens and downwards towards the gorge. It would be good to talk to the architects and engineers who built the place because I’m sure they had to throw the book away when they built this place. Did they make drawings? Since many of the buildings are put together with great mathematical precision, and since you just can’t build complex structures flying from the seat of your pants, I know the architects gave instructions to the bosses and engineers, so that they, in turn, could talk to the masons and other craftsmen who were doing the work. Much of the work is too complex to just “dream up” in your head and explain it to the workmen. They must have had drawings with specifications because the work is too precise to be otherwise. Yet, the culture that built Machu Picchu is gone, never to return, leaving no written records (and if they did, the Spaniards destroyed them). I find this sad for a couple of reasons. Obviously, they were skilled builders and engineers who knew their way around a construction site, had mad “heavy block” moving skills, and had an aesthetic eye for beauty, symmetry, and art, all mixed with an appreciation for the rocky mountain upon which the site sits. Today, again, I spent the entire morning climbing up or going down stairs, There is a sense that the people who lived at Machu Picchu lived lives that were as much about horizontal relationships as they were about vertical ones. Many people come to the site expecting to feel the energy, or whatever mystical thing that they expect, but I think if you do that, you miss the beauty and spectacle that is Machu Picchu as the weather changes, the light changes, the rain falls, the clouds rumble in, fog enshrouds the place, and the sun beats down on your head, and that’s the just the first three hours. The paradigm for living in this grand high plateau was different than it was for living in other places, such as Cusco, which is higher than Machu Picchu, because the mountains are so spectacular, rising and falling with incredible drama. This royal palace and religious site was grooved into a dramatic skit of the enormous and powerful Inca empire played out against the majestic mountains tops and deep gorges of this mountain range. The fact that no one lives there now is sad and melancholy as the ghosts of emperors past glide amongst the empty, roofless buildings, aimlessly playing out their last memories, over and over again. The tourists have changed Machu Picchu into something it never was, a public park and spectacle, but then again, this big empty place pays no attention to our comings and goings, blindly watching over the mountain top that was so carelessly abandoned over five hundred years ago. As they left that one last time, did they ever think they would return, or did they know that as they left, an era was ending?
On Machu Picchu II
So yesterday I got my first taste of Machu Picchu in person, and today I had the opportunity to re-traverse with a little more tranquility of spirit the thirteen switchbacks between Aguas Calientes and the high plateau where Machu Picchu is located. Today the climb was less demanding physically, but we started out this morning, for the first twenty minutes or so, in the fog and the mist and the rain, which completely changes the whole feeling of Machu Picchu. After two visits in as many days, I find the place even more stunning than when I first walked in. As I had written in my previous note,the place is strangely three-dimensional, and I am emphasizing this three-dimensionality because most of us live in two-dimensional worlds . You look across the buildings and your eye is immediately drawn upwards toward the heavens and downwards towards the gorge. It would be good to talk to the architects and engineers who built the place because I’m sure they had to throw the book away when they built this place. Did they make drawings? Since many of the buildings are put together with great mathematical precision, and since you just can’t build complex structures flying from the seat of your pants, I know the architects gave instructions to the bosses and engineers, so that they, in turn, could talk to the masons and other craftsmen who were doing the work. Much of the work is too complex to just “dream up” in your head and explain it to the workmen. They must have had drawings with specifications because the work is too precise to be otherwise. Yet, the culture that built Machu Picchu is gone, never to return, leaving no written records (and if they did, the Spaniards destroyed them). I find this sad for a couple of reasons. Obviously, they were skilled builders and engineers who knew their way around a construction site, had mad “heavy block” moving skills, and had an aesthetic eye for beauty, symmetry, and art, all mixed with an appreciation for the rocky mountain upon which the site sits. Today, again, I spent the entire morning climbing up or going down stairs, There is a sense that the people who lived at Machu Picchu lived lives that were as much about horizontal relationships as they were about vertical ones. Many people come to the site expecting to feel the energy, or whatever mystical thing that they expect, but I think if you do that, you miss the beauty and spectacle that is Machu Picchu as the weather changes, the light changes, the rain falls, the clouds rumble in, fog enshrouds the place, and the sun beats down on your head, and that’s the just the first three hours. The paradigm for living in this grand high plateau was different than it was for living in other places, such as Cusco, which is higher than Machu Picchu, because the mountains are so spectacular, rising and falling with incredible drama. This royal palace and religious site was grooved into a dramatic skit of the enormous and powerful Inca empire played out against the majestic mountains tops and deep gorges of this mountain range. The fact that no one lives there now is sad and melancholy as the ghosts of emperors past glide amongst the empty, roofless buildings, aimlessly playing out their last memories, over and over again. The tourists have changed Machu Picchu into something it never was, a public park and spectacle, but then again, this big empty place pays no attention to our comings and goings, blindly watching over the mountain top that was so carelessly abandoned over five hundred years ago. As they left that one last time, did they ever think they would return, or did they know that as they left, an era was ending?
On Lima, Peru
I am so glad I’ve finally come to Lima. I arrived this morning on the red-eye from Miami, and took off to see a pre-Inca ruin called Huaca Pucllana in the middle of the Miraflores township of Lima, which rises almost two hundred feet above the surrounding buildings. A huge mound of hand-made adobe bricks, the bricks are stacked vertically with space between them to fight the earthquake problem so common in this coastal city. This “pyramid” was totally unknown thirty years ago and three pre-Incan peoples occupied this sacred space. The people of Lima had collectively forgotten what it was and thought it was just a large, dusty (or muddy) hill in Miraflores. On a short tour we got to experience first hand all of the plants, fruits, and vegetables that the local people had eaten or sacrificed on this spot. We also got to meet, first hand, the famous Peruvian Cuy, Llamas, and Alpacas–live and in the flesh. Later, we went down to the ocean front to check out the beautiful Pacific before going to the most excellent ceviche lunch you have ever had. We stopped in at a sidewalk terrace for some well-deserved espressos afterward. Since there is no rest for the wicked or the foolish, we then got onto our tour bus to head downtown to the Plaza Mayor and check out the center of Lima. We visited (or observed from a distance) the city hall, the president’s mansion, the archbishop’s house, the cathedral, a Franciscan monastery (which had an enormously interesting bone pile underneath it), and the largest private museum of native indigenous artifacts that exists in Peru. We finally got back to the hotel for a bite of dinner around 7:30 p.m. Big thanks to Millennium Travel of Texas who had us controlled and directed from airport to hotel to Plaza Mayor to museum to the hotel. I was amazed at how kind the people are, how clean and wonderful the city is for a city of nine million souls. It’s not perfect, and no city is, but my experience was wonderful, having coffee, touring an ancient ruin, having ceviche, having a beverage down at the bay, walking the streets of this strange Lima. I bought the Sunday paper, read about the mayor’s impending recall election, watched a black cat cross my path in a city park, went to the “Parque del amor” with a giant statue of a couple locked in a passionate kiss and embrace, rode in a taxi which made up its own rules of circulation, ate real authentic ceviche, found out the difference between a llama and an alpaca, looked a Cuy square in the eyes, climbed to the top of a pyramid built almost two thousand years ago. I rather doubt I could have done much more before toppling over in exhaustion considering how little sleep I got last night–none. So Lima is complicated; I don’t understand how cars figure out who has the right away in this city. I love the coffee, which is very flavorful, but not at all bitter. Ceviche has a million textures, tastes, sauces. The people of Lima do what all people around the world do on their day off–go out and have a good time. The local buses are a mystery to me, especially what seem to be the suburban buses who pick up people in the center and take them out of the city. Nine tenths of the cars appear to be taxis. Now, it’s time for bed–great hotel, hot shower, and time to catch up on the writing, although I’m dead sure the second I stop moving, I’ll be asleep. Postscript update: the mayor survived her recall election by garnering 52% of the vote.
On Lima, Peru
I am so glad I’ve finally come to Lima. I arrived this morning on the red-eye from Miami, and took off to see a pre-Inca ruin called Huaca Pucllana in the middle of the Miraflores township of Lima, which rises almost two hundred feet above the surrounding buildings. A huge mound of hand-made adobe bricks, the bricks are stacked vertically with space between them to fight the earthquake problem so common in this coastal city. This “pyramid” was totally unknown thirty years ago and three pre-Incan peoples occupied this sacred space. The people of Lima had collectively forgotten what it was and thought it was just a large, dusty (or muddy) hill in Miraflores. On a short tour we got to experience first hand all of the plants, fruits, and vegetables that the local people had eaten or sacrificed on this spot. We also got to meet, first hand, the famous Peruvian Cuy, Llamas, and Alpacas–live and in the flesh. Later, we went down to the ocean front to check out the beautiful Pacific before going to the most excellent ceviche lunch you have ever had. We stopped in at a sidewalk terrace for some well-deserved espressos afterward. Since there is no rest for the wicked or the foolish, we then got onto our tour bus to head downtown to the Plaza Mayor and check out the center of Lima. We visited (or observed from a distance) the city hall, the president’s mansion, the archbishop’s house, the cathedral, a Franciscan monastery (which had an enormously interesting bone pile underneath it), and the largest private museum of native indigenous artifacts that exists in Peru. We finally got back to the hotel for a bite of dinner around 7:30 p.m. Big thanks to Millennium Travel of Texas who had us controlled and directed from airport to hotel to Plaza Mayor to museum to the hotel. I was amazed at how kind the people are, how clean and wonderful the city is for a city of nine million souls. It’s not perfect, and no city is, but my experience was wonderful, having coffee, touring an ancient ruin, having ceviche, having a beverage down at the bay, walking the streets of this strange Lima. I bought the Sunday paper, read about the mayor’s impending recall election, watched a black cat cross my path in a city park, went to the “Parque del amor” with a giant statue of a couple locked in a passionate kiss and embrace, rode in a taxi which made up its own rules of circulation, ate real authentic ceviche, found out the difference between a llama and an alpaca, looked a Cuy square in the eyes, climbed to the top of a pyramid built almost two thousand years ago. I rather doubt I could have done much more before toppling over in exhaustion considering how little sleep I got last night–none. So Lima is complicated; I don’t understand how cars figure out who has the right away in this city. I love the coffee, which is very flavorful, but not at all bitter. Ceviche has a million textures, tastes, sauces. The people of Lima do what all people around the world do on their day off–go out and have a good time. The local buses are a mystery to me, especially what seem to be the suburban buses who pick up people in the center and take them out of the city. Nine tenths of the cars appear to be taxis. Now, it’s time for bed–great hotel, hot shower, and time to catch up on the writing, although I’m dead sure the second I stop moving, I’ll be asleep. Postscript update: the mayor survived her recall election by garnering 52% of the vote.
On doors
We spend our entire lives going through doors. We open doors, close doors, lock doors. Doors might be ajar, open, locked, missing, stuck, or broken. We remember our bedroom doors or our front doors, but may have used the back door just as much. Did you ever leave your front door unlocked on purpose? Doors are a first-rate metaphor for all the opportunities we have in life. As one door closes, we hope another opens. Nothing like a slamming door to kill a mood. There are all sorts of doors out there: garage doors, outhouse doors, bathroom doors, closet doors, bedroom doors, screen doors, storm doors, patio doors, French doors, sliding doors. I have a bunch of cartoons on my office door. The doors we pass through may say a lot about us. Car doors come in many sizes and shapes, and they are fun to slam, too. I often leave doors half-open, but I’m not sure what this means–indecision or passive aggressive? I once painted a guy’s front door bright red, so that he could sell his house. On account of the beautiful front door, he sold his house to the first person who looked at it. Some people can only feel comfortable behind locked and closed doors, but I like to leave my office door open. Is it really a door if it has a window in it. Is a screen door on a submarine at least partially useful? There is a peep-hole in my front door so that I can barely see the person standing outside. Do you find doorbells to be either slightly kooky or marginally creepy, especially when they don’t work? I find that doors inside of a house are a bit of a paradox: do they open up the space in a room or do they close it off? A locked or closed door sends a very direct message. I like the giant doors on the far end of cathedrals. Secret doors, hidden doors, trap doors; invisible doors add mystery and a sense of drama to any story. A locked-door mystery–corpse inside, no suspect in sight–is always a nice mind bender. The kitchen is loaded with doors: cabinet, oven, refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and I love to stand with the refrigerator open and stare at the cool leftovers basking in the dim light of small white appliance bulb. You are either a door closer or a door opener, but you cannot be both, so you have to decide which it is that you are, and be that. At night I wander the house before going to bed, checking all of the doors to make sure they are all closed and locked. Not all doors have locks. Double-doors are almost as fun as swinging doors, revolving doors, or saloon doors. I have never broken down a door, but I have had to climb in a window because of a locked door. I get the feeling that most doors are not as easy to break down as the cops make it look like on television. Closing the barn door after the horse has gone does no good. Leaving one’s barn door open might often be a cause for embarrassment. Door men are quickly going out of style. Door jambs, door knobs, the Doors, Door County, door locks, door busters, door frame, door mats. Our lives revolve around doors, in our homes, offices, public buildings, and our keys are a mute testimony to the number of doors we go through every day, and I bet that, for the most part, we pay little or no attention to any of those doors.