St Peter's Basilica: Bramante

One of the most prominent names in all of High Renaissance Italy and the most ambitious of all building projects in all of the 16^th century; and yet, all we have of Bramante’s St Peter’s Basilica is an engraving on a coin and a floor plan. 

All that was built in Bramante’s time were the central piers, which ultimately proved to be spectacularly inadequate for the task and had to be enlarged and strengthened by successive architects.

Bramante produced some of the most enduring building types of modern European architecture. His iconic Tempietto (pictured above), though not very practical, was copied widely in the 17^th and 18^th centuries. The Palazzo Caprini, also known as Raphael’s House, set the standard for classical urban buildings across Europe and his Cortile de Belvedere was also hugely influential. 

Raphael’s House has since been demolished and the Cortile has been heavily altered. The basilica was the most ambitious of his projects and was only finished more than 100 years after his death. Its design also evolved significantly during that period. Yet, the essential concept is still recognisable in the completed building.

It is commonly believed that Bramante wanted to rebuild the basilica as a centrally planned structure, and the surviving floor plan supports this idea. The concept was popular with Italian renaissance architects but seldom got off the drawing board. Leonardo da Vinci for instance, who Bramante knew in Milan, made a number of sketches on the theme.

Centrally planned spaces were built from Filippo Brunelleschi onwards but these were generally part of a wider complex. It is in fact possible that this was the case also in Bramante's project. The floor plan could represent a proposal to rebuild the choir rather than the church as a whole.

One of the few churches to be completed on the principle of a central plan during this period is Santa Maria della Consolazione in Todi.  

It has been suggested that the central plan represents a shift in philosophy, based on humanism and secularism, but there is little to suggest that Bramante wanted to challenge religious dogma. It is more likely that he saw the central plan as appropriate for a martyrium, a shrine to commemorate the tomb of St Peter. The Tempietto, also centrally planned, similarly marks the spot of St. Peter’s crucifixion.

Given this relationship with the Tempietto, one could expect St. Peter’s Basilica to follow similar lines. However, judging by the engraved coin, that is not exactly what we find.

The Pantheon was widely admired and clearly provided a model for the dome, but the rest of the building seems to look to other sources for inspiration.  

One possibility is Alberti’s San Sebastiano in Mantua, which also represented the classical language in a rather bare form, with pilasters providing much of the surface treatment.

The principal facade is obscured by a domed chapel, which incorporates the entrance apse of the main structure behind it. It is flanked by two towers and above rises a massive hemispherical dome. The latter sit on a drum ringed with columns, making it look like a giant version of the Tempietto lifted on top of another building.

Chapels at the four corners of the main structure are also crowned with small domes.

The multiplication of domes and the towers may suggest an attempt to rival Hagia Sophia in Constantinople, which had fallen to the Turks only half a century earlier. It is doubtful, however, whether Bramante had any meaningful knowledge about that building. It is also possible that Bramante used Roman churches from the early Christian period as models.

Nothing quite like Bramante’s St. Peter’s was ever built but his designs did have an influence on contemporary buildings. 

For a sense of how the basilica might have looked, the church of San Bagio in Montepulciano offers some clues. Only one of the towers was actually built in this case but if you can imagine a similar structure on a larger scale, with a heftier dome, and domed chapels at the corners, then suddenly, Bramante’s St. Peter’s almost comes alive. 

Inigo Jones: Banqueting House, Whitehall, London

Great Britain was perhaps the last of the significant western powers to embrace classical architecture. Yet, by the mid-18^th century, Britain had become Europe’s most committed and dogmatic classicist. Indeed, the country came arguably to lead the way for most of that century in what was later to culminate in the neo-classical movement across the continent.

To understand how this transformation was possible, one name is inescapable: Inigo Jones. To understand how Jones became so revolutionary, two things should serve to illustrate the case.

Firstly, British architecture in the 16^th century was insulated and relatively conservative. 

Before Jones came on the scene in the early 17^th century, British architects still built castle-like structures, onto which classical elements were added for the most part as features of exotic décor.

At the beginning of the 16^th century, France had led the way in this trend of importing classical novelties like pilasters by tacking them onto essentially medieval structures. Britain initially followed suit. Yet when France moved on to a more mature national classicism by the mid-century, Britain stayed the original course, and continued do so throughout the century, and initially into the next. 

The classical elements that found its way to England were, in any case, second-hand only, and had to be filtered through French and Dutch models 

Inigo Jones was the first English architect to bypass the influence of these two countries entirely and go straight to the source of contemporary classicism: Italy. The result was a giant leapfrog, but it also undermined the national vernacular. 

Secondly, Jones was important in another respect, which made his significance not simply exclusive to the trajectory of British architecture, but which potentially sowed the first buds of neo-classicism. He found himself at odds not only with French and Dutch deviations from the classical model, but also with that of contemporary Italy itself.

He expressly condemned the innovations of Michelangelo, and approved only of the works of Palladio that conformed or seemed to conform to ancient Roman models. He, thus, introduced a puritan version of classicism, which had room for modern innovation, but which put a premium on recreating the spirit of Roman works.

The most reliable guide to Roman building in Jones’ time was the Four Books of architecture by Andrea Palladio. Jones may also have had opportunity to study Roman ruins directly during his tour of Italy. The link to Palladio is important and has always been recognized as such. When the example of Jones re-emerged in the shape of the Burlington school in the 18^th century, the subsequent style came to be known as English Palladianism.

Indeed, when we look at the original plans for Jones’ chief design, The Banqueting House, we find that he proceeded from a Palladian model.     

The building is two-storied, the windows are capped by pediments, triangular and segmental, and the design of the elevation is separated by simple verticals and horizontals: pilasters or half-columns and entablatures. In the original drawings, the elevations look as if copied directly from Palladio’s book. They feature a central pediment, of a kind that Palladio often used. However, the decision of Jones to break the entablature and push it forward above the columns seems to have convinced him that the central pediment had to go. The top of the building that was actually built was, therefore, crowned with a flat balustrade instead, and the sloping roof was thus hidden. In the old designs, you can even see where Jones had started to fill in the breaks under the central pediment. But his lines are feint as if wavering, as if he had seen in the process of sketching that the combination would not work very well. The swags in the top-storey also make an entry at this point.

The result is a work where all the elements are borrowed from Palladio, but the manner in which they are assembled can be said to be original. The original windows were mullioned, not sash, and the building was later refaced with Portland stone. The original provision had called for Portland, but for some reason Jones had to make do with lesser types of stone. Apart from that though, the building stands as it did during Jones’ time.

Whether Jones intended the hall as part of a larger palace to be extended later is not clear. Later drawings of a very large Whitehall palace have been attributed to Jones. In addition, the sides of the building reveal exposed brickwork, possibly done intentionally with a view to expand the structure. 

In any case, the impact on British architecture was immense, though a modified vernacular tradition continued to thrive for most of the century. The most important English architect of all time, Christopher Wren, was not averse to borrowing elements from modern baroque architecture, from both France and the Netherlands. However he seems to have borrowed a preference for the Roman from Inigo Jones. The Burlington school went even further in their puritan approach and made no secret of who was the idol of their ‘restoration.’ To the extent that this led the way to neo-classicism, the conclusion follows that the importance of Inigo Jones is even more important than what he is generally given credit for.

The church of St Paul at Covent Garden goes much further than Palladio ever went in re-creating what was assumed to be ancient Roman design principles. Palladio recreated Roman models on paper, but what he actually built made no pretension of being anything but modern, despite the heavy use of column and porticos.  Jones was the first to attempt to cross that line, the line into neo-classicism. He was also perhaps the first to think a classical portico, a Tuscan one in this case, would work on a church. In this he was using an order associated with an archaic form, perhaps in a deliberate way, to suggest that the reformed Anglican church embodied the primaeval and true teachings of Christ.

That it is one of the first attempts at archeological re-creation was, therefore, potentially charged with a great deal of symbolism.

With the groundbreaking work of Jones, Britain could move from the insular tradition inherited from the age of the Tudors to a style, which in the 18^th century, French visitors found to be a pure copy of the Roman, or Italian as they labelled it. This criticism is not fair in all respects, but it did remain true that Britons had become the most enthusiastic followers of Roman classicism. By the turn to the 19^th century, virtually all of Europe had followed a similar path, and flirted with Greek as well as Roman prototypes.

    

Baroque Oslo

The differences between the towns of Christiania in the 18^th century as opposed to the 17^th century were hardly transformative. Growth and change was overall modest in scope. In the 17^th century the population had hovered around 3,000 souls, by the end of the 18^th century, it still struggled to surpass 10,000.

However, a number of events and trends did mark one century off from the other.  Two destructive events in particular shaped the city in the 18^th century: The fire of 1686 and the Swedish invasion of 1716.

It was hardly an auspicious start to the century. Yet, the 18^th century laid the foundations for the capital status and the explosive growth, which was to take place in the 19^th century. It established the timber barons, which would make Christiania a significant economic hub and a viable future choice as the nation’s capital.

The fire in 1686 was important in several important respects. It laid waste to much of the upper city, where illegal timber construction had been a persistent problem. It also damaged the cathedral, which was subsequently demolished.

However, the most crucial impact of the fire was that it precipitated the decision to give up the city’s outer defences and to reorient all defensive capabilities to the fortress. This resulted in two key implications.

First of all, the city, now without walls, could expand. A new square and cathedral was established just outside the old city gate, on top of a natural lake that previously had served as a moat, but which now was to be filled in. A string of new houses began creeping out of the city towards the river Aker in the northeast, as if the city was seeking back to its old medieval roots across the bay. Indeed, the bay itself soon began to shrink. As harbour activity filled in the waters with sawdust, new land could be claimed and the harbour was eventually pushed three blocks east.

It also meant, however, that the fortress would need more space in order to be defended effectively. City blocks that were too near could be used as cover by attacking armies and were demolished on that very basis. The old square, thereby, lost much of its original layout. It also lost, as previously noted, it’s church.

The Swedish invasion of 1716 was repulsed, and though the Swedish king amassed new forces to finish the job, the second army never reached the city.

However, damage from the invasion was magnified by the fact that the city had no outer defences. Consequently, the city was caught between the invading Swedes on one hand and defensive cannon fire from the fortress on the other. Much of the damage was, therefore, caused by friendly fire. The city hall, for instance, was reduced to a shell, and never held the function of city hall again.

In terms of buildings, some differences can be noted in the style of the 18^th as opposed to the preceding century. Half-timbered houses continued to be the most prevalent building-type, though the timber was often hid behind plaster.  However, in brick buildings, the Dutch character of the 17^th century fell out of favour and many stepped gables were altered to modern standards. The result was classical in inspiration, but the application of classical elements was modest and cautious.

The town had no porticoes and hardly any pilasters. Oftentimes, the only distinguishing features of Christiania town houses were tall roofs and plain rows of sash windows. Some bay windows continued to be built and some survived from older times. The most ambitious town houses, however, relied on relatively simple features: ornamental doorways or plain triangular pediments.

The city hall was moved to a house at the corner of what is now called Queen Street. Originally, the house faced the harbour, had stepped gables and, though it was built as a private residence, was crowned with an imposing tower. The building still has a courtyard front blocked off from the street by a screen. The tower may have been destroyed in 1716. In either case, the building as it now appears is roughly of the 18^th century idiom. It is classical only in a symmetric streamlined sense, and the gables have been eliminated entirely.

The other major public landmark, the new cathedral of 1697, is also relatively plain and the tower is a short stump compared to its predecessor. The interior, however, is said to have acquired a respectable baroque interior thanks to gifts bestowed by prominent citizens. The church is still the cathedral of Oslo, though it was altered extensively in the mid 19^th century.         

Other examples of the new style, and generally the most interesting, are all private residences. Few of these, however, remain today. Still, a few exceptions can be found: The building that would later house the military academy was remodelled in 1761 and has survived on a corner on Queen Street. The building known as Treschowgården was built on reclaimed land in 1710. At the corner of the new square, on which the cathedral was built, stands a house from 1700. Several other buildings from the 17^th century that bear 18^th century alterations still exist also. Calmeyergården is a notable example.

Colletgården, perhaps the most impressive of the baroque palais of the period was demolished in the 1930s, despite being listed for preservation. However, It was rebuilt in the Norwegian folk museum and can still be seen there today.

Its main features are all centred: The doorframe capped by a segmental pediment, the quoin-like pilasters and the triangular pediment.  The asymmetrical bay window of the secondary façade was left over from the previous design.   

For more information about historic Oslo, buy my book, Det Tapte Kristiania, here.

Renaissance Oslo

  
The renaissance city was very different from the medieval town, which preceded it. For one thing, Oslo had a new name: Christiania. The location too was new. In 1624, the city was transported west across the bay. 

Before 1624, Oslo was a northern backwater, with a lonely church still clinging to existence in the shape of the pre-gothic cathedral, and a few “renaissance” houses had scarcely propped up amid the general landscape of old log cabins.

The great fire of 1624 obliterated most of the wooden town, a town which had burned down many times before. What was new this time, however, was the order of the king not to rebuild on the old site. Instead, the order was to build across the bay under cover of the medieval fortress, Akershus. That way, the city would improve its defences. The town inhabitants grudgingly obeyed.  

Akershus itself had been spruced up with new renaissance towers since work began in 1593, and the new fortress reached its first stage of completion in 1604. Work on improved battlements continued into the first half of the new century. The conversion was constrained by cost and, accordingly, the structure was left in a half medieval state. Still, sleepy Oslo was taking its first steps out of its medieval past. 

1624 was an opportunity for the new town to follow suit. It was to be renamed according to the wishes of the king Christian IV and to follow the renaissance principles cherished by him. No winding alleys or hidden nooks was to be found in the new town of Christiania.

The new streets, therefore, followed a strict rectangular grid and were unusually wide, measuring 15 metres across. A ban was simultaneously imposed on pure wood construction. The new town would be of brick, though half-timbered houses would be tolerated for builders of modest means. 

Half-timbered would be the method of choice for most houses in town for next two hundred years, and would give Christiania, uniquely for a Norwegian town, a character much like North-German or Danish towns. Nonetheless, a few illegal wooden houses were also initially built.

Running from the soon-to-be-established port in the east to the upper town in the west ran three long streets. Seven streets ran from south to north, where they were cut short by large mounds, which formed a c-shaped defensive ring around the only part of town that could be approached by land.

King’s Street appears to be Christiania’s principal street, though it was no wider than the rest of the streets in the city. For most visitors, it would be the first street they encountered after entering the principal of the three town gates.

Another anomaly in the symmetry of the town plan is the site of the town square. Instead of locating it centrally at the junction of King’s Street, the square was situated towards a corner in the north-west of the city.

This is especially odd as the larger and more attractive plots were established in the east, close to the harbour. The west had smaller plots and the upper city seems to have be intended as a poor mans quarter. However, the site does make some sense given the fact that is the tallest point in town.

Some of the oldest buildings in Oslo can still be seen on this site. One still bears the inscription of 1626, and was built by one of the leading figures in town. The original town hall, just across the road still stands as well, though its transformations and restorations have been more dramatic. The church, which also was situated on the square failed to last the century and succumbed to fire in 1686.

Most of the principal residences in town, however, faced the harbour in the east. A principal feature of the new style was Dutch-inspired gable fronts. The residence at the town square with the inscription of 1626 had swung ornaments in sandstone. Most other buildings, however, were of a simpler shape, usually with a stepped gable. The town hall had a tower, and so too had at least one of the principal residences.

A canal, on Dutch and Danish models, was attempted in order to link the harbour and the town square, but the attempt was abandoned and the trench later filled in. Apparently, Norwegian granite wasn’t quite amenable to the job.

All in all, the town remained quaint but modest. Small, unplanned satellite towns of simple wooden huts soon clustered outside the defensive works, to the west, north and east of town. The population, however, did not expand much beyond the 3000 or so souls that had inhabited the old town of Oslo.

Besides, there is little to suggest in the town plan that ambitions ran higher than other cities established by the king Christian IV during the same period, such as Christianstad in southern Sweden or Gluckstadt in Northern Germany.

The legacy of the town planned in the time of Christian IV, however, still remains. The grid forms the basis of Oslo’s central area now known as Kvadraturen. Most of the street names have changed, though Kings Street still exists.

The buildings in the area are predominantly from the late 1800s when growth reached explosive levels and the area became a residential-free downtown. Nonetheless, a few 17^th century houses occasionally crop up amid their larger neighbours, especially around the old town square and City Hall Street and Queen’s street, the latter originally facing the harbour. 

They are the distant reminders of the 17^th century renaissance town.    

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For more information about historic Oslo, buy my book, Det Tapte Kristiania, here.

Carlton Hotel, Pall Mall, London

The above is a mock-up of how Carlton Hotel might look if rebuilt. Located on the Haymarket, just off Pall Mall, the hotel was partially destroyed in the blitz and left derelict until 1959 when the modern high-rise known as New Zealand House was built on the site.

The architect was Charles John Phipps, who also built the identical facade of the adjacent Her Majesty's Theatre, which is still standing. The foundation stone was laid in 1896.

- The actual photo -

The Louvre: Lescot

The Lescot wing in the courtyard of the Louvre palace is the oldest part of the existing complex. It is interesting for a variety of reasons, not least because it gives a French spin on an essentially Italian composition.

The architect was Pierre Lescot, who was appointed in 1546 by king Francis I to remodel the medieval castle of the Louvre into a renaissance palace.

Italian design had been influencing French art and architecture since the beginning of the 16^th century. An Italian architect, Sebastiano Serlio, had already developed ambitious plans for a new Louvre and its interesting that a French project was chosen instead.  

The Lescot wing is probably France’s first classical façade in more than just a decorative sense and was, therefore, hugely important to the development of French classicism.

One of the reasons Serlio’s project was rejected may have been that it was too huge. Lescot, therefore, proceeded cautiously. His project followed more or less the same footprint as the old castle, which was only demolished bit by bit. When he died, the west wing was finished and the south wing was partially completed, but the walls of the medieval castle still stood on the north and east of the old quadrangle.

The original scheme seems to have been for a u-shaped building. A screen would have served as the main entrance to the courtyard from the east. This is similar to the contemporary Hotel des Ligneris (Carnavalet), which may also have been by Lescot. The plan was later reworked on a larger scale once Henri II came to power.   

Though clearly inspired by Italian palazzi, the roofline clings to the medieval tradition of towers. These towers, or pavilions, were to be built at the corners of the palace and was possibly inspired by the silhouette of the old castle. The only pavilion that was completed during Lescot's time was in the southwest corner. It still carries the original name, Pavillon du Roi, but its facade and cone-shaped roof have not survived.  

The courtyard is richly decorated with classical orders and low relief sculpture. The exterior of the palace, on the other hand, maintained a fortress-like sobriety and had no orders.

Only the courtyard façade remains of the Lescot wing. It is heavily decorated, but according to a clearly defined hierarchy.


Several of the novel features seem to have been determined by climate. The open arcades on the ground floor of Italian courtyards have been replaced with a blind arcade and recessed windows. This idea had already been introduced in the project to build a new city hall in Paris.

The roof is the first known example of a double sloping roof, a feature which since has come to be known as a Mansard. It seems to have been used here to minimise the visual impact of the roof.

The composition of projecting pavilions at the centre and the sides is also a feature not to be found in Italy, and introduces a vertical element unused by most Italian architects. The five-fold division would later be taken up in much of French palace design and emulated widely. 


What seems to have happened is that Lescot originally planned a central pavilion to indicate the location of the staircase. This was already established as a common French practice. However, due to practical considerations or the wishes of the king, the staircase had to be moved to one side. Instead of moving the pavilion to produce an asymmetrical facade, Lescot added a new pavilion, retained the central pavilion, and introduced a third pavilion for the sake of symmetry. Voila, the French five-fold palace design was born. The projections and recessions are in French usually referred to as avant-corps and arriere-corps.  


It allows for a new dimension of complexity, vertically as well as horizontally. For example, the pavilions are emphasised with engaged columns rather than just pilasters. They are also decorated with niches and swags.

The emphasis is very much on alternating rhytms. The interplay of projecting and recessed panes existed in certain mannerist examples in Italy, but not to this degree. The use of oeil-de-boeuf windows above the windows and low relief sculpture, particularly on the attic floor, introduces additional complexity and variation. The projecting pavilions are capped with arched pediments that pierce through the roofline, while the windows have alternating triangular and arched pediments. It is almost as if as many alternating shapes and forms as possible have been crammed in. Yet, it doesn't feel too crowded in its effect.

The relief work was done by Jean Goujon and his team, though the name Paul Ponce also shows up in certain sources. This was completed in 1549-56.

The statues in the niches on the ground floor, however, were added in the period 1859-61, and the figure closest to Pavillon du Roi was only completed in 1892.

The relief work is particularly profuse on the attic storey. The central frontispiece features two winged deities representing victory. The god and goddess of war, Mars and Bellona, are depicted in the panels below while the window is flanked with kneeling captives. The winged deities originally held a crown and the monogram included three fleur-de-lys. This was removed during the revolution and the letters RF were displayed until it was changed again after the Bourbon restoration. The crowned H, for Henri II, then took its place.

The frieze on the first floor consists of children playing with garlands, in which the monogram of Henri II is entwined. There is another motif above the window, featuring a mask of Diana flanked with two lions. Diana was the goddess of the hunt and was probably an allusion to Henri II's mistress Diane de Poitiers. The same motif exists on the other two pavilions but with dogs instead of lions. I have been unable to find any information on the statues on the first floor but they seem to have been added in the second half of the 19th century. It could also be noted that Lescot used the composite for the columns on this floor. The composite is a sort of combination between Ionic and Corinthian and was considered the most decorative of the classical orders.

Lescot broke with Italian conventions by using the Corinthian order on the ground floor. The entrance of the left and central pavilions gave access to the Salle des Caryatides while the one on the right leads to the Henri II staircase. The monogram of Henri II appears between the columns, including two where the H is entwined with two D's. This was once thought to be a reference to Diane de Poitiers but the D's are now believed to be crescents, which Henri II had chosen as his symbol. Many of the royal monograms on the Louvre combine the initials of the king and queen but to include a reference to your mistress would normally need to be more coded.  

Unlike the exuberant design of the courtyard, the Lescot's west front was originally quite plain. It was given a significant revamp in the late 1850's to harmonise with the new facades of Cour Napoleon, which had just been built. This included a blind arcade on the ground floor topped with statues. More statuary and a balustrade was also added to the roofline. Lescot's original design seems to have included the pediments over the first-floor windows.

Lescot also started construction of the south wing, which was initially known as the Aile des Reines (Queens' wing) since it was intended to provide a bedchamber for a future Queen and the Queen Mother. The latter had been widowed when Henri II died in a jousting accident in 1559. The oldest son was crowned Francis II but died within the next 18 month and the throne passed to his younger brother Charles IX. The Queen Mother, Catherine de Medicis, acted as regent.

The courtyard of the Queens' wing doesn't contain any of the original relief work. The attic was replaced with a full storey in 1806, which meant that the sculpture by Goujon and his team had to be chiselled off.   

Two winged figures representing Piety and Justice, dated to about 1565, were used to decorate the passageway of the east wing where they can still be seen. Some of the panels below the pediments were moved around to different locations but have been on display inside the Louvre since 1988.

The relief around the oil-de-boeuf windows on the ground floor are from 1822-24, while the statues in the niches are from the second half of the 19th century.

Mexican Road Trip

A road trip across Mexico will take you to vastly distinct landscapes: From the arid shrubbery expanses of the north, to the sweltering tropic heat of the central coast, to the cool breeze on the plateaus of south-central Mexico, and finally to the lively white beaches of the Mayan Riviera.  Mexico stretches roughly 3200 kilometres from north to south and encapsulates on that stretch, a staggering wealth of diversity.

This epic journey, however, had its starting point in a different country all together, in Los Angeles, California. Much has been made of the so-called Mexican re-conquest of that valuable, yet economically conflicted piece of real estate known as California. What is certain, however, is that reminders of Mexico’s close presence are to be apparent for all who seek it. At the hotel, among the waiters and the receptionists, and in the petrol stations along the road south, you can be assured, se habla espanol.      

Los Angeles was a positive surprise. For all the extreme imagery the place is given, downtown LA makes up for a pleasant stroll. From the air, the endless swathes of rectilinear residential plots, which have been carved through by freeways meeting in complex multi-storey joints, are an impressive and distressing sight. Downtown, however, is small and compact and relatively car-free on a weekend.

Older mid-rise buildings in classical ornament stand amid modern high rises and give feint glimpses of the traditional American east coast city. These older styles are often curiously Iberian in inspiration, giving a nod perhaps to the adjoining Latin lands to the south.

The most striking new addition to downtown, however, is Frank Gehry’s Disney Concert Hall. Crowning a hill, the construction looks more like a piece of sculpture, which only as an afterthought has been converted into a building. The structure is also hard to distinguish from that other famous creation of Gehry’s, the Guggenheim Museum of Bilbao. Nonetheless, the concert hall is enough of a visual pleaser to attract the curious minded tourist, an effect that has been cleverly exploited through the sale of audio-phone tours. The building even creates an outside platform vista, which has been shaded by the planting of trees and cooled by colourful fountains, obscuring further the essential function as concert house, as opposed to an artful public plaza.  

The view is decidedly tranquil, though a jazz band nearby is getting ready to fire up in another public space of downtown. There is little to suggest, however, that this piece of downtown was once infamous as a dangerous and neglected part of the United States.

The highways that run out of the city leads past shrubbery hills and golden beaches before it reaches the border with Mexico. The route also reveals a few whimsical traits of the United States, be it embodied in the German-styled spa town known as Carlsbad, or the glitzingly Las Vegas-like spires of the Mormon Church found along the way.

The border, however, causes a dramatic shift in this quiet string of non-urban Californian life, as San Diego uneasily melds with the fast growing border town of Tijuana.