Precedents include: Paro Taktsang- Bhutan, Mont-Saint Michel- France, and Riverside Church- NY
I’d like to suggest that each and every one of us has experienced a moment of sacredness. A moment when our breath left us in an instant… left us feeling so very strongly in our souls rather than in our physical bodies. The intensity of this phenomenon seems to differ from one situation to the next, but the consensus tends to be- we want more. For whatever strange reason, there is something unexplainably beautiful about this moment of silence- silence in that nothing in close proximity to us matters or even exists- and the difficulty of reaching this state of mind makes it that much more desirable.
Designers- from visual artists, to architects, to musicians- have been attempting, for centuries, to bring their audience closer to moments of sacredness. By tapping into our senses, some notable works have succeeded in helping us experience the ineffable. Architects have been bestowed with an ability to touch upon a number of the senses; but with this gift comes a great responsibility. The expectation for this type of artist is to work with volume and space; to work with the natural/existing environment and to create a new one that engulfs the human body. A single human body that brings with it all five of its senses that need to be catered to and considered. Hundreds of moments will encapsulate this figure in hopes of providing it with the possibility of “awakening” the numinous.
The wondrous thing about working with space is that it is three dimensional and our canvas is larger than ourselves. This means that many frames need to be considered and designed. Architecture is not a stationary piece of art, it is rather an art that moves and changes; and we, as the visitors, move within it- a journey is born.
The story of us walking to and through the space, however, is not solely dependent on the artist. Where is the starting point? How many entrances are there? Where are the thresholds? What can I see when I’m standing here, or here, or here? These are questions that architects ask themselves over and over again with their pencil pressed to the paper- sketching, scribbling over, erasing, sketching again. But at times, there is no need to go through this repetitive process because the site itself has already given them a definite answer.
Between the 5th and 8th century some of the first Buddhist temples began to appear embedded into the mountains. Monks would journey thousands of feet upward to reach the meditation cave. Day long trips would be made through extremely steep and rather dangerous grounds. And you may ask yourself “why?”; Why is it so important for this religious group to partake in a pilgrimage when the structure could have been built on a lower plane? I have to insist that the sacred moment these monks are after is just as much about the temple as it is about the journey to it. Buddhists have been searching for a means to achieve the ineffable for so many years; some dedicating their entire life to enter this state of peace. The thought of being able to experience Nirvana in less than 24 hours, to them, is remarkable.
“Buddhists have been seeking more efficient ways to what’s known as Bodhi, or “waking up,” for more than 2,000 years. Usually, a lifetime of meditation is involved. But a small Japanese sect had developed a unique approach dubbed “circling the mountain.” That is, hiking. Could the trail actually be the quickest path to Nirvana?”1
Paro Taktsang, commonly known as “The Tiger’s Nest”, is a Monastery located in Paro Valley, Bhutan. While it was officially constructed in the late 1600s, it evolved from an 8th century meditation cave. Due to its ancient history, the location of this sacred space- along with its entry sequence- was predetermined for the 17th century builders. It is over 10,000 feet above Bhutan’s Paro Valley and remains to be a sacred destination for many till this day: “Many Bhutanese make this trip before they can walk, usually on their parent’s back…”2
What is so astounding is that the journey to this sanctuary has not been weakened throughout the years. Despite the number of times it has been repaired and expanded, it remains genuine and true to its history. The journey itself continues to act as an elongated, powerful threshold transporting our bodies from a common, open space to a divine realm- another state of consciousness. The difficulty of climbing vertically on poorly paved paths is still present, reminding the wanderer of how Guru Rinpoche, the 8th century Buddhist master, climbed to the mountain himself.
While little was done architecturally to alter the experience it seems to be just as powerful as it was centuries ago. Perhaps it has something to do with the sequence of motions and feelings an individual goes through while voyaging to the top. Something about how at the start of the journey you look above you and can barely make out the sacred space; about how after walking upward for two hours your body begins to ache but you remain focused, as not to fall off the trail. It’s something about how you look down at your feet and pay little attention to the people walking beside you, in front of you, or behind you. You begin to subconsciously partake in a spiritual journey toward isolation, contemplation, and meditation. At the end-point you are left with an awareness that you are nothing more than a 6-foot-tall person surrounded by an unmeasurable mountain range, thousands of feet above and away from your daily life. You are now at the Monastery with your body, mind, and soul ready to complete the sacred journey through prayer.
Aside from the miraculous outcome of your journey, one can see a how miraculous the place itself is. Paul Goldberger, an architectural critic, tells us in his work Architecture, Sacred Space and the Challenge of the Modern that “[the sacred] does not demand logic, it defies it” and the Paro Taktsang, I believe, captures this idea entirely with the way it is wondrously perched at the edge of a mountain. Not only does the sacredness of this space defy logic, but even the structure itself appears to defy gravity.
While the 8th century shows us that sacred spaces in the East were being born into the mountain sides, in the Western World they were emerging from the water. Mont Saint-Michel was founded by Aubert, a Bishop who stated that the Archangel Michael appeared to him in a dream, asking him to build this place of sanctuary. It began at the time as nothing more than a small chapel built upon a large rock known as “Mont Tombe”. Transportation of materials during its early (and many) years of construction happened by boat. It was only at low tide that marsh land would make itself visible to connect the rock to land.
“Local tour guide Amélie Saint-James says… ‘During the Middle Ages, pilgrims had to walk their way to Mont Saint-Michel [during extreme low tide]. It was considered very dangerous,” Saint-James says. “In those days, it was said that any pilgrims who planned to go to Mont Saint-Michel should first make out a will, because it was not so sure that they would come back from it.”3
This idea of difficult journey sounds all too familiar. Like Paro Taktsang, Mont St. Michel has isolated itself by having one go through an intense, 2,500-foot-long threshold before reaching it. I would argue that the visitor’s voyage begins the moment he makes the decision to risk his life for a chance to experience the ineffable.
As the Church continued to grow and develop over the course of centuries it began to take form- from afar it appears as a castle built on top of a mountain. Technology grew parallel to the importance of this sacred structure; a proper causeway was finally able to be made so it could contain the large number of travelers- transporting them in a safer fashion to and from the island. The bridge was built from rocks and sand in the 19th century. Today, the causeway has been lifted and it accommodates cars as well as pedestrians. While it can be argued that this sort of bridge is necessary for functional purposes, I would like to suggest that it, in a sense, takes away from the sacred journey that was originally there. There is something striking about a long, dangerous path that leads a mortal being to a place almost unreachable. I cannot be the only one who recognizes this; “as the spring equinox on March 21 nears, the combined gravitational pull of the sun and the moon on the sea is producing what some French locals are calling the ‘tides of the century’”3 These tides are so powerful that even the 21st century causeway is engulfed and the island is, once more, an isolated, floating crown. Interestingly enough, people flock to the edge of the shore just to watch this occurrence and admire the distant, sacred space as it becomes completely unattainable for a short period of time. The forces of nature, that modern builders find themselves trying to tame, comply to our needs and desires much of the time: For example, 99% of the time the water surrounding Mont St. Michel accepts its task to act as a beautiful, visual threshold for the island’s visitor. However, the power of nature should never be underestimated or forgotten, because every once in a while it will rebel and us humans are reminded that we indeed are completely helpless against it. And while it is absolutely frightening to be in no control over something so immense and strong, it is somehow unexplainably calming as well. Like reaching the top of Paro Taktsang and looking out into the massive mountains that surround every inch of our body, that same moment of feeling small, is found here, but with the horizontal plane being the one that reaches out into the infinite.
After the passing of the storm and the path to the Church is made visible, one begins to more fully appreciate the opportunity to walk across the water toward this mountainous jewel. Diana Eck, a Scholar of Religious Studies at Harvard University, speaks in her work, titled Temples of Light, on this idea of voyaging to a distant space:
“The term used in the Hindu context for what we might speak of as ‘sacred space’ is tirtha, meaning ‘ford’: a place where one crosses over from this shore to the far shore, from this world to the beyond. A tirtha might be a hilltop, or the meeting of two rivers, or a rock outcropping”4
What is also important to note is the introduction to yet a third religion and another culture. Despite the difference in gods and beliefs, this idea of a physical, elongated journey being the connector from our secular realm to another more sacred one, seems to be the common denominator. And I cannot help but ask myself, what if there is no room to create a 1,000 – 3,000-foot-long journey? What if the physical journey to the sacred needs to be, yet again shortened due to site conditions and factors?
New York, NY is one of the densest cities in the US. While this obviously means there is limited space between the buildings, it also means there are millions of people visiting the city each year. If artists and architects want their work to be effective, they cannot disregard the urban context with such a sizeable audience. In situations like this, architects needed to find a way to compensate for the shortened journey toward the ineffable. Like the monks who tried to compress the amount of time to Nirvana through day long hikes instead of life-long meditation sessions, architects in cities needed to reduce the time even more- could they help us reach the sacred in a matter of seconds?
Riverside Church in Upper Manhattan NY was constructed in 1930. It is the tallest Church in the US and the 24th tallest in the world. Its height alone speaks of the intentions of the designers. How can they make up for the long horizontal journey that NY cannot offer? Build up. It is important to understand what exactly happens when a place is elongated. While the structure can be seen from afar, so can a skyscraper. So the key to the design, I would like to suggest, is not so much about the view to the Church from miles away, but rather about the direct human experience right beside the structure and inside of it. At the human scale one approaches this massive building and the details of it are realized. Just from the thickness and heaviness of the stone and apertures, I am reminded of the the Buddhist caves. Looking directly up at the way the embellishments and engravings shape the Cathedral’s peak, it resembles the impressions and folds of a mountain- I feel small.
After climbing a set of stairs and making one’s way through the entry door, there is a labyrinth imprinted on the Church’s floor. These patterns and mazes have been used for thousands of years as a means of contemplation and meditation. By walking through them the person’s view is fixated on his feet- similar to the way the traveler climbing Paro Taktsang is also careful of his stepping pattern. Though in this case there is no opportunity for one to be in this meditative state for 3 hours, it attempts to help isolate the mind and body from others in the space within a reasonable time frame. Looking up from this experience one is meant to find himself drenched in natural light being filtered through blue, stained glass. The space is not broken up into floors so you are encapsulated in a 400-foot-tall space. This is the climax of the story, and the element of surprise is absolutely crucial here.
An architect has the power to create and fill volumes, to design frames of moments for others to experience. But it is interesting how some of the most profound architecture on earth is inspired by volumes, places, and things that were created by a being greater than ourselves. Mountains are natural forms that a God or force has blessed us with, and I use the word “blessed” because we as humans could not have ever brought, with all our meekness, such a magnificent thing to life. It is a form that with its grandness has opened to us the doors of the ineffable and from this we have extracted new, modern methods to string the sacred into our daily lives and environments.
In Landscapes of the Sacred by Belden C. Lane, he mentions some of the thoughts going through his head as he was driving to see the Cascade Range in Washington: “A British navigator, George Vancouver, had sailed the Washington coast in 1792, naming this grand volcanic peak after an admiral in the Royal Navy. But Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest had always known its true name- Tahoma, “The Mountain That was God” (94).5
- Chase, Adam W. “The Japanese Monk Who Hiked a Mountain 1,000 Days in a Row.” “An Ancient Path to Nirvana Leads a Buddhist Monk up a Mountain—again and Again and Again. Can Backpackers Learn Anything from His Example?” BackPacker Oct. 2016
- Ghosh, Bob. “Bhutan: The Last Authentic Place on Earth | TIME.com.” Time. Time, 16 Sept. 2012. Web. 10 Dec. 2016.
- Leveille, David. “Tourists Follow in the Steps of Early Pilgrims as High Tides Surround Mont Saint-Michel.” Public Radio International. N.p., 6 Mar. 2015. Web. 10 Dec. 2016.
- Diana Eck. “Temples of Light.” Transcending Architecture- Contemporary Views on Sacred Space. Pg. 114. Print.
- Lane, Belden C. Landscapes of the Sacred: Geography and Narrative in American Spirituality. New York: Paulist, 1988. Print.
- Paul Goldberger. “Architecture, Sacred Space and the Challenge of the Modern.” Transcending Architecture- Contemporary Views on Sacred Space. Print.