by Aneesha Dharwadker
The modern world seems to struggle with how to house its past. The role of the “museum,” at least through the end of the 20th century, has been to mediate between the viewer and the artifact. The modern period in the visual arts, starting arguably in the post-Impressionist 1880s with the work of Paul Cezanne, has been through numerous phases, which we tend to see juxtaposed in the modern museum, as a way for us to see the line of history traced from object to object.
The modern museum creates a space where the art can display its own chronology. And today, the fields of architecture and art find themselves at an intersection, where the building itself can become an inhabitable sculpture. The primary question for the architect still is, how do we create spaces that present art without distracting from it? The secondary question, a distinctly contemporary one, is how can the art and the building do each other justice?
A recent visit to The Art Institute of Chicago prompted me to ask myself the latter.
The Modern Wing at the Art Institute of Chicago
The new Modern Wing of the Institute, designed by Italian architect Renzo Piano, opened in June 2009, and houses the museum’s entire modern collection (dating 1900 onwards). It is, of course, the western modernisms that this collection celebrates: Europe and the United States have the most prominent representation in painting, sculpture, architecture, design, and photography.
The building relies on simultaneous linear systems: from the structure of the roof canopy and window mullions to the long central atrium, the architecture pays respect to the straight line. On the north façade, the vertical steel mullions that support a glass curtain wall are seldom interrupted by any horizontal feature, reminding us of the verticality necessary in today’s urbanism. The roof canopy, designed to allow light to filter on to the third floor (the highest in the wing), is supported by slender columns tapered like pencil-leads at both ends. This gives such an impression of airiness that the roof has been dubbed a “flying carpet,” floating above the city, perhaps in a mid-air face-off with Frank Gehry’s neighboring Pritzker Pavilion.
The galleries themselves are simple, spacious rooms with minimal architectural intrusion. The lighting is an effective combination of natural daylight and indirect artificial lights. I particularly like museums in which I can move from room to room with some sense of flow, both spatially and historically. In this case, both are evident. The division of the painting galleries into European Modern and Contemporary is useful for visitors. While there were glaring vacancies in the collection itself (I saw no work from South America, India, or China), the gallery design pays appropriate, modest respect to the work.
I found the building successful on two levels. First, the architecture celebrates itself in the appropriate places—on the façades, in the atrium, and in the eating areas—while restraining itself in the galleries, allowing the art to display itself. Secondly, the building creates spaces that allow the visitors to still engage in the city.
The third floor boasts the Bluhm Family Terrace, accessible to the public, which beautifully frames Frank Gehry’s pavilion to the north in Millennium Park. The Michigan Avenue skyline is prominently visible, and the terrace provides sculptures (on a rotating basis) on which visitors can sit and enjoy the view of the city. Additionally, the Nichols Bridgeway for pedestrians spans 625 feet, connecting the third floor of the building to the gardens in Millennium Park. As a point of respite for the urban population, a place for the display of the Institute’s modern collection, and a celebration of the city, the building is a positive addition to Chicago’s urban landscape.
