10.31.2006

Seattle Public Library

It has always been Venturi’s role. He shows the way. He does it first, maybe not so well, but then others follow. In Seattle it has happened again. At the Seattle Art Museum, Venturi attempted to integrate the hillside topography into the form and function of the building. Bohlin Cywinski Jackson learned that lesson and improved upon it in the new Seattle City Hall. Now, Rem Koolhaas has brought this idea to its apex in the new Seattle Central Library. It is hard to imagine a building more thoroughly infused with its topography. One could start another way. The Seattle Central Library succeeds where Wright’s Guggenheim fails. The sloped and spiraling stacks are a master stroke. It is almost like being in a Jorge Louis Borge novel. How can one possibly be in the same room at the same time with so many books? Sometimes the views are disturbing – have we had an earthquake?, is the structure sagging under the weight of the books?, but mostly the spiral is just a joy.


Architectural moves, if they are to be valued, must have multiple reasons. The form of the Library qualifies. The spiral floor might have led to the exterior appearance of an overdressed parking garage. The form and the skin release the floors from the look of the place. In often dark and gloomy Seattle, the undulations of the skin serve to cut back the corners of the building. This increases the open space at the street intersections, opens up views of Elliot Bay below and allows much greater sun to the maturely tree canopied foreground of the Courthouse to the east. There is also the much deeper question about the walls of a street. This building would not work nearly so well if it did not cover an entire block. Gaudi’s row buildings in Barcelona often read as overbearing boors next to their buttoned-down neighbors. Because the library occupies an entire block, the unhappy, seemingly anti-urban, juxtapositions in Gaudi’s work do not occur. This building opens up a new way of doing the walls of the street. In the context of the otherwise unremitting verticality, Koolhaas’ walls are a breath of fresh air – at the same time, presumably, not nearly the wind generators of their neighbors either. In the early twentieth century, architects eroded the four walls and introduced interconnected, flowing interior space. With this building, Koolhaas suggests that we here in the twenty-first century have the opportunity to do something similar with our cities, with our outdoor urban spaces.


We don’t seem to be ready for a library as a tall building – think Phoenix or Chicago. This is a tall building but it does not give that impression – except at the back of the elevator tower in the central space. At first, the grid of the skin seems a waste. It seems the architect is wasting public resources in a self-indulgent extravaganza. But on further reflection, maybe this is not the case. Compared to a tall building with all of its columns and spandrels and mullions? The blurring of the differences between wall and roof, and the rigorous separation between skin and partition has profoundly simplified the skin and the labor necessary to complete it.


The entrances are curious, unmarked penetrations of the otherwise in many ways undifferentiated skin. The doors are unmarked. In some sense, there are no doors. What is this about? Once again, this opens up new possibilities for the character of the space we call the street. There is a strong technical boundary between the interior and exterior space. But the lack of a ceremonial entrance, the lack of arches or columns or even significant signage tends to soften the psychological boundary between the street and the library. The low psychological impact of the entrances avoids creating a strong boundary between the indoor and outdoor spaces. Combined with the relatively extravagant volume of the interior space and the tall, vertical building constrained outdoor street space, one feels very strongly that the library is as much a public space as the street itself.


One might make a few small complaints. The building is a bit of a secret. There is little indication on the outside of the richness of life inside. One might suggest that the stunning exterior demands a walk inside. No, I’ve been disappointed by that assumption too many times. The floor finishes are consistently demanding of ones attention in ways that are inappropriately distracting. Don’t miss the view of the carpet from above, though maybe it go a little out of hand where it attempts to mimic the real landscaping outside. The wood block floors are noisy and feel as if they are not quite securely fastened to the structure. The floors in the spiral ramps look like they will be the first thing in this building to be replaced. And the big steel stairs, in a library? Huh?


The city and the architects seem unquestionably to deserve high praise, but I must admit, it might be too early to tell. I haven’t seen it in the rain and in the dark. This is a building that will change under those conditions. That’s a good thing. Let’s hope it’s a good thing, inside and out, in this specific case.


While you are there, don’t miss the following items in the neighborhood. On a medium sunny day in the afternoon, have a seat facing south at the sidewalk tables at Tulio. Enjoy the reflections in the glazing on the black glass skyscraper two blocks south of the Library.
Then, walk south a block and look up and back at the Crowne Plaza Hotel. At this distance and in a certain light, this building is a gloriously soft pastel drawing. At the street and close up, the exposed aggregate and reflective glass panes are harsh and heavy, but from a distance they are a joy to behold. Finally, don’t miss the Plymouth Congregational Church – a Noah’s Ark of divinity fudge that suggests how far Edward Durrell Stone and others might have, but did not, go.


Originally written in September of 2004.

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