Today we prepare for our brush with monastic life.
On Sunday, during our side trip to Prague, we will be transported hours out of the city into the Czech town of Novy Dvur, where there is a Cistercian monastery. The purpose of the pilgrimage will be twofold: one, to take in the architecture of John Pawson; two, to maybe catch a taste of theta waves.
Tate lectures in the morning on Plecnik and Frank Gehry and Vlado Milunic. Plecnik was a Slovenian architect who was a protegé of Otto Wagner. Vlado Milunic collaborated with Frank Gehry on the Dancing Building (also known as the Fred and Ginger Building) in Prague. We meet Vlado tomorrow. The connections are firing like the synapses in a developing child’s brain, and it is wonderful.
Maybe I have time later to discuss Plecnik and Gehry and Vlado and Vaclav Havel. All important names.
So we go to this church in the afternoon after Tate shows us our rendezvous point for the morning at Südbahnhof train station. On our way, we take a walk through a Viennese suburb for study. Tate finds it appalling. “It is hell,” he says.
We come upon the church. It is a cubish edifice of some sort of dark metal. There are circular windows in a grid pattern in its walls, and what appear to be rivets. It is reminiscent of the hull of a ship. I am skeptical. I think to myself, “This is a church?” I begin photographing and sketching. Then I go inside. There is a small apse for reception. I open the door to the sanctuary.
My initial impressions are anything but relevant.
It is absolute quiet. If there ever was a time I ever felt such peace and tranquility as that moment when I entered the church, I am extremely hard-pressed to think of one. The silence is absolute, piercing, almost deafening. I make my way to a pew and sit. I don’t sketch. I don’t dare photograph. I just sit.
It is all pine, or some light wood. The walls, the ceiling, the floors, and pews arranged in a circular fashion like an amphitheater around the granite altar and pulpit, which match the font at the door. There are windows—oh Lord, there are windows. Light is sucked into this space. The circular porthole-ish openings in the walls are built into the wall in such a way so that light is directed into the center of the space. A different window setting is used in each corner of the space, inviting light inside in interesting and wonderful ways. The eye is drawn up to a sort of S-shaped opening in the ceiling, guiding a beam of light onto the floor. Light and open space, light and open space, such purity, truth to materials. I look over at Tate. He appears to be meditating.
It takes me a while to actually get over the initial feeling of wonder and perfect harmony, but I open my sketchbook and uncap my pen and I draw. I photograph. Then I lie down on a pew, and stare up at the perforations in the wood ceiling, pondering their function, and I am at peace with everything.
Coming out, I notice that the structure appears ridiculously small compared to how I had felt inside. I realize that this is one of the most fascinating buildings I have ever experienced. And I look forward to Novy Dvur on Sunday, to being a monk for a day, to experiencing such a natural, organic high again.
On Sunday, during our side trip to Prague, we will be transported hours out of the city into the Czech town of Novy Dvur, where there is a Cistercian monastery. The purpose of the pilgrimage will be twofold: one, to take in the architecture of John Pawson; two, to maybe catch a taste of theta waves.
Tate lectures in the morning on Plecnik and Frank Gehry and Vlado Milunic. Plecnik was a Slovenian architect who was a protegé of Otto Wagner. Vlado Milunic collaborated with Frank Gehry on the Dancing Building (also known as the Fred and Ginger Building) in Prague. We meet Vlado tomorrow. The connections are firing like the synapses in a developing child’s brain, and it is wonderful.
Maybe I have time later to discuss Plecnik and Gehry and Vlado and Vaclav Havel. All important names.
So we go to this church in the afternoon after Tate shows us our rendezvous point for the morning at Südbahnhof train station. On our way, we take a walk through a Viennese suburb for study. Tate finds it appalling. “It is hell,” he says.
We come upon the church. It is a cubish edifice of some sort of dark metal. There are circular windows in a grid pattern in its walls, and what appear to be rivets. It is reminiscent of the hull of a ship. I am skeptical. I think to myself, “This is a church?” I begin photographing and sketching. Then I go inside. There is a small apse for reception. I open the door to the sanctuary.
My initial impressions are anything but relevant.
It is absolute quiet. If there ever was a time I ever felt such peace and tranquility as that moment when I entered the church, I am extremely hard-pressed to think of one. The silence is absolute, piercing, almost deafening. I make my way to a pew and sit. I don’t sketch. I don’t dare photograph. I just sit.
It is all pine, or some light wood. The walls, the ceiling, the floors, and pews arranged in a circular fashion like an amphitheater around the granite altar and pulpit, which match the font at the door. There are windows—oh Lord, there are windows. Light is sucked into this space. The circular porthole-ish openings in the walls are built into the wall in such a way so that light is directed into the center of the space. A different window setting is used in each corner of the space, inviting light inside in interesting and wonderful ways. The eye is drawn up to a sort of S-shaped opening in the ceiling, guiding a beam of light onto the floor. Light and open space, light and open space, such purity, truth to materials. I look over at Tate. He appears to be meditating.
It takes me a while to actually get over the initial feeling of wonder and perfect harmony, but I open my sketchbook and uncap my pen and I draw. I photograph. Then I lie down on a pew, and stare up at the perforations in the wood ceiling, pondering their function, and I am at peace with everything.
Coming out, I notice that the structure appears ridiculously small compared to how I had felt inside. I realize that this is one of the most fascinating buildings I have ever experienced. And I look forward to Novy Dvur on Sunday, to being a monk for a day, to experiencing such a natural, organic high again.
Comments
Sounds like your experience is living up to the expectations you tried not to make for it.
Remember, everything is relevent.
Drop Robin an e-mail from Vienna, I'm sure she'd love to hear from you and about your experiences.
Italy is definately on our list of places we want to go before we're 30. Then we can feel like joiners and compare notes with you and Robin.
Keep Blogging!
Leslie & Noel
It does sound like an incredible experience, and I'm finding myself highly envious of you right now, Charlie--in no small part because of the less-than-enviable situation I'm in at the moment (which I'm complaining about more than is necessary anyway), but mainly because of the connection that you feel to your subject. I always used to think I was passionate about my interests, until I met people who were genuinely passionate about theirs. It seems clear to me that you've found exactly what it is you're supposed to be doing with yourself; or at least, that you're on the verge of it.