Here's Time's article:
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Star Burst
Thursday, May. 31, 2007 By RICHARD LACAYO/TORONTO
A DIFFERENT ANGLE: Libeskind's addition to the Royal Ontario Museum rises out of the old building
After a long recession in the 1990s, for much of the past seven years Toronto has enjoyed an enormous building boom. Downtown is stuffed with new corporate headquarters. Around the shore of Lake Ontario the skyline is bristling with condo towers. Nearly all the construction from these years has been fairly conventional, though — this is still a city where the developer's box rules. But in one part of town, the rules have changed. On June 2 the venerable Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) will officially open a new addition designed by the architect Daniel Libeskind in his most implacable and declarative style. And with that, the boomtown will be getting a building that goes boom all by itself.
Libeskind's $135 million addition to the ROM, called the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal after its lead donor, is resolutely unlike anything Toronto — or most cities — has seen before. To begin with, it doesn't look much like the original building, which is actually two buildings: a yellow brick structure from 1912 that was overtaken in 1932 by a weighty limestone addition in a Beaux Arts style with trace elements of the Gothic and Baroque. Libeskind's Crystal bursts from the old museum's limestone in pointed shards of anodized aluminum. It touches the ground with the jagged footprint of a fever chart. Windows slice across the surface in narrow diagonal stripes or in large trapezoids that cut widely up and across the building's various façades and open views to several floors at once. Though the impulse to enter is irresistible, it may take a moment to find the door.
In other words, like his Jewish Museum in Berlin and his recent addition to the Denver Art Museum, this is another Libeskind building sure to have people asking, "What's that about?" To which Libeskind says, "Fine." He designed the thing precisely to evoke that response. "This is not something that you know," he says. "It's a reinvention. It's not just business as usual. It's not just another black box."
In every century there are certain buildings that are conceived and executed purposely to change the course of architectural history. This is what Horace Walpole had in mind with Strawberry Hill, his 18th century faux-medieval villa on the outskirts of London that defied the Neoclassical consensus of his time and triggered the Gothic Revival. It was what Le Corbusier set out to do with the Villa Savoie, the landmark Modernist house. Libeskind, 61, who spent much of his early career as an architectural theoretician and teacher, routinely operates at the same level of ambition. With his most important projects — and Toronto is one of them — he makes what you might call polemical buildings. They're manifestos in metal and glass, intended to move the argument forward about what's possible in architecture, what a building can look like.
I love orthogonal architecture," he says, using the term for buildings based on right angles. "But it's old-fashioned. It belongs to a certain period in history." And in Libeskind's view, that period is behind us. The future belongs to space that has been stretched, tilted and folded. "In a democratic society architecture has many possibilities," he says. "We're not meant to become 'rigor mortised' at some point and say, 'This is it. Now there's nothing more will happen.' Economics is changing, art is changing, science is changing, everything is developing. Why should architecture not also be part of new discoveries?"
Sunny, oracular and indefatigable, Libeskind tends to smile, especially when he's at his most argumentative. He knows that people like their geniuses to be daringly off the cuff sometimes. So he sketched out his initial plan for the museum on a dozen or so napkins, which the ROM duly displayed behind frames when it mounted a show of proposals by the architects in the running for the commission. But ROM director William Thorsell says that Libeskind followed up his napkins with the most thorough analysis of the project offered by any of the contenders for the job.
Above all, both men were giving a lot of thought to the potential of the new building to bring life to Bloor Street, Toronto's main upscale shopping drag. "It was very important to us to see this as an urban project, not just an institutional one," says Thorsell, a former editor in chief of the Globe and Mail who wanted to bring the museum into the wider world he was accustomed to. "The old ROM had its elbows up high against the city; it was a big no. I wanted transparency and engagement on Bloor Street, a major urban interface."
Thorsell admits that when they saw what the interface was going to look like, some regular ROM donors thought "that box" was a little too crazy. "They just couldn't understand us doing this," he says. But others, like Michael Lee-Chin, the billionaire chairman of Portland Holdings, who gave $30 million to put his name on the addition, came through precisely because there was something new on the horizon. So far the museum has raised $228 million toward its goal of $240 million, a sum that covers both Libeskind's new building and extensive renovations to the galleries of the old museum.
Thorsell insists that in choosing Libeskind he didn't think he was taking a risk. That could be, but when Libeskind got the Toronto job, on Feb. 26, 2002, he was famous for exactly one building, the much talked-about Jewish Museum in Berlin that was his first major commission. But one year to the day later Libeskind won the competition to work out the master plan for the World Trade Center site in New York City, a commission that was originally envisioned to include his design for the Freedom Tower, the centerpiece of the project. It was a victory that immediately turned him into an architectural celebrity of the first order in the U.S. His big smile, his black-framed eyeglasses, his Armani suits and cowboy boots were everywhere in the media.
The Trade Center project didn't work out as planned. The developer who held the lease on the Twin Towers had ideas of his own. He brought in another architect, David Childs of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill, an outfit famous for providing corporations with prestige headquarters, like the Sears Tower and John Hancock Building in Chicago, that are still within their aesthetic comfort zone. For a while Childs and Libeskind collaborated on the Freedom Tower, but the final design, which is now in the first stages of construction, was so unlike Libeskind's original vision that he removed his name from it.
But by that time his name was everywhere else. Today he employs about 180 people at his studio in New York City, a branch in Zurich and several small project offices around the world. His operations are global — condo towers in Singapore and Warsaw, a shopping mall in Bern, a performing-arts center in Dublin. Or almost global. At a time when architects are flocking to China, Libeskind, who grew up under communism in Poland, refuses to accept commissions from Beijing.
Libeskind's addition to the Denver Art Museum, which opened last fall, won some rave reviews but also ran into criticism that its angular gallery spaces, with their diagonal walls — spaces not so different from his new ones at the ROM — were inhospitable to the art or even the public. To meet U.S. safety codes, the museum had to apply 7.5-cm-tall wooden markers ("courtesy curbs") on the floor in some galleries to prevent visitors from advancing into inward-sloping walls and bumping their heads. Christoph Heinrich, who will become the Denver museum's new curator of modern art in September, has already announced that for one of his first shows he plans to ask artists to offer work that responds to the language of Libeskind's spaces.
The ROM, however, was chartered to be both a fine-art and a natural-history museum. With collections that range from Buddhist sculpture to dinosaurs, it emphasizes objects over pictures, so straight walls are less of a priority. In any case, there are plenty of those in the older part of the ROM. And Libeskind insists that the dynamic lines of the galleries "energize" the works they hold. "The display of art is also not set for eternity," he says. "It has changed over time. Look how things were exhibited in the 19th century. Curators are not people who are asleep. They also want to create a new experience for the viewer."
The ROM interiors already do that by themselves, especially the upper galleries with their trapezoidal spaces and the diagonal slot windows that are something of a Libeskind trademark. However intriguing the avalanching façades of the ROM may be, it's the interiors — tumbling galleries that bring your expectations forcefully into a new alignment — that are the most fascinating thing he has done here.
The great public buildings of the early 21st century — Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, the Seattle Public Library by Rem Koolhaas, Libeskind's own addition to the Denver Art Museum — all speak in some variation of this irregular vocabulary. Twentieth century Modernism produced many great buildings, but by the 1970s it was a formula for mediocrity. Ever since, architects — and the rest of us — have been looking for a way out. And Libeskind has been showing one way. He may have produced some argumentative buildings, but they happen to be making the arguments that need to be made.
Even in Toronto. "A building can have a very positive impact," Libeskind says. "People can say, 'This is not just Toronto the good, it's Toronto the interesting!' Why is it expected that this could only happen in Tokyo or London or New York City?"
And by the way," he adds. "Not a single one of my clients has ever asked me to make a box. None of them has said to me, 'We want you to design something like somebody else.'" Well, naturally. They would be crazy to try.
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