If you have followed my ramblings here at MutualArt for any length of time, you’ll probably have noticed that I make a concerted effort to find something beautiful or at least meaningful in every work of art or architecture I discuss. Some subjects are more difficult for me than others. I admit that I tend to appreciate baroque and impressionistic art most; the further afield I travel from these movements, the more I find myself relying on research and imagination to embody perspectives that may not be entirely my own.
Still, overall, I believe the attempt to do so – to search for beauty as others see it – is an enjoyable and fruitful one. The artistic world can be intensely critical. Whether the status quo of the moment leans toward advanced displays of technical prowess or boundless (and occasionally incomprehensible) innovation, the deeper one delves into its discourse, the more difficult it can become to discern what it was ever supposed to be about in the first place. Even established art critics can quickly be penalized for deviating too far from the consensus of the Zeitgeist. And it’s a particularly baffling burden that contemporary artists face: to serve not only as experts in their craft but also as politicians, economists, and philosophers. As the art world lays claim to an ever more penetrating insight into the human condition, it simultaneously seems to drift ever further from the core of the craft. Even in an era of unprecedented media democratization, I struggle to think of another point in history when the possibility of appreciating art has been so wholly divorced from the common man.
And so, I am grateful for this opportunity to write for MutualArt: to appreciate art as well as I can. Whenever I start writing about a piece, I imagine the process the artist likely went through to create it. What training did they undertake? What materials did they gather? What steps did they follow? – Who was this painted for? A patron? Their family? Their community? Themselves? – Did they seem to enjoy making this piece? What was their motivation? Technical mastery? Communal responsibility? Financial necessity? Love?
It will come as no surprise to hear that the art world sometimes gets a bad rap because of a select few prone to exploiting it with underdeveloped ideas and overworked PR teams. But I believe such opportunists still represent the firm minority of those who create. If a work of art exists, someone loved it (or at least loved something) enough to make it so. Taking time to understand what each artist loves has made me a much happier viewer and a more creative artist. And I am grateful that this journey has seemed to resonate with many of you.
In any case, all this is a roundabout way of introducing the topic of today’s article, which, of all the topics I’ve touched upon in these articles over the years, is perhaps the most personally challenging: brutalism in Christian architecture. As far afield as I have hitherto ventured, be it rock art or gargoyles or outright iconoclasm, I find it all but impossible to sympathize with the rationale behind brutalist churches, with their impassible concrete edifices, towering blank and unfeeling above a congregation or a town. These structures feel to me less like the invitations to hope and community that churches claim to be and more like preemptive tombstones, marking the grave of a happier life they’d fain see dead.
In the decades since brutalism’s introduction in the post-war years, many beautiful structures have been replaced with these slabs. Don’t get me wrong – I am far from a Luddite, and I am not calling for a return to overdecorated facades and grand classical entryways. I want nothing more than to see the field of architecture continue to push the boundaries of engineering and aesthetics. And, despite my somewhat traditional preferences, I have even found myself admiring some of the more daring skyscrapers and theaters dotting modern cities. But when it comes to churches, I am confused by how these unique, bizarre experiments so often seem out-of-step with the hearts and minds of those entering their walls. However technically innovative, brutalist churches are generally indicative, I believe, of the disconnect between contemporary art and those it is meant to serve.
I imagine that most readers of this magazine are familiar with brutalism: its geometric forms, imposing scale, and enthusiastic use of raw materials such as concrete and steel. A much smaller number of you may be familiar with the name Paul Tillich. Tillich was a German-American Protestant Christian philosopher who became influential in the Lutheran Church in the years following World War II. While avoiding entering into any lengthy discussion of his existentialist writings or socialist political leanings, suffice to say that he advocated for Christian denominations to veer away from magnificent representations of divinity and grace in favor of acknowledging humanity’s inherent anxiety about our condition: Where have we come from? Where are we going? What is it all for? To this end, he suggested churches could benefit from greater authenticity.
With regard to architecture, this meant that rather than the soaring heights of heavenly cathedrals, a return to simpler structures with a heavier, more material feel could better express Christianity’s sympathy with modernity’s fears – as well as its faith that God is the foundation upon which these fears could be put to rest. It is, as far as theologies go, markedly anthropocentric. These churches were meant to be an arm outstretched from one man to another, a gesture toward unity in an era marred by murky conflict and intrigue.
So far, so easy to follow. The post-war years were a renaissance for humanism across the board; optimism about our ability to unite and fix the world’s problems is a hallmark of the period. Still, why was brutalism the style of choice for so many churches attempting to revitalize their faith for a changing sociopolitical landscape? Why not a style more inclined to quell humanity’s existential fears with softer visions of peace and hope rather than to stoke them with stark, concrete naves?
To put it simply, brutalism’s “rawness” translated to Christians of the time (and even, in many cases, today) as authenticity. Definitionally, brutalist architecture cannot hide behind decoration or facade. It tells few stories other than the story of its construction – and that, it usually expresses abundantly clearly. One might say that a brutalist church is an almost entirely negative space into which the human being in all its messiness can enter, only to find itself engulfed by scale and camouflaged by neutrality. A truly brutalist church appears to have little to do with beauty and divinity, with arms uplifted to God; its eyes are planted firmly at the dust from which we’ve come. But in its functionality, in the community that inhabits it, one can glean a hint of sympathy and compassion, like a heavy blanket meant to embrace all humanity together. It is a dreary, pessimistic humanism, to be sure. But it is humanism nevertheless.
None of this, however, changes the fact that congregants who understand this rationale, let alone resonate with it, are rare. Many brutalist churches don’t even have clear entrances, and once inside, there is little to gaze upon during a liturgy or service that might stretch on for multiple hours. These churches are not often inviting structures; as time wears on, their call for authenticity and unity seems increasingly to fade into the shadow of the cultural trauma they encapsulate: a desire not to heal and learn from the past but to efface it entirely. Perhaps, for a moment, this is what people wanted. But history has a way of refusing to be erased. As we collectively attempt to make sense of the downfall of the aristocracy, the horrors of two world wars, the constant anxiety of the Cold War, and countless other events that made the twentieth century the bloodiest the world has ever seen, these structures seem already to have outlived their purpose in the minds of those who use them.
This may be the most that I, as I strive to do my part to bridge the gap between the world of fine art and the world of everything else, can appreciate in a brutalist church. Its simplicity may be a little like the blandness of a Saltine cracker: simple fare to help ease the stomach after waking up sick. That is a noble end. But we were not given a cornucopia to subsist on Saltine crackers, no matter how elaborately piled and arranged. Christianity, for worse and for better, has long been at the heart of Western culture. For over a millennium, its churches were where the instinctual human desire for beauty was most strongly expressed. And, though I will continue to bear with stone monoliths in place of shining steeples for as long as they are needed, I can only hope that, as the years go by, we as a culture may once more find ourselves free to delight in beautiful things without frustration or confusion. As brutalist architects have hoped, so now do I: May art once again be a force for unity in our world.
Originally published in MutualArt Magazine on May 31, 2024.
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