six
focused light – shadowplay
Opposite page Window shutters in Luis Barragán’s house and studio in Tacubaya, Mexico City, 1948.
From Reason to Emotion – The Baroque Approach
Each era of serenity and balance is followed by one in which art aims to reflect the complexity of life itself, beyond mathematics or logical thought. This happened in Ancient Greece, when Hellenism succeeded the classical period.1 In Europe, after the Renaissance triumph of harmony and stability of form, there stirred a new artistic unrest: the style that came to be known as baroque, with its own, unique handling of light. For the whole of the 16th century, light was understood as something absolutely objective, quantifiable, possessing its own rational and scientific structure, and it was employed by architects accordingly. A new concept of light appeared in the following century, which linked it closely to the idea of space. Artistic focus shifted from the way in which objects were objectively illuminated to the laws that govern the way we see them. Crucial to this shift were the uses to which the new technique of perspective was put.
Figure 6.1 The role of shadows in creating space: Muerte de Pirene, sketch, José María García de Paredes, 1962.
Commenting on the successive achievements of those twin masters of the Italian baroque, Gian Lorenzo Bernini and Francesco Borromini, art historian Giulio Carlo Argan observed:
This interpretation of form and light is what really connects baroque art with that of the modern world. Architectural renderings of the time give plentiful evidence of this development. Whereas Renaissance drawings aimed for fluency, balance and harmony of line, baroque drawings aimed to represent atmosphere by means of massed light and shadow. Their primary aim was not to depict shape, nor were they mainly concerned with proportion. In some cases, the point of view was reversed altogether, and shadow was considered as what was left when light had done its work.
The brooding drawings of Italian artist Giovanni Battista Piranesi reflected this new way of seeing architecture: they used light in order to excavate a world that has been peopled with darkness and shadows from its beginning, where intense degrees of darkness and tones of shadow stir up and communicate extraordinary sensations of space. In baroque architecture, form is represented in a purely visual capacity; its outlines become unclear and indefinite, in order to express a sense of space directed towards infinity. Sculptor, painter and architect Michelangelo Buonarroti surpassed all his predecessors in using light and shadow to shape his works – such that his sculptures ceased to be static and serene, and acquired unprecedented movement and force.
Architecture was now declared to be not the representation but rather the determining of space. The classical idea of architectural space assumed an ideal structure that provided the pattern for the material building, derived from the laws of the universe.
Figure 6.2 Temple of Hera II at Paestum, southern Italy, 460–450BC, by Francesco Piranesi, 1778.
This was now superseded by the idea of a visual space – not formed according to any predetermined notion, and in a sense independent of scientific concepts of space. At the same time, this space, determined by the artist, is real, material and specific – a space in which light is truly a substance, not an abstract entity deduced from a theory of the universe. In other words, the notion of objective, transcendent space outside of time had been exchanged for a notion of space that was personal and inhabited in time.
The wonderfully unified organisation of space and light in baroque architecture was, of course, anything but simple; the plan of a typical baroque building would have several focuses of interest, and the intricate, geometrical shadows within it fell on complex surfaces. The changes that this development ushered in may be understood as an expression of the thinking that followed the Renaissance “crisis”.
An outstanding figure in this movement was the German polymath Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz. His grandiose and intricate construction of a system of monads (the basic, indivisible units of life), with an infinite number of substances or centres of strength, and an infinite number of centres of representation and action, offered a vital, living way of understanding the universe. This produced the great baroque richness of spatial planes and philosophical games played with volumes and light – all born of the restlessness of minds immersed in the difficult questions of their age.
During this era, a great deal of research was carried out into how to control and calibrate light. In art, this resulted in precise techniques of producing incident and reflected lights, in a play of emotional and dramatic effects. Architecture adopted this same precision and delicacy of touch, moving and surprising people with the “magic” of its light-based resources, which were repeatedly employed during this period: the light box, sidelighting, light- and optical-adjustment techniques, and sfumato or soft focus. Careful control was required in order to manipulate, reflect and direct light in such ways. Direct, strong, aggressive external daylight would have destroyed the delicate tones of the baroque “shadowplay” on the various planes of relief and carving. Only where the lighting contrasts were carefully modulated was it possible to “read” the intended decorative effects correctly.
This sensitivity to the treatment of light comes through, naturally enough, in 17thcentury treatises. In his 1679 work Istruzioni architettoniche pratiche (Instruction of Architectonic Practice), Giuseppe Leoncini, a Florentine architect of the 17th century, studied the various ways of incorporating light into architecture, classifying light into six types: (1) broad daylight; (2) bright perpendicular light; (3) bright horizontal light; (4) twilight; (5) light from light (or secondary light); (6) minimal light (or tertiary light).3
In the attempt to get beyond simple representation of the real world, the universe of optical illusions was also explored. Crucially, 17th-century architects adopted mirrors as part of their baroque scene-setting, as in Catherine de’ Medici’s cabinet de miroirs, in which light and space were multiplied by the 119 Venetian mirrors set into the panelling.
The German Jesuit Athanasius Kircher investigated ways of using mirrors to multiply images and lighting effects. His “catoptric polydictic theatre” or reflecting chamber, an apparatus lined with mirrors, was one of the great spectacles of its day. Writing two centuries later, Lithuanian symbolist poet Jurgis Baltrušaitis described its effects:
The various possibilities of this invention, and other still more sophisticated ones described by Kircher, make the Theatrum Polydicticum – with all its richness, extravagance and brilliance – a perfect example of the baroque sensibility and an image of its feeling for light and space. Catoptrics, the study of reflections, began to be developed as a science at this time – one manifestation of the contemporary desire for infinity. A “catoptric theatre” was also set up at the French royal chateau of Versailles in 1676.
The general characteristics of the treatment of light in this rich and controversial period could be studied and analysed through the work of many architects. However, our focus here will be on two of the foremost exponents of the Italian baroque: Gian Lorenzo Bernini and Francesco Borromini.
Bernini: Metaphors of Light
In the 17th century, the new religious feeling that had driven the Council of Trent (the Catholic Church’s response to the Protestant Reformation) took shape in architecture, especially in accordance with the recommendations left by the Italian cardinal (later saint) Charles Borromeo and the influence of the teachings of the Jesuits. Contrary to the belief of iconoclasts, religious pictures and statues in Catholic churches were a way of passing on the faith. In this sense, art was used to express and make tangible the religious sense of the human soul, and not only in purely rational terms; it was directed to the supreme beauty that was held to be God, attained not by the intellect but by devout contemplation. Bernini placed his genius at the service of this cause, and his use of light in particular achieved a high degree of virtuosity.
By studying the ways in which Bernini used light throughout his career, it will become apparent how the mechanisms that he applied grew progressively more delicate and complex. All the examples below relate to baroque churches found in Rome; their precise engineering of the illumination within them gives them the effect of “light machines”.
Three Roman Chapels
In the Raimondi Chapel in San Pietro in Montorio (1640), Bernini integrated light, architecture and sculpture in a space of startling quality. The subject is St Francis in ecstasy, carved in high relief by Francesco Baratta. Here, the sculpture is lit by an incision in the external wall to the left of the altarpiece, high up and concealed from view, and the light from this source falls on the sculpture alone – the rest of the chapel is lit from elsewhere. This dramatic use of sidelighting endowed the work with depth, utilising the contrast of light and shadow produced on the white marble of the sculpture’s half-relief.
Figure 6.3 Altarpiece, the Raimondi Chapel, San Pietro in Montorio, Rome, 1640, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
As mentioned above, the overall illumination of the chapel does not depend on this hidden light source; in fact, visitors who do not know it is there will not even notice it. The hidden light source is, however, essential to the way in which the altarpiece is seen. Unlike the effective contrasts produced by chiaroscuro (the dramatic use of light and dark masses) in other baroque interiors, the characteristic note of this chapel is its clear, even light; the constant level of the lighting remains almost unaffected by variations in the daylight from outside. This may be due to the major role played by reflected, as opposed to direct, light in the interior as a whole.
The Cornaro Chapel in the Church of Our Lady of Victory (1652) is lit from a window set high up in the wall – a natural light, which seems to emanate from the same heaven that is depicted in the chapel’s paintings. Against the rich tones of the dark marble surrounding it, the white marble of the sculpture of St Teresa in ecstasy stands out in sharp contrast. The direct, focused light falling from above makes this sculpture the point of maximum brightness in the chapel. However, since the source of illumination is hidden, the eye is not dazzled by the light but is able to capture the fine details of the decoration and the contrasts of light and shadow on the work. In fact, the light is reflected from the sculpture and seems to shine out from it.
This displays an impressive understanding of the way in which the human eye adapts to light intensity. Light-sensitive cells cause the pupil to dilate or contract; it opens wider in dim conditions. The brightest point is the one taken as the measure of light intensity. If the actual source is not visible, the brightest point will be the place where the light is reflected – especially if that is a surface, such as white marble, that absorbs very little of the light.
Thus the light-sensitive cells of the eye will adapt the pupil to that level of brightness so that the full range of tones provided by the shadows can be clearly seen. What is more, the object that reflects the light is necessarily the centre of attention, and becomes the focus of the room. This is an important effect in scene-setting. In order to centre attention on a particular point, that point is given maximum brightness, as on a stage, and this light “silences” other elements around the focal object.
Figure 6.4 Altarpiece, the Cornaro Chapel, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome, 1652, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
Something similar happens with the statue of the Blessed Ludovica Albertoni in the Altieri Chapel, in the Church of San Francesco a Ripa (1674). Here, the viewer is dazzled by the glare of the light reflected from the sculpture itself – and the effect is dramatic in the extreme.5 Bernini here managed the direction of the light to produce a piece of architectural theatre, where the spectator enters into the action as if on stage. Natural light coming from each side produces exactly the right kind of shading: thrown shadows that spread along the curves of the sculpture to engender a range of the most delicate greys (see Figure 6.5). These are enriched by the reflection of the blues from the magnificent painting by the Genoese fresco artist Baciccia that serves as the backdrop to the chapel, which contrast with the deeper shadows from the folds of the sculpted drapery. The sculpture represents not so much the physical event of death as the moment of achieving a vision of God: the encounter with divine light or ecstasy that, as the biblical Song of Songs puts it, means dying of love.
In the Altieri Chapel, light plays a symbolic role of the greatest importance. The Blessed Ludovica’s head is gently upturned towards the white light coming down from above, so that this light acts as a channel for the intense emotional charge of the whole scene. It enters laterally at the far end of a long, narrow, somewhat dark chapel, and the source is masked; the illumination is thus asymmetric and tangential. The visible light here represents supernatural light, seeming to irradiate the white marble and rendering it weightless.
Furthermore, it is not mere chance that the painting forming the chapel’s background is by Baciccia.6 Giovanni Battista Gaulli (to give him his real name), was unquestionably the artist who was closest to Bernini in intention and language. His work in the Altieri Chapel in fact contains the iconographical key to understanding the whole. The similarity between the face of St Anne in the painting, and the sculptured face of the Blessed Ludovica (who had great devotion to St Anne) is very noticeable. The painted roses are a symbol of ecstasy – for example, the Song of Songs, again, says, “Stay me up with flowers, compass me about with apples: because I languish with love” (Song of Songs 2:5).
This integration of painting and sculpture is reinforced by the white cherubim that appear to be floating in the rays of light, detaining it and witnessing Ludovica’s ecstasy.
Figure 6.5 Altieri Chapel, San Francesco a Ripa, Rome, 1674, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini.
Bernini used architecture in partnership with sculpture to frame the tableau of Ludovica. On approaching the chapel, the scene is framed by an archway cut into the existing wall. The walls, rather than being parallel to each other are set at oblique angles, hiding the light source of two windows either side of the sculpture. The effect of these offset walls is to shape the light, illuminating and framing the scene and creating the illusion of perspective.
Borromini: "Light Machines"
In the work of Francesco Borromini, light takes on special transcendence and is used to reach the highest degrees of abstraction. For Borromini, natural light was the prime matter, universal, generous and compliant, allowing itself to be tamed and manipulated – and adapting itself like a liquid to the shape of its container, though not filling that container homogeneously. In Borromini’s work, the architecture alone shapes light, setting it apart from the diffuse brightness of external daylight and modifying it until it belongs uniquely to the interior space.
His light, no longer the classical, universal light by which the Renaissance architects showed the proportions of their buildings, is charged instead with emotion and surprise in the baroque way. The resulting beauty, however, is not the naturalistic, sensual beauty displayed by Bernini with his marble, sculpture and painting, but is, rather, the result of a mental exercise that is mathematical, abstract, highly disciplined and technically exact.
Borromini used a minimum of materials, and transfigured them by means of light in order to endow his works with a powerful unity of form. It is as though the various parts lose their identity to join in the one whole, while at the same time they are each distinguished by light and their sophisticated details. The result is not simple, but at once consistent and unified. The ornamentation is not something added on, but a way of shaping the limits of a single, particular, sublime space by means of light. Borromini’s concentration on detail, however, was not to everyone’s taste. Eighteenth-century Italian art historian Francesco Milizia, who articulated anti-baroque sentiment of the time, declared contemptuously that it was “not architecture, but the display-window of a fantasising cabinet-maker”.
Figure 6.6 Balustrade, San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome, 1641, by Francesco Borromini.
In reponse, Argan comments:
Notable influences on Borromini’s work were the classical architecture that he studied so earnestly, the work of Michelangelo and the mathematical laws of nature. The great Italian astronomer Galileo Galilei was another great influence, since Borromini saw nature as linked directly to mathematics through the underlying harmony of geometry. This emerges clearly in his drawings, which begin from geometrical shapes. His use of nature was neither directly visual nor did it consist of copying organic forms; rather, he abstracted from nature. The complexity of his designs was not the result of mere fancy, but the tackling of problems set out in mathematical terms and solved by geometry. For Borromini, the supreme principle of composition was harmony. In the same way that musical harmonies succeed or fail based on mathematical timings and rhythms, so too does the balance of light and shadow in buildings. These must be maintained in the right proportions: if disrupted, the effect is ruined.
Rigorous precision, primacy to the dictates of construction, and the suitability of a design for its purpose, were characteristic of virtually the whole of Borromini’s work. These were the result of a deep understanding of the problems of architecture, and the solutions that he arrived at were innovative in the extreme and followed a consistent line of reasoning.8
Figure 6.7 Façade, San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome, 1641, by Francesco Borromini.
San Carlo Alle Quattro Fontane and St Philip Neri
It is worth highlighting here what appears, at first sight, to be a singular contradiction of the above statement: Borromini’s church of San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane in Rome, built between 1638 and 1641. Here, there is a total disconnection between the façade that arises at the second storey and the window at the base of the dome behind it. However, it should be noted that this part of the façade was built after Borromini’s death, the work being directed by his nephew, who did what Borromini himself would never have done. Firstly, he severed the relationship between the interior of the church and its exterior. Secondly, he crowned the building with a motif clearly borrowed from Bernini: an enormous painted medallion supported by two flying angels, like that used by Bernini for the main altar of Santo Tommaso da Villanova at Castel Gandolfo in the Alban Hills south-east of Rome.
In “true” Borromini architecture, light is employed in a specialised way by carefully controlling it. It is filtered into the interiors, and building elements are arranged to produce calculated shadows on the exteriors. The curvature of his façades means that equivalent structural elements are perceived in different ways according to their locations, since the static appearance that results from symmetry is dispelled by the changing nature of the shadows playing over them. Thus, in the Oratory of St Philip Neri in Rome (1637–1640) the cornices of the concave elements and the pilasters set at regular intervals, along with their shadows, lend a high degree of complexity to the perceived rhythm of the façade. Until that time, classical tradition had aimed for shadows to be ruled by geometry, to be homogeneous and regular, and this required a constant effect of light and shadow. Now it seemed that providing intellectual visual information about objective, stable reality was less important than the perception of movement and a series of values that had more to do with the senses and emotions than with intellectual knowledge.
Here it is important to recall the significance of sidelighting as another of the elements introduced in these examples. While direct, frontal lighting flattens relief and makes it hard to appreciate the texture of materials, light that strikes a surface obliquely endows it with a special vibrancy, highlighting the contrasts between hollow and solid, convex and concave. Shading, which barely exists with front lighting, can thus be modulated gradually over curved surfaces. This may be seen in the central niche at St Philip Neri. The use of perspective in the sunken panels may appear to be aiming at a trompe l’oeil
Figure 6.8 (top) Dome, San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome, 1641.
Figure 6.9 (bottom) Dome, Sant’Ivo della Sapienza, Rome, 1642–50, by Francesco Borromini.
effect, not unusual in baroque architecture. However, the effect intended by Borromini may be simply one of foreshortening, fostered by the lateral lighting that he often employed. This way of bringing ornamentation to life is not new – it was used in ancient Egyptian reliefs. The lighting in the interior of San Carlo also repays study. The windows concealed at the base of its dome produce dark, inverted shadows in the coffered panels, strongly accentuating the three-dimensional relief and giving the dome an appearance of weightlessness.
Another device typical of Borromini is the curved ceiling with windows at its base, an example of which can be found in the sacristy of San Carlo. The ceiling receives, distributes and diffuses the natural light, which is sent sliding down the white stucco channels provided to guide it, and distributed in constantly varying ways around the interior. Borromini deliberately sought this effect in conscious rebellion against the uniform regularity of elements that was one of the fundamentals of classical architecture.9
Sant'lvo Della Sapienza
In the church of Sant’Ivo della Sapienza (1642–50), Borromini transforms light from a formless material into a precious jewel. The linear ornamentation is not mere decoration added to the walls: it endows them with its own texture, introducing light by means of relief. Each point in the variations of the curved planes and the stars, shields and other decorative shapes takes on a vibrant luminosity of its own within this continual texture. There are no clashes, but delicate tones: a play of exquisite greys in the shading and shaping of the decoration. The brilliant, white Roman light is let in through great windows in order to give life and movement to the interior shapes, creating a new kind of unified, carefully modelled space.
The relationships between harmony and mathematics that govern music are also present in this space, impregnating it with a similar rhythm: its plan, based on two superimposed triangles, forms a hexagon developed into a star shape. The vertices of one of the triangles are replaced by semicircular recesses, while those of the other triangle are replaced by circular “apses” of equal radius whose circumferences are tangential to that triangle’s sides. The sharply-defined entablature emphasises this geometrical plan with its curves, straight lines and counter-curves, breaking up the strongly vertical character of the space.
Figure 6.10 Lateral altarpiece, Chapel of Notre-Dame du Haut, Ronchamp, 1950–5, by Le Corbusier.
The multiplicity of shapes at the base of the dome is resolved at the top into one simple circle, upon which the lantern rests. While Renaissance space was understood through simple volumes, either directly identifiable or readily apprehended by the mind, in baroque architecture – and Sant’Ivo is a good example of this – the eye cannot measure the space because of the complexity of the form, and this produces a sensation of infinity, or transcendence. “Form is dissolved in favour of the magic spell of light.”10
The church of Sant’Ivo stands at the end of a rectangular courtyard, with a portico of two orders on three sides designed by Giacomo della Porta. There is a contrast in light levels between the sequence of deep shadows in the rigidly geometrical arcades at the sides and the massive, dynamic façade of the church itself, with its interplay of convex and concave curves and their shadows, and the undulating, constantly changing line of the shadow thrown by the cornice above. The unique precision of Borromini’s use of light inspired Argan to write: “In art, true freedom is born of precision, and only through precision can the inner impulse be sublimated into beauty.”
Lights That Do Not Undervalue Shadow
After the Second World War, architects, perhaps disillusioned by the coldness and repetitiveness of modern buildings, rediscovered the value of shadow and took up the challenge of recovering the dialogue between light and shadow in architectural space.
Notre-Dame Du Haut, Ronchamp
The chapel of Notre-Dame du Haut at Ronchamp (1950–5) signalled Le Corbusier’s transition away from the world of clinical, purist brightness. In his mature years, the standard bearer of the Esprit Nouveau disconcerted his contemporaries with a work that turned its back on puritan rationalism. Le Corbusier was accused of having abandoned his secular ideals and instead serving the cause of religious propaganda. What actually happened was that, at the age of 60, the master architect foresaw the coming crisis in Enlightenment secularity, which, after all, had arguably been another religion itself – the religion of reason and pure intellect.
Perhaps this change originated in Le Corbusier’s earlier Mediterranean journey (see Chapter 2). Ronchamp contains reminiscences of the grotto of Serapis in Hadrian’s
Figure 6.11 Monastery of La Tourette, Éveux, Lyons, 1952–60, by Le Corbusier.
Villa at Tivoli, which was dug out of the rock with a vertical hole in the depths of the grotto to allow light to enter. This effect must have made a deep impression on Le Corbusier, who drew it and described it as a “hole of mystery”. The idea is incorporated into the chapel at Ronchamp and his later monastery of La Tourette, where the light enters through mysterious holes in the walls and fills the interior in a way that could be described as metaphysical.
Seen from the south, at a distance, the Ronchamp chapel looks like a temple on the Athenian Acropolis. However, unlike such Greek shrines in their modern condition, the little chapel contains a wealth of symbols and metaphors – of which the image of the tent is the most easily recognised. The lines of the building’s walls fall like folds of canvas, and the roof seems to be suspended over the enclosed space. The origin of the chapel’s shape appears to lie in the cosmic vision of Isaiah (40:22), of the Lord “who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, and spreads them like a tent to dwell in”, taking in all the religious significance of the stars and their celestial light. The windows in the south wall form constellations, signs of the zodiac. One of Le Corbusier’s notes refers to the south door as the Milky Way, which in medieval times guided pilgrims to the purported tomb of St James in the great Spanish pilgrimage city of Santiago de Compostela. The line where wall and ceiling meet at Ronchamp is traced by a narrow strip of light, making the roof appear to float weightlessly in the air. The image of the Virgin Mary represents the Morning Star, the title applied to her by Christian litanies from earliest times.
La Tourette, Éveux, Lyons
Le Corbusier took the same approach to the project of La Tourette monastery (1952–60). It was suggested that he should model it directly on Le Thoronet, a 12th-century Cistercian abbey in Var, south-eastern France. The architect made a thorough study of Le Thoronet, from which he took above all its extraordinarily luminous quality, matching founding Cistercian St Bernard’s idea of purifying architecture of all ornament in order to allow nothing but light to influence the spaces. The skilful use of natural light and the textures of the building materials, the unity between the whole and the parts, and the value given to each element of the structure are what characterise this building, with its silent, strong, overall consistency.
Figure 6.12 Sculpture in the waiting room of Luis Barragán’s house and studio in Tacubaya, Mexico City, 1948.
Le Corbusier thus rediscovered the value of typology and the importance of translating it into a modern language without aiming to invent anything new. The challenge was to be faithful to the original Cistercian abbey in responding in a modern way to a form of life that was still alive, still being followed in his day. To do this, he put himself in the place of the anonymous medieval monks and went back to the roots of monastic architecture in order to reaffirm his own basic principles.
La Tourette consisted of a sequence of spaces that reflected the Dominican way of life, unchanged since the order’s foundation. It did not correspond to modern life in the way that his 1920s Villa Savoye or the Unité d’Habitation housing block of 1946–52 had done. The idea of the new monastery was to establish its own order, a precise relationship between man, his life and the shell under which he lived that life from morning to night, in accordance with a strict ritual. The building was to be this ritual made visible.
The structural plan of La Tourette was born of Le Corbusier’s experience of Le Thoronet plus that of a particular Romanesque basilica – always a powerful model of interior space – Santa Maria in Cosmedin. In September 1960, Le Corbusier travelled to Rome to meet the great Italian engineer Pier Luigi Nervi. He visited Santa Maria in Cosmedin while in the city, and later said of it, “this is where I got the idea for the church of La Tourette. Literally, the idea is here.” He subsequently explained the connection between the two religious buildings. Both consist of a great vertical space formed by a central nave, with side openings for the altars and sacristy: “The most important thing about Santa Maria in Cosmedin was the purity of the construction, the way the space functioned, the way the light penetrated the interior.” 11
Studio, Tacubaya, Mexico City
Another great 20th-century master of the understanding of light and shadow was the Mexican Luis Barragán. More than any of his contemporaries, he sought the riches of sense experienced through light, colour, shadow and textures. This produced an architecture that is silent, closed to the outside world like the Cistercian monasteries, inside which directed, dense light is charged with colour, emotion and mystery on being turned into architectural forms.
Figure 6.13 Church of Santa Maria at Marco de Canaveses, 1997, by Álvaro Siza.
Barragán, at least once he had reached maturity, refused to be seduced by the attraction of the rationalist’ great expanses of glass. He employed more subtle lightplay, such as that seen in the case of the angel sculpture beneath the skylight in the waiting room of his studio house. Control of light and colour, with the collaboration of practical artists such as German-born sculptor Mathias Goeritz, led Barragán towards the concept of a total work of art, integrating painting, architecture and sculpture in synergy – as had happened in the baroque period.
Santa Maria, Marco De Canaveses
The Church of Santa Maria, at Marco de Canaveses, Portugal, designed by Álvaro Siza, is another magnificent contemporary example of the control of light in a space full of transcendence. The diffuse light from the openings made in the sloping, curving left-hand wall combines with illumination from the low, horizontal window on the right. Behind the altar are two hollows, through which a bright light enters which is then filtered by a high column, and enters into dialogue with the light that bathes the curved shapes of the sides of the apse, and the space of the church in general. Siza himself commented:
Santísima Trinidad De Las Condes, Santiago De Chile
A final instance of focused light and shadowplay is to be found in the church of the Benedictine monastery of the Santísima Trinidad de las Condes in Santiago, Chile (1960–5),13 a paradigm of the use of light to generate a modern liturgical space. This work is practically unknown in Europe, but was the first building to be declared a national monument in Chile. It was designed by two young architects who were also monks: Martin Correa and Gabriel Guarda. They accepted the commission out of obedience, and their only aim was to create a space for the celebration of the mystery of the Christian liturgy. They abstained from proclaiming their role in the project, wanting simply to be faithful to the actual nature of the sacred space: simplicity, silence, bareness, austerity and transcendence.
Figure 6.14 Santísima Trinidad de las Condes, Santiago de Chile, 1960–5, by M Correa and G Guarda.
The church’s main space is formed by the intersection of two cubes on their diagonal axes. The only decoration is the natural lighting itself: white light, and shades thereof. Inspired by the artistic vanguard at the time, the space achieves the highest degree of abstraction. In this church, dedicated to the Blessed Trinity, light, the supreme symbol of divinity, enters along three ridges that converge to a point. The light itself, gliding in three different directions and constantly changing, marks the rhythm of the Christian divine office and the liturgical seasons.
This concept of light is as far from the continuous, glaring light of rationalism as it is from the motionless, transfigured light of the gothic. It is supremely fitted to guiding the space’s human occupants as it, like them, is constantly changing.