A Mormon Temple

Disclaimer: What follows is written as an architectural review. This should not be construed as a theological critique of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints (The Mormons). I have often driven on Interstate 5 north of San Diego to be confronted at Exit 28 with the splendiferous wonder of the San Diego Mormon Temple. No matter how many times I come upon it, I am always shocked. This white jumble of crystalline spires, full of symbology and topped with gilt sculptures glistening in the sun, is in-your-face architecture. It makes a statement.
There are approximately 140 Mormon temples distributed around the world, all of them different. The San Diego Mormon Temple - a regional center for Mormon rituals and ceremonies – is not to be confused with local Mormon churches. Temples are closed to the general public; only Mormons In Good Standing are permitted entrance and only with a “recommend” from their bishop. The rituals performed inside the temple include marriages “for all eternity”, baptism of the dead, and “sealing” children to parents to permanently establish after-death families. Young people come from a wide region for these events. Even though I knew I would not be allowed to enter the temple, on a recent visit to San Diego I was determined to at least write a proper architectural review for a structure that has arrested my attention so often. This time, instead of ogling the building at 60 miles per hour, I exited the freeway and entered the Mormon temple grounds.
Mormons have a reputation for organization. This is evidenced immediately in the orderly landscaping. Manicured lawns and tidy flower beds frame the building in symmetrical simplicity. Parking is efficiently and discretely handled so as not to distract from the main focus. The grounds are ample but not immense. The scale of the place is difficult to gauge at freeway drivebys. Up close it appeared smaller than I had thought. It is not the Vatican, after all. The building itself, in all its whiteness, is somewhat bigger than Space Mountain but smaller than Cinderella’s castle. Not to say I was disappointed. One keeps returning to its overwhelming whitey whiteness. Even the people inside are dressed in white suits (more on that later). In comparison to dark European cathedrals this is truly an immaculate conception. The effect is achieved by mixing marble dust in plaster. This refractive surface is what makes it seem ethereal. The structure all but coalesces out of the clouds. At night it is brilliantly illuminated and the freeway impact is even more overpowering. Several times after dark I have nearly caused a gawking accident. As with Las Vegas hotels, the importance of using architecture as advertising is not lost on the Mormon church.

So, how to describe the impressive architecture of this Mormon temple? The word that keeps coming to my mind is confection. Impressive does not necessarily equate with good. The effect is greatly impressive, but the design does not qualify as great architecture in the same way that Las Vegas hotels do not qualify as great architecture. There is no real substance behind any of this. Like a giant pastry confection – say a wedding cake -- this temple is sweetness in excess, piling layer upon layer of fairytale goodness borrowed from fantastic dream images that never were. It does not emerge from any legitimate thread of architectural theory. The main confectioners, architects William S. Lewis Jr. and Kenneth Moeller, claim some sort of gothic influence (according to one Mormon web site). Other than overwrought verticality there is nothing gothic about this building. In fact, one might describe it as anti-gothic since the main tenant of gothic architecture was to liberate interior space by reducing exterior structure. In this temple the interior space is anticlimactic. You might assume from the exterior visage that this soaring temple encloses a wondrous and soaring interior, as would any gothic cathedral. In fact most of the temple is divided into small spaces like the baptistery (total immersion tank supported by twelve golden oxen), changing rooms for ceremonies (long rows of doors as in the Marx brother’s “Day at the Opera”), and other esoteric, but apparently spatially undemanding, uses. The Celestial Room at the top of the west tower is the biggest space in the building but it is nothing like we would normally expect in a large ecclesiastical edifice. What impact the Celestial Room may have is more a result of interior decoration than architecture. How do I know about the interior layout if non-Mormons are forbidden entry? Two sources. First, I visited the Las Vegas temple before it was sealed “for time and all eternity.” Different architect; same program. Anyone may visit a temple during a public open house before it is consecrated. Like all modern temples, the Las Vegas building is divided into small spaces for ceremony with the aforementioned Celestial Room at the top. The Celestial Room is supposed to remind you of heaven. In Las Vegas heaven is, apparently, mauve carpeting and French provincial furniture. To each their own. As Mormon canon says, “ …we dreamed each man according to the impression of his dream.” (Genesis 41:11.)

My second source is the Nice Lady in Red who was the official greeter at the San Diego temple. Sitting at the ready on a shade-dappled stone bench with a laminated picture book of temple images, she was eager to answer the questions of visitors who wanted to learn more. She allowed me to photograph her pictures of the Celestial Room and the self-supporting grand stairway that fits under one of the temple’s towers.
The Nice Lady in Red was quite proud of the temple interior. It is similar to the Las Vegas version. She told me that when Mormons enter the Celestial Room they are all required to dress in white. She said this further enhances the impression that one might actually be in heaven. This image sticks in one’s mind. I wonder what they do in that room, gliding around like angels? Mormons seem to be enthralled with this sort of thing. So what’s the harm? I don’t wish to demean anyone’s religious inclinations, but the architectural harm lies in confusing this treacle with real architecture. Perhaps their overreaching is a result of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints being a newly-invented religion. They try very hard to establish their credibility by insisting on such grandiose buildings.

I fully understand that many people sincerely like this kind of building design. (I have a hard time calling it architecture.) I would ask them to look closely at their reactions. Do they really think it’s good architecture or is this just a visceral response to some pretty great special effects? We shouldn’t confuse good set design with good architecture. Truly, if the San Diego temple were painted green I would expect the Wizard of Oz inside. As for the Celestial Room, Morris Lapidus would have been proud. Morris Lapidus was an architect famous for designing over-the-top Miami Beach hotel lobbies in the 1950s. The Celestial Room rises no higher than this glam approach to interior design. I actually like it in hotels; it is suspect in a religious setting.

Such superficiality hardly seems like real architecture. The nut of the problem is, to borrow from Gertrude Stein, there is no there there. The San Diego Mormon Temple provides tantalizing suggestions that something might be going on. But with a cardboard cut-out approach to the exterior and no significant interior volume there’s not much meat and a lot of potatoes.
The Nice Lady in Red did her best to present this building in its most flattering light. I listened politely and without sarcasm. The second half of her book was about the Mormon religion. She explained how it was founded by Joseph Smith who came upon the angel Moroni in the woods near Palmyra, New York. He was led to golden tablets which he translated into the Book of Mormon using magic spectacles while hidden behind a curtain. The angel Moroni is commemorated atop one of the spires of the temple: a golden figure blowing on his trumpet. Naturally, I was moved to asked the Nice Lady in Red about Mormon doctrines, such as their past interest in polygamy and current funding of controversial political initiatives. She referred me to the Mormon missionary system, which I expect will come calling one of these days. I just hope they don’t try to convince me that there is any substance to their buildings. Finally, I have a confession: when the Nice Lady in Red was preoccupied with another visitor I approached the main entrance. Yes, I set foot inside the sliding doors. Maybe the lobby isn’t actually forbidden. I don’t know. There were two guys dressed in white (just like the Nice Lady in Red said there would be), one looking exactly like Colonel Sanders. They didn't look too alarmed at my presence. I wanted to ask them more questions, because I had plenty. But they were busy with Mormons In Good Standing awaiting access to the elevators that flanked the reception desk. I suppose the elevators went up to the Celestial Room. I left, satisfied that I had seen enough.

As a footnote, I have a question: if only Mormons In Good Standing may enter the temple, what happens when non-Mormon fire marshals need to make an inspection? I’ve always been curious about this. The Nice Lady in Red didn’t know the answer. In my office the fire marshals drop in annually to check the fire extinguishers and make sure fire exits are clear. If they happen to come when the office is closed they keep coming back until we are open. They are pretty insistent about making these regular inspections. If anyone knows the answer to this question I’d really like to know. Click on comments below to write your response. Thank you.

Rhythm

Musical analogies are frequently used to describe architecture. Rhythm is one musical concept that transfers effortlessly into the world of architecture.

Everybody knows what rhythm means in music. To be clear: rhythm is the pattern of musical movement through time formed by a series of notes differing in duration and stress. (All definitions from American Heritage Dictionary.) Describing rhythm in words almost obscures the meaning. We know what rhythm is and what different kinds of rhythm there are by listening to a jazz composition or a waltz or a rap tune. They all have different rhythms and we understand them through direct experience. The dictionary also provides a definition of rhythm as applied to visual arts: A regular or harmonious pattern created by lines, forms, and colors in painting , sculpture , and other visual arts. This gets closer to an architectural definition but is incomplete. We experience architecture with all our senses in both time and space. So, in architecture, rhythm can be seen not only in the surface patterns and decoration, but in the pace of interior spatial progressions. The interior of a barn, as interesting as it may be, is devoid of rhythm because there is simply not enough there to establish a rhythmic pattern.

The following floor plan illustrates rhythmic interaction in the public spaces of a residence. Starting at the foyer, moving up the curved stairs to a hall, then into the great room, the vertical axis demonstrates an “ABA” rhythm. It is important to understand that this a spatial rhythm. The floor plan alone cannot convey this fully. You have to imagine what the spaces feel like. The two “A” spaces are large, with higher ceilings and a change in floor levels; the “B” space is relatively narrow, compressed with a lower ceiling. One could extend this idea of rhythm to the exterior spaces as well. At the covered patio in the rear and to the covered entry outside the foyer. Since these are both relatively expansive spaces the rhythm could be described as AABAA. A minor rhythm, “DCBCD” runs perpendicular to the main rhythm. The two rhythms cross at “B”. The second rhythmic sequence is counterpoint – borrowing another musical concept. The “D” spaces are minor vestibules to the children’s bedrooms on the left and the master suite on the right. Though rhythm is repetitive, it is not necessarily about symmetry. The two “A”s are not identical; they’re simply similar in quality. The same with the two “D” spaces.

If all of this sounds too analytical, remember it is the three-dimensional experience that really counts.

Here is the same analysis for the same project in photographs instead of plan:

Does any of this really matter? It certainly does not matter that we analyze these things when we visit a place, though it may enhance our understanding. In the end, it is only the space that counts and how we react to it. But it does matter that these relationships exist. This is the how of architecture. Experientially, the effect is largely subconscious.

Spatial rhythms are the most complex expression of rhythm in architecture. Other uses of the concept are very direct and plain to see. We can see rhythmical patterns in building fenestration (the arrangement of windows) as in this example of Louis Sullivan’s Wainwright Building (St. Louis,
For a residential example we can turn to a model home for a speculative development in Tyler, Texas designed by Bruce Goff (c. 1974).
In the Wainwright Building you almost hear the music. Deep, deliberate basso rhythms in the blocky chunks of the first and second floors, moving to a higher-pitched rhythm of alternating verticals as the building ascends. Sullivan was a master of rhythmical composition. In the Goff design the band of windows is a clear and firm statement that is reemphasized in the clerestory. No misunderstandings are possible about the rhythmical theme. Notice the staccato counterpoint of the extended mullions that travel with the windows.

Below is another residential example by Lloyd Wright (Frank Lloyd Wright’s son) in Los Angeles. (Navarro House c.1929.) This is rich with complex rhythms. Repetitive patterns in the decorative copper. Rhythmical offsets in the massing. Vertical and horizontal modules in the fenestration. All of this interlocks like a Bach fugue.
For a larger scale example, more like the rhythm of a symphony, we only have to turn to more complex buildings, like the great cathedrals. Enormous spatial sequences establish a rhythm that is enriched by underlying rhythms of ribbed vaults and columns. Numerous other incidental rhythms are threaded through the whole to enrich the experience.
It was stated above that a barn is too simple to demonstrate rhythm. That is not entirely true. Alternating boards and spaces in the walls would generate rhythm, as would overhead beams and bracing. When that happens it may be interesting but it is largely accidental. The difference between a barn and a cathedral – or any serious work of architecture – is that real architecture is controlled with purpose in mind. In truly great architecture every aspect is coordinated. A theme is established and underlying rhythms support the whole. A piece of music must be disciplined by the structure of rhythm. A work of architecture is no different. Rhythm establishes order in the midst of chaos.

Once you become aware of the existence of rhythm in architecture you begin to see it everywhere. In decorative elements like these trellises. (Herb Green’s Cunningham house, Oklahoma City, OK 1963.) In stonework and architectural sculpture. (Bruce Goff’s Boston Avenue Methodist Church, Tulsa, Oklahoma 1929.)
In skylights (Paolo Soleri’s Cosanti Foundation, Scottsdale, Arizona, begun 1956.)
Rhythm surrounds us and provides a framework for artistic expression. The arches and lights of the Auditorium Theater by Louis Sullivan (Chicago, IL, 1889) illustrate how the bones of a building all but require a sense of rhythm. To close the musical analogy, the lyrics of Ira Gershwin sum things up pretty well: “I got rhythm…. Who could ask for anything more.”

Credits: Photos illustrating ABA and CBC rhythms by Rob Munger. Cathedral with blue roof by Rob Munger. All other photos by MJK. Architecture for floor plan example by Michael Knorr & Associates, Inc.

Narcotecture

These images get placed in my Architectectural Horrors File.... a file that is, sadly, already very thick. They come from P.J. Tobia, the Afghanistan correspondent on TrueSlant.com. He calls these monstrosities "narcotecture" or "poppy palaces." They are the type of fortified residences favored by drug kings in Kabul. I'm not qualified to comment on the occupation of the owners. But the architecture...really?

Nouveau riche always exbhibit this kind of bad taste. It reminds me of some of my neighbors in Las Vegas. Perhaps these two cities have something in common? This is agressive architecture that barks at you like a carny hawker. If the razor wire doesn't slice your skin the roof overhangs will.
A serious criticism of these structures is simply that nothing on any of them belongs. Each building is a collection of mismatched details and styles from different eras or nightmares. Greek columns with art deco parapets. Ali Baba portals with Los Angeles diner roofs. A Thai temple over a parking garage.

Check out Mr. Tobia's link if you want to see more.

Theme, Variation, Development

Architecture is often compared to music. Goethe called it “frozen music.” But architecture is anything but frozen. It is an experience that changes with the time of day, environmental conditions, age of the structure, and the viewpoint (both physical and cultural) of the participant.
Architecture engages all of the senses and is a dynamic experience. It is not frozen music or frozen anything. Yet, music provides useful terms to describe architecture. Architecture lacks a theoretical language of its own, and we borrow from other art forms to get a handle on what architecture is. A useful musical analogy is the concept of theme, variation, and development.

Most of us know what a theme means in music: a recognizable pattern of notes and chords. Such patterns (melodies; tunes) are the core of most musical compositions. In music, sound provides the theme. In architecture the theme is established with shapes and geometric volumes. Here is a simple shape – a rotated square with four small squares embedded. One can manipulate this simple theme by rotation and extension to create interesting variations. From this is is possible to develop the variations of a theme with an infinite number of choices in size, composition, organization, and even color. This playfulness with geometry can be seen in many cultures, from the bilateral symmetry of a Navajo rug to the single-axis symmetry of a Turkish prayer rug. In architecture these themes, with variation and development, become three-dimensional and more complex. It is like moving from checkers to chess. Geometry still plays its part. It may be right-angled geometry (most typical in western architecture). It may be an arrangement of arcs and curves combined with cubic forms, as found in many mosques. Or it may be a geometry of apparent chaos like the deconstructivist Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain. (Architect: Frank Gehry, 1997.) Music is a composition of sounds and silence; architecture is a composition of solids and voids. For example, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Bogk residence in Milwaukee (1916) is based on simple cubic forms which grow into an elaborate and sophisticated volumetric composition to emerge as architecture. A building may be only simple structure enclosing space, perhaps useful for some function like a warehouse or shed or an office building. But without an organizing theme behind the structure, it is not architecture. A theme helps give architecture meaning. Great architecture creates delightful environments where every detail builds upon the design theme, repeated in endless variations. Structures like the Bogk house are reminders to modern architects of the power of theme, variation, and development.

To return to the musical analogy: random sounds may be nothing more than noise; it takes organization — a theme with variations and development — to transform sounds into music. Architecture, being a three-dimensional art, has its primary themes in space. Solids and voids. Structure and volume. Other themes also exist in architecture: color, historical allusions, manipulations of scale. However, the geometry of space unfolding is the primary theme of an architectural experience.

One final example of theme, variation, development: vintage photographs of the Price House by Bruce Goff. (Designed 1956; destroyed by arson 1996.) This masterpiece of residential architecture is based on the rare module of an equilateral triangle. The extrapolation of this basic shape into three-dimensional architecture is in
evidence everywhere throughout the structure. This is architecture in its purest form.

Just so there is no mistake: the essence of architecture is not repetitious two-dimensional patterns. That is just wallpaper. In architecture the purpose of a theme is to build upon it spatially, creating human-purposed variations that develop into three-dimensional habitations. In skillful hands this aims to be a symphony rather than just a pleasant ditty.

Photo credits: Office building and mosque in the public domain. Guggenheim museum by Bill McDonough. Bogk house by MJK. Price house from Bruce Goff (photos probably by Joe Price).

Extending Architecture Into the Landscape

Many of my clients are familiar with the name Longshadow Classic Garden Ornaments, Ltd. Longshadow makes outdoor planters specified on a number of projects by Michael Knorr & Associates. On a recent road trip through the Midwest, I had an opportunity to visit Longshadow at their manufacturing facility near Pomona, Illinois. More on that in a moment. First, a description of what drew me to Longshadow in the first place and why we like to specify their product:

Architecture looks best when it connects to the landscape around it. Though architects usually aren’t directly involved in landscape design, the points of connection between building and landscape can reinforce an architectural theme. When architecture is extended into gardens, patios, terraces, and balconies, it becomes anchored to the earth. One way to accomplish this is by providing places for planters as illustrated in the two projects below.
Longshadow produces garden ornaments that lend themselves to this ethos. Their products are architectonic in design and scale. This means they almost look like part of the building. This is partly due to the manufacturing process, dry cast limestone – a method that goes back to structures in ancient Rome. It is also due to the care invested in the design of these products. Longshadow’s traditional designs use “ancient motifs of protection, life, and regeneration…. a symbolic language that has been shared for thousands of years about the fears and aspirations of all humans.” (Quotation from the Longshadow catalog.)

Longshadow also has an extensive Prairie School line which takes inspiration from the work of American architects such as Louis Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Walter Burley Griffin.
We have found that in both contemporary and traditional architecture, products like this anchor our buildings not only to the ground, but also to history. They imbue architecture with a timeless quality.

Longshadow is located well off the beaten path in the verdant hills near Pomona, Illinois. You might expect to find a business like this housed in a hulking industrial plant. What one actually encounters is an idyllic hundred-acre farm. Instead of grey smokestacks, there are tree-lined allees. Instead of a confined factory there is a plein-air environment with peacocks, dogs, and kittens roaming freely. Owners Charlotte Peters and Daniel Ward grew Longshadow as an artistic enterprise. With about twenty employees they have created a successful business that reflects high ideals; they clearly love what they do. Because of their efforts, we get to select from quality products that amplify architecture. An array of planters, urns, fountains, birdbaths, and other garden ornaments are reminiscent of an era when architecture worked with all arts in a collaborative way. It is good to know that such opportunities are still available.
Longshadow Classic Garden Ornaments, Ltd. is certainly not the only producer of quality architectural products, but they are definitely one of the best. That is why it was a pleasure to visit the facility and meet Charlotte and Daniel.

To quote philanthropist Bill Daniels (out of context), “The best is good enough for me.” That’s the way I feel when Longshadow’s products show up on my buildings.

Credits: Top photo by Rob Munger; all others by MJK.

Modern in the Guise of Traditional - Two Churches

One of the most interesting buildings in Santa Fe, New Mexico is the church of Cristo Rey, pictured below. Many people mistake it for a very old, traditional church. The adobe and weathered timbers provide a natural patina that appears to wear the mantel of great age. It is one of the largest adobe structures in the world. However, Cristo Rey is not as old as it looks. It was designed by noted architect John Gaw Meem in 1940. Not that long ago for a city founded in 1608.
John Gaw Meem was instrumental in codifying the Pueblo Revival and Territorial styles in Santa Fe, an architectural code that survives to this day. Much of the apparent history of Santa Fe, at least in its architecture, is ersatz history. Meem and his band of cohorts created the image of Santa Fe that we still revere: a mélange of architectural forms that give Santa Fe its unique character. Historicism but not history.

Cristo Rey is better appreciated as the modern building it really is. Its interlocking planes and unadorned surfaces are as pure as anything modern form-givers like Mies van der Rohe or Corbusier produced. The adobe massing foreshadows modern Mexican architects like Luis Berrigan and Ricardo Legoretta as well as Californian Mark Mack. These architects have created strong modern forms rooted in the desert southwest and Hispanic culture. Meem would certainly be at home in this group.

The best feature of Cristo Rey is the interior. In the simplest of ways Meem focuses our attention on the altar. Without resorting to electric spotlights (except at night) he bathes the altar in heavenly streams of pure white light. No distractions, no architectural gymnastics. In a straightforward, modern way our attention is directed to nowhere else but the altar. The narthex is secondary, barely noticeable at first. This is brilliant – both literally and figuratively. Upon entering Cristo Rey our thoughts go immediately to the symbols and artifacts that the Archbishop of Santa Fe and the Pope wish us to contemplate. [One can also contemplate the possible legal ownership of some of these artifacts by Santa Fean Gwen Battle Horne.]
This is effected by the use of clerestory windows to illuminate the church's hand-carved stone altar screen. These windows are out of sight from almost every vantage point. The ethereal results cannot be denied.
John Gaw Meem did not invent such architectural theatrics. Similar ideas go back at least to late Renaissance structures like the abbey church in Weltenburg, Germany. (By architects Cosmas Damian and Egid Quirin Asam, 1717.) With John Gaw Meem, the architectural device is simple, direct, and modern in application. The wall surfaces are unadorned, the structure honestly expressed, the natural light introduced without baroque fanfare. Modern audiences are “in” on the trick but still delight in the magic. The secret is revealed in the photo below.
Compare Cristo Rey to another New Mexican landmark, the church of San Francisco de Asis at Ranchos de Taos, shown below. Also of adobe-and-timber construction, it is old in both time and attitude. Completed in 1815 (architect unknown) the attraction of the Ranchos church is the sculptural quality of its four-foot-thick walls and its sense of place as a focal point for the village. The Ranchos church is probably the most photographed in New Mexico and has been the subject of paintings by nearly every southwest-style artist, both good and bad. Painting it seems to be a rite of passage for anyone working in the genre. It is not difficult to understand its appeal to artists. They immediately appreciate the building's abstract qualities. It is sensually sculptural. Surfaces are bleached to desert hues by the sun; edges are melted by the elements. The soft forms tell a story about the people who crafted the hand-plastered adobe. Everything about the exterior is captivating, hypnotic.

In contrast, the interior is a secondary experience, somewhat anticlimactic. It is a conventional cruciform plan with no particular architectural interest. Which is not to say it lacks charm or historical value. However, it certainly does not have the panache of Meem’s essay in shadow and light as can be seen in this 1934 photo of the Ranchos church from the Library of Congress:
It is the exterior we appreciate as pure, organic form. At the Ranchos church, time coalesces into matter.
Undoubtedly John Gaw Meem was influenced by the subtle power of this famous structure. Meem reinterpreted these iconic forms to create a thoroughly modern work of architecture inside and out at Cristo Rey.

Of course, there is much to appreciate in both Cristo Rey and the Ranchos de Taos church. The unique qualities of each will richly reward the architectural gourmet. Bon apetit!