A Human-Centered Cosmos in Domes to the Stars
Warren Aerial Photography
The Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles reopens tomorrow.
... all the exhibits remain deliberately human centered; they encourage observation and are about observation.
Observatory Review | 'Griffith Observatory'
LOS ANGELES, Oct. 28 — Walk into the central rotunda of the expanded Griffith Observatory
— the Los Angeles landmark that is to reopen Friday after being closed
almost five years and undergoing $93 million of reconstruction — and
gaze up at the domed ceiling. You will see what 70 million visitors have
glimpsed since the observatory opened in 1935, high above the city’s
ever-expanding grid and sprawl: stern Jupiter grasping his thunderbolt,
Atlas bearing the weight of the Zodiac, Mercury soaring, and Venus
reclining. These are the heavenly bodies in their original mythological
incarnations: gods and goddesses deploying stupendous and mystifying
powers.
As for seeing the
stars in more realistic celestial domes, you will have to wait until
night to look through the observatory’s 12-inch Zeiss telescope, or
enter the new Samuel Oschin Planetarium, just past the rotunda, within
which a custom-modified, Zeiss Universarium Mark IX projector will shine
its technologically refined images on an aluminum dome above 300
reclining seats.
In the midst of
celebrations of the Griffith’s return, such new attractions — including
an expansive lower level of exhibition space carved underneath the
original building — may get much of the attention. But Hugo Ballin’s
original ceiling and murals in the rotunda reveal something more
important. For this reconstruction is most remarkable not for what has
changed, but for what has stayed the same. And that is a radical
approach in the world of science exhibitions.
The rotunda’s ceiling
holds the key. It shows not what the sky actually is but what humans
once made of it, how it was observed and interpreted. Below it are eight
murals, newly restored, that portray scientific advances that led to
ever more subtle understandings: metallurgists, engineers and
mathematicians, in busy colloquy, shape the cosmos through the
millenniums.
What is being portrayed is the classical
human-centered universe. This is the very world that gave birth to the
modern planetarium, in which the observer sits — gazing upward, learning
how to interpret what is seen — as the universe moves around him in a
sky dome that could well have been designed by Ptolemy.
Stephanie Diani for The New York Times
The central rotunda, showing the original artwork by Hugo Ballin.
When these murals
were installed, the Griffith was only the third major planetarium in the
United States. (Chicago and Philadelphia came first; the Hayden
Planetarium in New York followed a few months later, all using Zeiss
equipment.) Built with funds bequeathed to the city by a wealthy Welsh
immigrant, Griffith J. Griffith (1850-1919), the observatory is operated
by the Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks as a public
institution with free admission.
The Griffith’s
portrayal of a human-centered universe was shared with other
planetariums in the 1930’s, including the Hayden, which also had a lobby
with mythological allusions, and a planetarium show, complete with
Manhattan’s skyline. These new institutions also linked astronomy to the
progressive populism of their era: knowledge about the heavens would
inspire another generation of stargazers and explorers, leading to as
yet unimagined possibilities.
But this is a very
different time, and anything might have happened as the Griffith
expanded. (Construction was financed in nearly equal portions by the
city, voter-approved bonds and private donations.) In New York the Rose
Center for Earth and Space, for example, the reinvention of the Hayden,
rejected the perspective of human-centered mythology and looked through
the opposite end of the telescope, emphasizing the insignificance of the
human, dissolving Hayden’s home into galactic mist.
Something even more
unpredictable might have happened here. After all, the Griffith has no
affiliation with a university or research institution to provide an
anchor. During reconstruction (the architects were Pfeiffer Partners),
the building itself was raised by hydraulic lifts so the mountain
beneath could be excavated, creating new exhibition areas and a 200-seat
hall for shows and lectures, expanding 27,000 square feet of internal
space into 67,000.
The only thing that
couldn’t change was the observatory’s mission and the classic appearance
of this Art Deco building, a landmark that has appeared in
science-fiction movies accompanied by figures ranging from Gene Autry to
Arnold Schwarzenegger, that had a cameo role in “Rebel Without a
Cause,” and that defines the skyline for parts of Los Angeles.
Many institutions
have given in to far lesser temptations by seeking to increase the size
of their audience or alter their tone with flashier amusements or pander
to lowered expectations with condescension. Yet what happened here?
Griffith’s director, Edwin C. Krupp, told The Los Angeles Times earlier
this year that the observatory “won’t be in the mainstream of exhibition
design at science centers, astronomy museums or any kind of museums.”
And it isn’t. It is retrograde in every sense.
That is one of its virtues.
That doesn’t mean it
isn’t flawed, but it does mean that the exhibitions by C&G Partners
rather courageously turn their back on contemporary pressures in the
museum world. One alcove, the Hall of the Sky, contains simple
mechanical models mounted overhead that demonstrate the phases of the
moon or how the tilt of the Earth’s axis creates its seasons. In
another, live images of the sun’s surface are projected through the
observatory’s solar telescope. Another gallery, the Hall of the Eye,
displays the evolution of the telescope with panels, dioramas and cases,
and shows how California became an “Alexandria” of astronomical
research in the 20th century.
The entire first
floor has a quaint clarity. No display tries too much; all will be
supplemented by guides offering assistance and information. The most
dramatic exhibit is a relic of the original Griffith but bears little
relation to the heavens: a Tesla coil housed in a metal cage, whose
lightninglike sparks may provide the Griffith’s only spectacle aside
from the stars. But all the exhibits remain deliberately human centered;
they encourage observation and are about observation.
The new lower level,
evoking the expanse of the universe in its cavernous space, is less
coherent, but the observer remains central. Traditional panels describe
the planets, which are arrayed in proportional size; an interactive
computer screen highlights other planetary systems.
The most imposing
exhibit, the Big Picture, is an image of what might be hidden behind
your finger if held about a foot from your face against the night sky,
as demonstrated by a bronze Einstein on a bench, his finger aloft. That
strip of eclipsed space becomes a 152-foot-long, 20-foot-high photo of
the heavens in porcelain enamel, its 114 panels mounted against the
wall, showing the myriad galaxies, quasars and other celestial bodies
visible in a finger’s breadth of our perceptible world.
As it turns out, the
Big Picture is less interesting visually than conceptually. It does not,
in itself, inspire a sense of awe at the heavens. That is reserved for
the moment when, in a traditional planetarium, the twilight sky darkens,
the overhead dome seems to dissolve, and one gazes upward at a
boundless expanse.
But that sensation
too is promised. The Griffith’s new planetarium show was still being
worked on during my visit, but Mr. Krupp said it would be in keeping
with the mythic possibilities of the rotunda, dramatizing a history of
our understanding of the universe. Most remarkably, it will have a live
narrator, leading the audience on a guided celestial tour. Human
centered indeed.
Perhaps the
observatory’s only misstep was in giving its bust of James Dean such
pride of place on the front lawn, overlooking the famed Hollywood sign
on a nearby hill. Why Mr. Dean? Because in “Rebel Without a Cause” the
Griffith plays a crucial role. Mr. Dean’s character comes in contact
with the full scope of 1950s teenage brutality and anomie right after a
planetarium show in which the cosmic destruction of the Earth is
portrayed.
“In all the immensity
of our universe and the galaxies beyond,” says the lecturer below the
projected dome of stars, “the Earth will not be missed. Through the
infinite reaches of space, the problems of man seem trivial and naïve
indeed. And man, existing alone, seems an episode of little
consequence.”
That message might
have encouraged the nihilistic violence of the movie’s disaffected
characters; or it might have grated against their adolescent convictions
about the immensity of their problems when compared with humanity’s
“episode of little consequence.” But why should the Griffith have given
Mr. Dean such credit? The observatory’s real message is just the
opposite.
Copyright 2006 The New York Times Company
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