COLUMN: Alice in Blunderland

From Lee Bailey's "The Immaculate Perception?'" Fall '95 From Lee Bailey's "The Immaculate Perception?'" Fall '95In The Seven Lamps of Architecture, John Ruskin writes, "When we build, let us think that we build forever." Was I to counter, I would simply suggest that he come to the University of Pennsylvania, and then invite him to reform his statement. Perhaps one wouldn't hurry in disgust between Meyerson Hall and the Van Pelt Library, veritably the Scylla and Charybdis of the campus, aiming for the Techno-Raving trinket vendor on 34th and Walnut as a safe haven. And just perhaps the Penn student could avoid becoming none other than Alice in Architectural Blunderland. As I stroll on the Penn campus, I am thrown to an earlier time. Indeed, I think of my family's visit to Walt Disneyworld. Just as Disney is separated into cheesy little villages, so is Penn's campus. We have Mathland, starring the dour David Rittenhouse Labs in a motif true to Welcome Back, Kotter-era public school style. Perhaps visitors' favorite is Spaceland, with Vance Hall serving as Mission Control. And who can forget the Bookstore's home, Shopping-Strip Center-Gone-Chapter-11-Land? More spectacular sights are to be seen at the corner of Walnut and 34th Street. Ah, I see already signs of alarm in your countenance. "Is that a penitentiary?" you ask. No – that is Hill House. In case you cannot tell, this fortress-like monstrosity was constructed in the 1960s. It is the proud work of Scandinavian architect Eero Saarinen, which might explain why its interior atrium somewhat resembles a composite of Ikea and K-Mart. We are meant to marvel at the duality of the structure--San Quentin-esque exterior and an Econo-Hanging Gardens of Babylon within. But if you like Hill House, you're gonna love Annenberg. Come on! We are now headed towards the prestigious Annenberg School of Communication. On the way we pass Bennett Hall, one of the few bastions of tasteful design on the campus. Annenberg's stark concrete facade is considered more engaging, though. Silly rabbit, bricks are for kids! Annenberg, home of Penn's communication school, looks more like a Floridian drug cartel headquartered in the Keys, though I'm sure its Jetsonian decor earned it praise from tawdry modernists. Park a Ferrari in front and you can film Miami Vice. If you'll turn with me now, we can proceed a bit further up Locust Walk. Looming above you, soaring twenty stories overhead, are the hailed high rises. Look, you can even see the priapic playground of metal red tubes. Each a glorified Motel 6 in its own right, these stark towers seem to be part of a growing trend at the University. Just a few blocks away are cheap knock-offs -- the grad towers. Ready for more? There's plenty of it! We've yet to see the rest of Penn's structural marvels, like Williams Hall, Vance Hall and the hellishly post-holocaustal psychology labs building! Come on? I dispense with didactic satire and appeal to the collective taste of University students, faculty, administrators and benefactors. Unequivocally, the University of Pennsylvania is home to some of the most legitimately breathtaking buildings in all of academia. Ours is a crown which holds dazzling gems, such as College Hall, the Quadrangle, Logan Hall, Locust Walk, the Dental School, Hayden Hall and Frank Furness' unforgettable library. Surely the more detestable buildings on the campus enjoyed support at their outsets, or else they would not have been built. Yet perhaps the masterminds behind their construction could have used what might be called the "Postcard Standard." In other words, if it wouldn't appear on a postcard in the Bookstore, it shouldn't be built. I would be most surprised indeed if T-shirts splashed with the sorry face of DRL, or coffee mugs depicting 3401 Walnut started to sell like hotcakes. With tragic abhorrence it can be observed that the past planners of this institution have betrayed the trust of those who have blessed it with priceless gifts. The University's better structures plainly merit comparison to those at institutions like Princeton and the University of Virginia. However, the latter schools have been fortunate enough to be overseen with aesthetic foresight and long-term prescience. Their campuses have been developed with a uniform beauty in mind, while Penn's appears to be an irresponsible toddler's uncollected throw of jacks -- some rusty and unappealing, others attractive and appreciable. Long overdue is an expedited maturation of the collective artistic mindset at Penn. It is time for the guardians of this historic legacy to abandon laughably ridiculous building styles and return to pre-modern techniques which actually enhance rather than degrade. Although the issue is long-lived, now is a crucial time for its reconsideration. As one hears of fantastical glass atriums bonding the visually opposed Williams and Logan Halls, as well as other yet unseen proposals, he can only glance about himself, wondering if such new projects will simply be seen as just another Van Pelt three decades hence. While seemingly not as pressing or urgent as other matters, the University's physical condition ought to remain at the forefront of our collective minds for one reason alone -- policies can be reversed with a mere signature, but buildings are more or less forever. All should recall Goethe's keen observation: "I call architecture frozen music." If this is the case, then we reside in tragic cacophony. We must alter the course of the dissonant symphony which the University has become and pray that its conductors have the foresight to follow suit. Lee Bailey is a freshman from Houston, Texas. The Immaculate Perception? appears alternate Wednesdays.