ART museums have become the chief patrons of trendsetting architecture. The openings of new museums such as the Getty Center, in Los Angeles, designed by Richard Meier, and the Guggenheim in Bilbao, Spain, designed by Frank Gehry, are anticipated with the same sense of excitement that attends the openings of Steven Spielberg blockbusters. The anticipation is explained in part by art's quasi-religious status in modern society and in part by plain showmanship, resulting from the need of museums to increase attendance. Thus after the Museum of Modern Art, in New York, announced last year that it was going to undertake a major expansion, Herbert Muschamp, of The New York Times, described the commission as "one of the most prestigious plums that is likely to fall into any architect's lap within this decade."
The Museum of Modern Art has always seen itself as being in the vanguard of progressive architecture and design. In 1932, only three years after it was founded, the museum mounted an exhibition titled "Modern Architecture: International Exhibition." The show, which popularized the term "International Style," introduced the American public to European modernists such as Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Walter Gropius. The idiom of Bauhaus modernism -- free-flowing spaces with movable white walls, contained in a functional box -- was incorporated into the Modern's new building, on West 53rd Street. That was 1939. Today modernism has joined the mainstream. Home-furnishings chains like IKEA and Crate & Barrel have brought modern design to the mass market. As for the avant garde, well, many upscale clothing boutiques now outmodern the Modern. Being overtaken by Giorgio Armani and Calvin Klein might cause a museum to worry -- which probably explains why the Modern announced that its expansion would also involve a substantial redesign.
Breaking with tradition, the Modern decided to hold a design competition, and it invited ten architects to enter. Neither Gehry nor Meier was on the list. Nor
were other prominent museum architects, such as I. M. Pei, who was responsible for the expansion of the Louvre; Robert Venturi, who won the international competition for the Sainsbury Wing of the National Gallery in London; Renzo Piano, the architect of the highly praised Menil Collection, in Houston; and Moshe Safdie, whose National Gallery of Canada is a superb art museum. The trustees picked instead a group of modernists who are relative newcomers -- mostly in their late forties and early fifties, which is young for an architect. One could say that the trustees passed up blue chips to put their money on small-cap stocks. Architecture, like the stock market, is international, and the list included Yoshio Taniguchi and Toyo Ito, from Japan; Rem Koolhaas and Wiel Arets, from Holland; Dominique Perrault, a Frenchman; the team of Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron, from Switzerland; and, from New York, Bernard Tschumi, Steven Holl, Rafael Viñoly, and Tod Williams and Billie Tsien.
THIS is hardly a representative sample of contemporary practitioners. The absence of a canonic classicist such as Allan Greenberg or John Blatteau is understandable, given the museum's roots -- although both these architects would be likely to argue that their buildings are as modern as anyone else's. Certainly, though, the net could have been cast wider. Some of the most interesting buildings today are the work of architects, such as Aldo Rossi in Europe, and Thomas Beeby and William Rawn in this country, who are exploring the blurred edges between modernism and pre-modern architectural traditions. The buildings of John Ruble and Buzz Yudell, of Los Angeles, demonstrate that in capable hands a postmodern approach continues to produce humanist buildings of richness, satisfying complexity, and even humor. And what about an iconoclast such as Christopher Alexander, whose New Eishin University, in Japan, is a compelling demonstration of the theories he has explored in his writings? Since the late 1960s, when doctrinaire modernism ceased to hold sway, architecture has splintered; but you would hardly know this from the Modern's list of orthodox modernists. Or, more accurately, neo-modernists -- architectural modernism is now more than seventy years old. Nostalgia is a relative concept.
The museum's expansion will be onto land currently occupied by the old Dorset Hotel, on West 54th Street, and two adjacent brownstones. But there is more to the project than just adding space. The ten architects were asked to demonstrate how the entire complex of museum wings could be reconfigured into a unified whole. Certain parts of the existing museum had to be conserved: the sculpture garden, most of the façade
of the original building, an interior stair, and a large auditorium in the basement. But the architects were otherwise given a free hand to alter as much -- or as little -- as they wanted. According to the museum's director, Glenn D. Lowry, the goal of the competition was nothing less than "to conceptualize a modern museum in the context of the future."
In April the museum announced that Herzog and De Meuron, Tschumi, and Taniguchi had been chosen to proceed to the next phase of the competition. The winner is expected to be announced by the end of the year. The ten initial proposals were displayed in one of the museum's fourth-floor architecture-and-design galleries, in an exhibit titled "Toward the New Museum of Modern Art" -- a self-conscious reference to Le Corbusier's great modernist manifesto of the 1920s. "Towards a New Architecture" was a call to arms full of slogans and stirring photographs of ocean liners, airplanes, and factories. The tract was more about the image of modernism than about the practical realities of building -- which, of course, is why it was so effective.
THERE was not much passion in evidence at the Modern. Most of the entrants seem to have concentrated their energy on the complicated but mundane task of shoehorning additional space into the narrow site between 53rd and 54th Streets. Herzog and De Meuron pragmatically illustrated two alternatives that they confusingly called "agglomerate" and "conglomerate." Bernard Tschumi, a Swiss-French architect who is currently the dean of architecture at Columbia University, is best known for the Parc de la Villette, in Paris, which is generally considered one of the first built examples of architectural deconstructivism. Yet his entry had none of the jagged edges and odd angles that characterize that eccentric approach. Instead his sketches showed a sort of choreography -- slide the entrance lobby over here, push the new galleries up there, slip in the curatorial offices. This was architecture as a Rubik's Cube. It looked competent, but I soon lost track of its permutations. At fifty-nine, Yoshio Taniguchi was the senior competitor, and his skillful planning was workmanlike even if his actual design was hard to pin down.
Steven Holl's project was more sculptural, but his crude sketches were unconvincing. Williams and Tsien showed several hurriedly drawn sections and plans, but it was unclear exactly what these added up to. Toyo Ito described his building as both a "lying down skyscraper" and a "Bar[r] code," which was an obscure reference to the Modern's first director, Alfred Barr Jr. Wiel Arets included a series of thumbnail sketches illustrating what a museumgoer would experience; the generic views included a lot of stairs and ramps. It could have been any building, anywhere.