Explore the World’s First 3D Replica of St. Peter’s Basilica, Made with AI

In the trail­er below for the world’s first 3D repli­ca of St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca, Yves Ubel­mann speaks of using “AI for Good,” which isn’t just an ide­al, but also the name of a lab at Microsoft. Microsoft and Ubel­man’s dig­i­tal-preser­va­tion com­pa­ny Iconem were two of the par­tic­i­pants in that ambi­tious project, along with the Vat­i­can itself. Pope Fran­cis, writes AP’s Nicole Win­field, “has called for the eth­i­cal use of AI and used his annu­al World Mes­sage of Peace this year to urge an inter­na­tion­al treaty to reg­u­late it, argu­ing that tech­nol­o­gy lack­ing human val­ues of com­pas­sion, mer­cy, moral­i­ty and for­give­ness were too great.”

What bet­ter show of good faith in the tech­nol­o­gy than to allow AI to be used to bring the cen­ter of the faith Pope Fran­cis rep­re­sents to the world? In the near­ly 400 years since its com­ple­tion, of course, the world has always come to the cur­rent St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca, and will con­tin­ue to do so.

The 3D-repli­ca project “has been launched ahead of the Vatican’s 2025 Jubilee, a holy year in which more than 30 mil­lion pil­grims are expect­ed to pass through the basilica’s Holy Door, on top of the 50,000 who vis­it on a nor­mal day,” Win­field writes. But no mat­ter where in the world you hap­pen to be, you can vir­tu­al­ly enter St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca right now, and spend as long as you like, admir­ing the basil­i­ca itself, the cupo­la, Bernini’s St. Peter’s Bal­dachin, and Michelan­gelo’s Pietà, among oth­er fea­tures.

How­ev­er impor­tant (and atten­tion-draw­ing) arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence was as a tool in the cre­ation of this ultra-pre­cise “dig­i­tal twin” of St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca, the four-week process of cap­tur­ing every detail of the real struc­ture that could be cap­tured also neces­si­tat­ed the use of drones, lasers, and cam­eras tak­ing more than 400,000 dig­i­tal pho­tos. The “AI for Good Lab con­tributed advanced tools that refined the dig­i­tal twin with mil­lime­ter-lev­el accu­ra­cy, and used AI to help detect and map struc­tur­al vul­ner­a­bil­i­ties like cracks and miss­ing mosa­ic tiles,” says Microsoft­’s site. “The Vat­i­can over­saw the col­lab­o­ra­tion, ensur­ing the preser­va­tion of the Basil­i­ca as a cul­tur­al, spir­i­tu­al, and his­tor­i­cal­ly sig­nif­i­cant site for years to come.”

It makes a cer­tain sense to apply the high­est tech­nol­o­gy of our time for the ben­e­fit of a build­ing known as the great­est archi­tec­tur­al mar­vel of its time. But in order to bet­ter appre­ci­ate the kind of knowl­edge that will be revealed by the 22 petabytes of infor­ma­tion that went into the dig­i­tal mod­el (which offers its own guid­ed tour) we’d do well to immerse our­selves first in what was already known about St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca. For a brief intro­duc­tion to the con­cep­tion and evo­lu­tion of this grand church as it stands today, we could do much worse than archi­tec­ture-and-his­to­ry YouTu­ber Manuel Bravo’s video “St Peter’s Basil­i­ca Explained.” If you watch it, don’t be sur­prised if you find your­self tempt­ed to engage in pro­longed explo­ration of the mod­el — or indeed, to book a vis­it to the real thing. Enter the dig­i­tal St. Peter’s here.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Take a 3D Vir­tu­al Tour of the Sis­tine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca and Oth­er Art-Adorned Vat­i­can Spaces

High-Res­o­lu­tion Walk­ing Tours of Italy’s Most His­toric Places: The Colos­se­um, Pom­peii, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca & More

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

The Vat­i­can Library Goes Online and Dig­i­tizes Tens of Thou­sands of Man­u­scripts, Books, Coins, and More

Rome Reborn: A New 3D Vir­tu­al Mod­el Lets You Fly Over the Great Mon­u­ments of Ancient Rome

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Explore Burj Al Babas, Turkey’s Abandoned Town of 587 Disney-Style Castles

Burj Al Babas might have been con­struct­ed express­ly to attract the atten­tion of the inter­net. “Sit­ting near the Black Sea, the town is full of half-fin­ished, ful­ly aban­doned mini cas­tles — 587 of them to be exact,” write Archi­tec­tur­al Digest’s Kather­ine McLaugh­lin and Jes­si­ca Chern­er. Orig­i­nal­ly “planned as a lux­u­ri­ous, state­ly urban devel­op­ment offer­ing the look of roy­al liv­ing for any­one will­ing to shell out any­where from $370,000 to $500,000 for their own lit­tle palace,” it now stands as an unfin­ished ghost town. And though the project only broke ground a decade ago, it’s already set­tled into a ver­i­ta­bly eerie — and high­ly pho­tograph­able — state of decay.

This, of course, more than suits the sen­si­bil­i­ties of an adven­ture-ori­ent­ed YouTube chan­nel like Fear­less & Far. Its explo­ration of Burj Al Babas — one of sev­er­al such videos cur­rent­ly avail­able — offers on-the-ground views of what we can only call the town’s ruins. “This fan­ta­sy par­adise land did­n’t sell,” says its host. “Some blame the Turk­ish real estate cri­sis; some blame the kitsch­i­ness of it all. It’s all so strange. It’s all so fake.”

Indeed, write McLaugh­lin and Chern­er, “as build­ing the town got under­way, locals became enraged with both the aes­thet­ic of the homes and the busi­ness prac­tices of the devel­op­ers,” who sub­se­quent­ly declared bank­rupt­cy, leav­ing the devel­op­ment in lim­bo.

Those who know their Mid­dle East­ern lan­guages will rec­og­nize the very name Burj Al Babas as a “non­sen­si­cal mashup of Ara­bic and Turk­ish,” as Ruth Michael­son and Beril Eski put it in an in-depth Guardian piece last month. Though locat­ed in Turkey, with an intent to take advan­tage of local hot springs, it was financed with mon­ey from Kuwait, Sau­di Ara­bia and Bahrain. Since its con­struc­tion “abrupt­ly stopped in 2016, the project has become a bizarre white ele­phant,” caus­ing scan­dal, law­suits, an attempt­ed sui­cide, “and even a minor diplo­mat­ic inci­dent between Turkey and Kuwait.” Any­one who’s seen Burj Al Babas up-close will have their doubts about its prospects for com­ple­tion — but if they’ve got a YouTube chan­nel of their own, they’ll hard­ly want demo­li­tion to start before they can pay it a vis­it them­selves.

Relat­ed con­tent:

A Vis­it to Tian­ducheng, China’s Eeri­ly Emp­ty $1 Bil­lion Copy of Paris

Dis­cov­er the Ghost Towns of Japan – Where Scare­crows Replace Peo­ple, and a Man Lives in an Aban­doned Ele­men­tary School Gym

Explor­ing the Great­est of Italy’s 6,000 Ghost Towns: Take a Tour of Cra­co, Italy

Dis­cov­er the Dis­ap­pear­ing Turk­ish Lan­guage That is Whis­tled, Not Spo­ken

A Cul­tur­al Tour of Istan­bul, Where the Art and His­to­ry of Three Great Empires Come Togeth­er

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How Designing Buildings Upside-Down Revolutionized Architecture, Making Possible St. Paul’s Cathedral, Sagrada Família & More

For 142 years now, Sagra­da Família has been grow­ing toward the sky. Or at least that’s what it seems to be doing, as its ongo­ing con­struc­tion real­izes ever more ful­ly a host of forms that look and feel not quite of this earth. It makes a kind of sense to learn that, in design­ing the cathe­dral that would remain a work in progress near­ly a cen­tu­ry after his death, Antoni Gaudí built a mod­el upside-down, mak­ing use of grav­i­ty in the oppo­site way to which we nor­mal­ly think of it as act­ing on a build­ing. But as archi­tec­ture YouTu­ber Stew­art Hicks explains in the video above, Gaudí was hard­ly the first to use that tech­nique.

Take St. Paul’s Cathe­dral, which Christo­pher Wren decid­ed to make the tallest build­ing in Lon­don in 1685. It includ­ed what would be the high­est dome ever built, at 365 feet off the ground. “For a tra­di­tion­al dome design to reach this height, it would have to span an open­ing that’s 160 feet or 49 meters wide, but this made it much too heavy for the walls below,” says Hicks. “Exist­ing tech­niques for build­ing this just could­n’t work.” Enter sci­en­tist-engi­neer Robert Hooke, who’d already been fig­ur­ing out ways to mod­el forces like this by hang­ing chains from the ceil­ing.

“Hooke’s genius was that he real­ized that the chain in his exper­i­ments was cal­cu­lat­ing the per­fect shape for it to remain in ten­sion, since that’s all it can do.” He explained domes as, phys­i­cal­ly, “the exact oppo­site of the chains. His famous line was, ‘As hangs the flex­ile line, so but invert­ed will stand the rigid arch.’ ” In oth­er words, “if you flip the shape of Hooke’s chain exper­i­ments upside down, the forces flip, and this shape is the per­fect com­pres­sion sys­tem.” Hence the dis­tinc­tive­ly elon­gat­ed-look­ing shape of the dome on the com­plet­ed St. Paul’s Cathe­dral, a depar­ture from all archi­tec­tur­al prece­dent.

The shape upon which Wren and Hooke set­tled turned out to be very sim­i­lar to what archi­tec­ture now knows as a cate­nary curve, a con­cept impor­tant indeed to Gaudí, who was “famous­ly enam­ored with what some call organ­ic forms.” He made detailed mod­els to guide the con­struc­tion of his projects, but after those he’d left behind for Sagra­da Família were destroyed by anar­chists in 1936, the builders had noth­ing to go on. Only in 1979 did the young archi­tect Mark Bur­ry “imag­ine the mod­els upside-down,” which brought about a new under­stand­ing of the build­ing’s com­plex, land­scape-like forms. It was a sim­i­lar phys­i­cal insight that made pos­si­ble such dra­mat­ic mid-cen­tu­ry build­ings as Anni­bale Vitel­lozzi and Pier Nervi’s Palazzet­to del­lo Sport and Eero Saari­nen’s TWA Flight Cen­ter: pure Space Age, but root­ed in the Enlight­en­ment.

Relat­ed con­tent:

How the World’s Biggest Dome Was Built: The Sto­ry of Fil­ip­po Brunelleschi and the Duo­mo in Flo­rence

How This Chica­go Sky­scraper Bare­ly Touch­es the Ground

Why Hasn’t the Pantheon’s Dome Col­lapsed?: How the Romans Engi­neered the Dome to Last 19 Cen­turies and Count­ing

An Archi­tec­tur­al Tour of Sagra­da Família, Antoni Gaudí’s Auda­cious Church That’s Been Under Con­struc­tion for 142 Years

A Guid­ed Tour of the Largest Hand­made Mod­el of Impe­r­i­al Rome: Dis­cov­er the 20x20 Meter Mod­el Cre­at­ed Dur­ing the 1930s

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

 

The Fake Buildings of New York: What Happens Inside Their Mysterious Walls

You can’t go on a walk with a seri­ous enthu­si­ast of New York his­to­ry with­out hear­ing the sto­ries behind at least a few notable, beau­ti­ful, or down­right strange build­ings. Yet most long­time New York­ers, famed for tun­ing out their sur­round­ings to bet­ter strive for their goals of the day, tend not even to acknowl­edge the struc­tures liable to catch the atten­tion of out-of-town­ers. Take 58 Jorale­mon Street in Brook­lyn Heights: “From the out­side, it looks like your typ­i­cal town­house,” says urban explor­er Cash Jor­dan in his video above — but then you notice its blacked-out win­dows, bunker-like met­al cladding, and appar­ent­ly un-open­able door.

Though it was indeed a town­house when first built in 1847, 58 Jorale­mon Street was hol­lowed out and con­vert­ed into one sub­way-sys­tem vent back in 1907. But the build­ings right on either side remain res­i­dences, one of which, as Jor­dan finds, sold not long ago for $6 mil­lion.

In a com­plete­ly dif­fer­ent, more iso­lat­ed con­text stands the Streck­er Memo­r­i­al Lab­o­ra­to­ry on Roo­sevelt Island. Built in 1892 as a lab­o­ra­to­ry for City Hos­pi­tal, it opened as “the first insti­tu­tion in the nation for patho­log­i­cal and bac­te­ri­o­log­i­cal research,” an activ­i­ty it makes sense to keep apart from a dense urban envi­ron­ment. Aban­doned in the nine­teen-fifties, it lat­er became anoth­er sub­way facil­i­ty, specif­i­cal­ly a pow­er con­ver­sion sub­sta­tion.

Jor­dan also vis­its a fake build­ing well out on Pier 34, and one that also pro­vides a func­tion essen­tial to New York tran­sit: ven­ti­lat­ing the smoke and exhaust out of the Hol­land Tun­nel. Owned and oper­at­ed by pub­lic agen­cies, these struc­tures per­form well-doc­u­ment­ed and entire­ly non-secret func­tions. The same can’t be said of the last and most strik­ing fake build­ing Jor­dan intro­duces, a win­dow­less Bru­tal­ist tow­er con­struct­ed in 1969 at 33 Thomas Street in Low­er Man­hat­tan. Owned by AT&T, it seems once to have been a tele­phone switch­ing sta­tion, but has late­ly been rumored to be a “huge dooms­day bunker.” That’s one the­o­ry, any­way, and the build­ing’s sin­is­ter appear­ance could inspire count­less oth­ers. Not that many locals are imag­in­ing them, obey­ing as they do one of the cen­tral com­mand­ments of Man­hat­tan: don’t look up.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Sto­ry of the Flat­iron Build­ing, “New York’s Strangest Tow­er”

New York’s Lost Sky­scraper: The Rise and Fall of the Singer Tow­er

An Intro­duc­tion to the Chrysler Build­ing, New York’s Art Deco Mas­ter­piece, by John Malkovich (1994)

The Old­est House in New York City: Meet the Wyck­off House (1652)

Archi­tect Breaks Down Five of the Most Icon­ic New York City Apart­ments

A 3D Ani­ma­tion Shows the Evo­lu­tion of New York City (1524 — 2023)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

 

Take a Tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Ennis House, the Mansion That Has Appeared in Blade Runner, Twin Peaks & Countless Hollywood Films

There are more than a few of us who’d enjoy the oppor­tu­ni­ty to live in a house that appears in Blade Run­ner; there are rather few of us who would val­ue that oppor­tu­ni­ty at $23 mil­lion, the ask­ing price giv­en in the 2019 Archi­tec­tur­al Digest video on Frank Lloyd Wright’s 1924 Ennis House above. Yet even beyond the Wright pedi­gree and the Blade Run­ner pres­tige, the house has also appeared in a host of oth­er films, a screen résumé that begins nine years after its con­struc­tion, when it made its screen debut as the man­sion of a lady auto tycoon in Michael Cur­tiz’s Female.

In the decades that fol­lowed, it went on to pro­vide set­tings for pic­tures — usu­al­ly genre pic­tures — like The House on Haunt­ed Hill, The Day of the Locust, The Replace­ment Killers, and Rush Hour. “The Ennis house appar­ent­ly tran­scends space and time,” says the nar­ra­tion of Thom Ander­sen’s doc­u­men­tary Los Ange­les Plays Itself. ” It could be fic­tion­al­ly locat­ed in Wash­ing­ton or Osa­ka. It could play an ancient vil­la, a nine­teenth-cen­tu­ry haunt­ed house, a con­tem­po­rary man­sion, a twen­ty-first-cen­tu­ry apart­ment build­ing, or a twen­ty-sixth-cen­tu­ry sci­ence lab where Klaus Kin­s­ki invents time trav­el.”

The Ennis House soon became visu­al short­hand for the home of wealthy, flam­boy­ant­ly sin­is­ter B‑movie vil­lains. That makes all the more notable its use in Blade Run­ner (a film that made sev­er­al clichéd Los Ange­les loca­tions fresh again), which turns it into the tow­er where Deckard lives. Even the set-built inte­ri­or of his apart­ment uses the same Mayan-motif tiles as the house­’s famous con­crete-block exte­ri­or. But the real rooms of the Ennis House have also received plen­ty of screen time, not just in the movies but also on tele­vi­sion — and even tele­vi­sion-with­in-tele­vi­sion, in the case of Twin Peaks’  fic­tion­al soap opera Invi­ta­tion to Love.

As the last of Wright’s Mayan Revival hous­es, the Ennis House marks the end of his attempt to break into south­ern Cal­i­for­nia. The archi­tect him­self lat­er admit­ted that it had exceed­ed rea­son­able scale: “That’s what you do, you know, after you get going, and get going so far, that you get out of bounds,” he said. “I think the Ennis House was out of bounds for a con­crete-block house.” Like much of Wright’s work, it also proved bet­ter to pho­to­graph than inhab­it; despite its most recent and ambi­tious ren­o­va­tion being com­plet­ed just a few years ear­li­er, it end­ed up sell­ing for $5 mil­lion below ask­ing price. I appre­ci­ate Blade Run­ner as much as any­one, but $18 mil­lion is still more than I’d pay for a 40-minute walk to the sub­way.

Relat­ed con­tent:

That Far Cor­ner: Frank Lloyd Wright in Los Ange­les – A Free Online Doc­u­men­tary

A Beau­ti­ful Visu­al Tour of Tir­ran­na, One of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Remark­able, Final Cre­ations

Inside the Beau­ti­ful Home Frank Lloyd Wright Designed for His Son (1952)

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Dog­house, His Small­est Archi­tec­tur­al Cre­ation (1956)

What Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unusu­al Win­dows Tell Us About His Archi­tec­tur­al Genius

12 Famous Frank Lloyd Wright Hous­es Offer Vir­tu­al Tours: Hol­ly­hock House, Tal­iesin West, Falling­wa­ter & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Frank Lloyd Wright Thought About Making the Guggenheim Museum Pink

Image via The Frank Lloyd Wright Foun­da­tion Archives

Seen today, the Solomon R. Guggen­heim Muse­um, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, seems to occu­py sev­er­al time peri­ods at once, look­ing both mod­ern and some­how ancient. The lat­ter qual­i­ty sure­ly has to do with its bright white col­or, which we asso­ciate (espe­cial­ly in such an insti­tu­tion­al con­text) with Greek and Roman stat­ues. But just like those stat­ues, the Guggen­heim was­n’t actu­al­ly white to begin with. “Few­er and few­er New York­ers may recall that the muse­um, in a then-grim­i­er city, used to be beige,” writes the New York Times’ Michael Kim­mel­man. “Robert Moses thought it looked like ‘jaun­diced skin.’ ” Hence, pre­sum­ably, the deci­sion dur­ing a 1992 expan­sion to paint over the earth­en hue of Wright’s choice.

Not that beige was the only con­tender in the design phase. Look at the archival draw­ings, Kim­mel­man writes, and you’ll find “a reminder that Wright had con­tem­plat­ed some pret­ty far-out col­ors — Chero­kee red, orange, pink.”

The very thought of that last “leads down a rab­bit hole of alter­na­tive New York his­to­ry,” and if you’re curi­ous to see what a pink Guggen­heim might have looked like from the street, David Romero at Hooked on the Past has cre­at­ed a few dig­i­tal­ly mod­i­fied pho­tos. The result hard­ly comes off as being in taste quite as poor as one might expect; in fact, it could have fit quite well into the Mem­phis-embrac­ing nine­teen-eight­ies, and even the post­mod­ern nineties. The image above, show­ing the Guggen­heim imag­ined in pink, comes from The Frank Lloyd Wright Foun­da­tion Archives.

But as it is, “closed off to the city around it, the building’s anti­sep­tic, spank­ing-white facade, today is in keep­ing with the neigh­bor­hood.” That itself is in keep­ing with Wright’s ideas for trans­form­ing the Amer­i­can city, which he kept on putting forth until the end of his life. Attempt­ing to solve “the prob­lem of the inner city,” he con­ceived “fan­tas­ti­cal megas­truc­tures for places like down­town Pitts­burgh, Bagh­dad, and Madi­son, Wis­con­sin,” all of them “city-based but anti-urban projects, divorced from the streets.” Even work­ing in the Unit­ed States’ dens­est metrop­o­lis, Wright expressed a long­ing for the splen­did iso­la­tion of the Amer­i­can coun­try­side, where a man — at least as the lore has it — can paint his house any col­or he pleas­es.

via Messy Nessy/Hooked on the Past

Relat­ed con­tent:

Frank Lloyd Wright Designs an Urban Utopia: See His Hand-Drawn Sketch­es of Broad­acre City (1932)

The Unre­al­ized Projects of Frank Lloyd Wright Get Brought to Life with 3D Dig­i­tal Recon­struc­tions

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Plan to Turn Ellis Island Into a Futur­is­tic Jules Verne-Esque City (1959)

Build Wood­en Mod­els of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Great Build­ing: The Guggen­heim, Uni­ty Tem­ple, John­son Wax Head­quar­ters & More

Behold Ancient Egypt­ian, Greek & Roman Sculp­tures in Their Orig­i­nal Col­or

The Guggen­heim Puts 109 Free Mod­ern Art Books Online

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

An Architect Breaks Down the 5 Most Common Styles of College Campus

Every now and again on social media, the obser­va­tion cir­cu­lates that Amer­i­cans look back so fond­ly on their col­lege years because nev­er again do they get to live in a well-designed walk­a­ble com­mu­ni­ty. The orga­ni­za­tion of col­lege cam­pus­es does much to shape that expe­ri­ence, but so do the build­ings them­selves. “Peo­ple often say that col­lege is the best four years of your life,” says archi­tect Michael Wyet­zn­er in the new Archi­tec­tur­al Digest video above, “but it was also like­ly that it was some of the best archi­tec­ture you’ve been around as well.” He goes on to iden­ti­fy, explain, and con­tex­tu­al­ize the five build­ing styles most com­mon­ly seen on Amer­i­can col­lege cam­pus­es: colo­nial, Col­le­giate Goth­ic, mod­ernism, bru­tal­ism, and post­mod­ernism.

For exam­ples of colo­nial cam­pus archi­tec­ture, look no fur­ther than the Ivy League, only one of whose schools was built after the Dec­la­ra­tion of Inde­pen­dence — whose author, Thomas Jef­fer­son, lat­er designed the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vir­ginia, draw­ing much inspi­ra­tion (if not always first-hand) from ancient Greece and Rome. “Iron­i­cal­ly, after the US declared inde­pen­dence, new­er schools want­ed to look old­er,” says Wyet­zn­er, a desire that spawned the endur­ing Col­le­giate Goth­ic style. Con­struct­ed out of mason­ry and brick, its ear­li­est build­ings tend to pick and choose fea­tures of gen­uine Goth­ic archi­tec­ture while mix­ing and match­ing them with the design lan­guages of oth­er times and places. More recent exam­ples have been stren­u­ous­ly faith­ful by com­par­i­son, incor­po­rat­ing gar­goyles and all.

When they arise, archi­tec­tur­al styles tend to align them­selves with the old or the new, and it was the lat­ter that over­took col­lege cam­pus­es after the Sec­ond World War. Take the Illi­nois Insti­tute of Tech­nol­o­gy, which was designed whole by no less a Bauhaus-cre­den­tialed mod­ernist than Lud­wig Mies van der Rohe. Mod­u­lar, flat-roofed, and built with plen­ty of exposed brick, glass, and steel, its build­ings proved influ­en­tial enough that “near­ly every high school in the Unit­ed States that was built in the fifties and six­ties” was designed in more or less the same way — albeit with­out the ear­ly utopi­an mod­ernist spir­it, which by that point had devolved into an indus­tri­al empha­sis on “ratio­nal­ism, func­tion­al­i­ty, and hygiene.”

After mod­ernism came bru­tal­ism, the style of the least-beloved build­ings on many a cam­pus today. Coined by Le Cor­busier, the style’s name comes from béton brut, or raw con­crete, vast quan­ti­ties of which were used to shape its hulk­ing and, depend­ing on how you feel about them, either drea­ry or awe-inspir­ing struc­tures. The aes­thet­i­cal­ly promis­cu­ous post­mod­ernist build­ings that began appear­ing in the six­ties and mul­ti­plied in the sev­en­ties and eight­ies were more play­ful and his­tor­i­cal­ly aware — or all too play­ful and his­tor­i­cal­ly aware, as their detrac­tors would put it. If you think back to your own col­lege days, you can prob­a­bly remem­ber spend­ing time in, or around, at least one exam­ple of each of these styles, because large US col­lege cam­pus­es have, over time, become rich antholo­gies of archi­tec­tur­al his­to­ry. Would that most Amer­i­cans could say the same about the places they live after grad­u­a­tion.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Why Peo­ple Hate Bru­tal­ist Build­ings on Amer­i­can Col­lege Cam­pus­es

Archi­tect Breaks Down the Design Of Four Icon­ic New York City Muse­ums: the Met, MoMA, Guggen­heim & Frick

Ancient Egyptian Pyramids May Have Been Built with Water: A New Study Explore the Use of Hydraulic Lifts

Image by Charles Sharp, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

The com­pelling but less-than-straight­for­ward ques­tion of how the ancient Egyp­tians built the pyra­mids has inspired all man­ner of the­o­ry and spec­u­la­tion, ground­ed to vary­ing degrees in phys­i­cal real­i­ty. Sheer man­pow­er must have played a large part, and it’s cer­tain­ly not beyond the realm of pos­si­bil­i­ty that var­i­ous sim­ple machines were involved. But in cer­tain cas­es, could the machines have been less sim­ple than we imag­ine today? Such is the pro­pos­al advanced in a paper recent­ly pub­lished in PLOS ONE, “On the Pos­si­ble Use of Hydraulic Force to Assist with Build­ing the Step Pyra­mid of Saqqara.”

“The Step Pyra­mid was built around 2680 BCE, part of a funer­ary com­plex for the Third Dynasty pharaoh Djos­er,” writes Ars Tech­ni­ca’s Jen­nifer Ouel­lette. “It’s locat­ed in the Saqqara necrop­o­lis and was the first pyra­mid to be built, almost a ‘pro­to-pyra­mid’ that orig­i­nal­ly stood some 205 feet high,” as against the more wide­ly known Great Pyra­mid of Giza, which reached 481 feet.

Accord­ing to the paper’s first author Xavier Lan­dreau, head of the French research insti­tute Pale­otech­nic, his team’s inten­sive research on “the water­sheds to the west of the Saqqara plateau” led to “the dis­cov­ery of “struc­tures they believe con­sti­tut­ed a dam, a water treat­ment facil­i­ty, and a pos­si­ble inter­nal hydraulic lift sys­tem with­in the pyra­mid,” which could have been used to move heavy lime­stone.

Not every Egypt expert is con­vinced. As the Uni­ver­si­ty of Cam­bridge’s Judith Bun­bury puts it to Ouel­lette, “there is evi­dence that Egyp­tians used oth­er kinds of hydraulic tech­nolo­gies around that time, but there is no evi­dence of any kind of hydraulic lift sys­tem.” At Smithsonian.com, Will Sul­li­van rounds up oth­er skep­ti­cal reac­tions, includ­ing that of Uni­ver­si­ty of Toron­to archae­ol­o­gist Oren Siegel, who “tells Sci­ence News that the pro­posed dam could not have held enough water from occa­sion­al rain to main­tain a hydraulic sys­tem.” Clear­ly, the view of the Step Pyra­mid tak­en by Lan­dreau and his researchers will require more con­crete sup­port, as it were, before being accept­ed into the main­stream. But it’s still a good deal more plau­si­ble than, say, the some­how per­sis­tent notion that mem­bers of an advanced space­far­ing civ­i­liza­tion came to give the ancient Egyp­tians a hand.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Who Built the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids & How Did They Do It?: New Arche­o­log­i­cal Evi­dence Busts Ancient Myths

How Did They Build the Great Pyra­mid of Giza?: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

What the Great Pyra­mids of Giza Orig­i­nal­ly Looked Like

Isaac New­ton The­o­rized That the Egypt­ian Pyra­mids Revealed the Tim­ing of the Apoc­a­lypse: See His Burnt Man­u­script from the 1680s

How Did Roman Aque­ducts Work?: The Most Impres­sive Achieve­ment of Ancient Rome’s Infra­struc­ture, Explained

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities and the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

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