September 16, 2005
Gaudi Patter
We slept in late our first day in Barcelona. I opened the curtains to see the vista from our fifth-floor window. The cafes across the street were bustling, the pizza joint had a regular cycle of kids on scooters in and out with pies, and then -- my eyes were involuntarily drawn up and the to left.
Several massive cranes were looking down on one of the strangest things I -- and likely most people reading this -- will be likely to see in this lifetime: the still-under-construction cathedral known as La Sagrada Familia.
Crazy, crazy towers that lack the perfection and symmetry one associates with a cathedral were all I could glimpse over the terra cotta rooftops. It looked like something that had started to grow of its own accord -- entirely unlike anything a rational person would sit down and carefully design, engineer and construct.
Yet, that's exactly what Antoni Gaudi did. Gaudi, a Barcelona-born architect, was a crazy person -- the best kind of crazy. His early work more or less conformed to other ideas of the time -- well-adorned structures that demonstrated the clients' standing in the community.
But then (and this is all based on what I've seen of his work, not an in-depth study of his career), he appears to have lost his fool mind, taking it upon himself to integrate organic forms into brick and mortar, steel and stone.
He left his mark on the city. His "broken eye" (if I may channel a pretentious art student's voice for a moment) provided an entirely distinctive POV that became highly desirable among the upper crust who could afford his services. In North America, I don't think he'd have been celebrated -- I think he'd have been committed to a sanitarium. I'm not a architectural expert, but my eyes tell me Gaudi's style gave every Barcelona architect "permission" to be a little weird.
Not only did he get progressively bolder in his desire to meld nature with architecture, he was given a grand commission -- the construction of a major cathedral. Work began in 1882, and some sources indicate that they don't expect to complete it for another 50 years. (We've seen at least one cathedral on our trip where ground was consecrated 400 years before the structure was officially deemed finished, so they're making good time.)
As we walked the five blocks to Temple de la Sagrada Familia, the building more or less disappeared behind apartment blocks. And then, we turned a corner on Calle de Sardenya and were smacked full in the face with what film directors call "the dramatic reveal."
Eight of twelve 100-meter high bell towers are already completed -- they're covered in mosaics depicting anything and everything -- holy words, names of the apostles, fruit that can be found in each of the four seasons, animals that made it aboard Noah's Ark ...
Pardon the run-on sentence, but it's simply staggering. I know I'll lose some cool points by admitting this, but when we turned the corner, my eyes went up, and my jaw literally dropped open. If you go to Spain, go straight to Barcelona so you'll understand what I'm trying to convey. Otherwise, I'll just sound like a crazy person.
We paid our admission fee (the ongoing work is funded entirely by private donations) and stood in line to enter, admiring the ornate carvings that combine to create the Facade of the Nativity. I followed Liz into a long line of people queuing up to see the inside -- apparently, we were waiting for a chance to ascend the bell towers.
Had I known this, I might have had some discussion with her on the topic. I have no shame in admitting that I'm, er, somewhat agraphobic. A broad condition, but in my case, it means I get the sweats when more than a safe jumping distance from the Earth's surface. I just don't like heights.
But we were already in line, and bugging out would have revealed a lack of character. I won't go into detail to describe the ascent/descent, but suffice to say, I perspired away the previous night's sangria, and then some. All the shoving from behind in the narrow spiral corridor at the hands of French tourists didn't ease my mind, either.
Back on the ground, I inhaled a bottle of water inside the cathedral's main structure. An odd feeling, walking through a massive chapel still under construction. Crossbeams and struts cris-cross the enormous open space; the unfinished roof and walls admit natural light and provide glimpses of the bell towers 90 meters above where we'd clambered about for the better part of an hour.
Liz placed her hand on a sack of cement that will be used to create a wall, column or floor in this majestic structure. I imagined the worshippers who might fill this space after I'm dead, barely aware of the brusque sightseers rushing past, many holding conversations in less-than-reverential tones. At the beginning of the trip, they would have annoyed me far more, but by now, I've grown used to tourists with no sense of place or propriety. Well, almost.
Let me just say this: Americans abroad don't hold a monopoly on being abrasive or vexatious. In the name of fairness, I think they should come up with a new phrase to replace "Ugly American" -- many people simply have no manners.
We exited the nave on the other side, casting our eyes heavenward to admire the craftsmanship of the Facade of the Passion. In stone and tile, two generations of sculptors are depicting the story of the crucifixion and resurrection. Whether you're a believer or not, you'd need a heart hewn from the same stone as the archways not to be moved by the artistry.
Standing there in the setting sun, I tapped Liz on the shoulder.
"I don't think I've ever seen seen butresses flying like that."
Her eyes followed my outstretched hand to regard the supports that bear the load of the cathedral walls. They resemble gnarled, upturned trees with a stout trunk that descends and elaborates into branches that take root in the foundation.
Enough from me: look at the gallery of images we captured that day. I kept wishing I had a wide-angle lens, but I'm not so certain it would have helped. The building is in constant, fluid motion, and even after the last brick is laid, it will never be at rest.
Posted by Walter at September 16, 2005 07:19 PM