Things Not Seen

Buildings are, in a lot of ways, designed to hide things. Inside of a building, you're hidden from the elements, safe and warm and dry. They hide the mechanical systems that keep you safe and comfortable, they hide the electrical systems that let you work into the night and power up your computer, they hide the structural systems that hold everything up. At least, from normal users; maintenance needs access to the mechanical systems if something breaks down, the electrician has to be able to get to the electricals if the power goes out, and occasionally structure is part of a design. But, generally, buildings hide these things away.

They don't just hide these physical structures, though. In much the same way buildings hide you from the outside, they hide the things that are serving you once inside from you. Yes, that means the electrical and mechanical and whatever else systems, but there's more to it than just that. Take, for example, the humble library.

Well... This one's not so humble. Staircase leading up to information desk and reading room of Main Library.

The library provides any number of services; a place to study, computers to use free of charge, occasionally a cafe. But, most importantly, it serves you books. And CDs and DVDs and Microfilms and yadda yadda yadda, but let's just focus on books for now.

Reading room of Main Library. A very quiet place to study, if that's what you want.

When we look only at the main spaces, the reading rooms and information desks and whatever elses of the library, we see grandiose spaces. The reason the reading room of the Main Library is so popular to study is how quiet it is, which it achieves by scaring students into submission with how loudly even the slightest actions echo through its chambers. It is so big in order to give a sense of the grandiose to those who populate it, to impart the huge magnitude of what they are trying to accomplish. Huge windows draw in light from the heavens to shine upon those working there.

Information desk of Main Library.

Cross the hall to the information desk, and it's a similar story. A giant room, a magnificent chandelier in the center, big Tuscan columns lining the room, high sets of windows. You, the user of the library, are trying to accomplish something incredible. The library reflects that. Until you step into space that actually serves the main utility of the library, the stacks serving you books.

Main stacks. Notice that the shelves also form the structure of the building.

Once you step back there, immediately the space crunches down on you. No longer are you in a room that could fit a god; now, instead, we feel nearly claustrophobic from how low the ceiling is. In some parts, relatively tall people have to duck to avoid taking off their heads. The shelves are close together. Books are packed on wherever possible; there are spaces, but they won't last forever. A library has only so much floor space, and it is optimized to the max in the stacks.

The thickness of the floors in the stacks is only what it needs to be to hold up the people walking among them safely.

This space is special for its own purposes, to most effectively get you the books you want. However, it doesn't make you feel special. In most cases, you don't want to go back here unless you need to. You want to work in the grandiose reading room, you want to talk to someone at the information desk who will help you get the book you want without traversing this space. This space is lesser, not worthy of your presence.

Entrance to Smith Memorial Hall

Consider now, instead of the library, a music performance space. Namely, Smith Memorial Hall. Admiring its grand entrance, we see that it is in many ways building up its own grandiose space. The walks between columns form giant entrances fit for the greater gods, then large door spaces for the lessers, and finally the doors themselves inside, for the humans to walk among them.

Main performance hall of Smith, with its organ.

Entering beyond there, the space opens up once again dramatically in the lobby in front of the performance hall. The gods may walk among us yet. And entering, finally, into the performance hall, we see the space open up massively in front of us. A slight incline leads us down to the stage, beyond which a massive organ sits, waiting to be played. The stage itself perfectly frames the organ as decoration, if not instrument, and lends itself as a place upon which music can be played and enjoyed from. The rest of the hall is still grandiose, as well, so that the gods may enjoy our ministrations. A huge room, ornately decorated upon the walls with chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling and beautiful red carpet lining everything. Surely, a stage worthy of being played upon.

Second floor, Smith; not normally accessed by those attending a recital.

However, surrounding the performance hall are spaces for the practicing and teaching of the methods so displayed on this stage. They serve the patrons of the hall the music they want to hear. But, of course, why would the patrons need to see these spaces? And so, they are not so grand, they are not so ornate. They fulfill their purpose, to prepare the music, and no more. Space for the listener and space for the performer, intimately linked, but ultimately apart.