WREN VIGNETTES:
I. The Dome, Ball and Cross of St. Paul’s
To the architect critic, which, of course, means all architects, nothing is quite so wickedly intriguing as the opportunity that occurs all too rarely of comparing the original sketch designs for a building with the actual structure as it eventually appears in all its stark and fearsome nakedness.
The Architecture Club, a year or two ago, organised a section exhibition of architects’ original sketches designed to show the British public just how its beautiful buildings were first conceived in the minds of their designers. How, for instance, the plan of the great Parliament House or mighty Cathedral found its initial expression on the back of a disused envelope or on the conveniently blank ‘ ‘ stop press” column of the evening newspaper. Unfortunately, however, it all fell rather flat because the response from the profession was unaccountably disappointing. It seemed that the precious envelope had been thrown away or the newspaper had been carelessly left in the train. At any rate, few of these fascinating exhibits appeared, and the great stuntloving public was robbed of a very pretty thrill. The conclusion was forced upon us that either the architect was an even more shy and diffident creature than we had suspected, or that, directly the contract drawings were duly signed by employer and contractor, he marked his relief and thanksgiving by making a sacrificial bonfire of all his preliminary sketches and rejected ideas.
There is, of course, a decided limit to the number of drawings that can be stored in the average architect’s office, but it is to be hoped that the designers of the more important buildings of the present day will preserve for posterity some at least of their earlier sketch schemes. By so doing they will follow the very good precedent set by Sir Christopher Wren, whose preliminary drawings and sketches for great compositions, such as St. Paul’s, Greenwich Hospital and Hampton Court Palace, are exceedingly interesting to the student of architecture and intelligent layman alike, and have a definite historical value.
It was my good fortune, during a strenuous pupilage in a City office, to occupy a drawing-table from which a magnificent near view of the dome of St. Paul’s could be seen, and I have very clear recollections of the awe and wonder with which that majestic outline inspired me. I speculated many times then (and since, for that matter) how on earth it was all done — not the actual building, but the designing of it. How Wren, with his ludicrously scant training in architecture and limited knowledge of domed structures, could evolve such a tour-de-force of sheer design. Was it luck or genius that suggested the use of engaged columns to the drum and the solid filling to each fourth intercolumniation that gives the strength and interest so lacking in Soufflot’s dome of the Paris Pantheon? Was it more good fortune than the exercise of any particular skill that resulted in the superbly poised lantern, compared with which that of St. Peter’s at Rome is a poor, squat thing? How could he be sure that the finely-handled design for the ball and cross would not suffer from the foreshortening effect inevitable in a building of such immense height. These and a dozen similar questions must occur to any thoughtful observer, and the only answer seems to lie in Carlyle’s famous dictum that genius is simply the capacity for taking pains. Wren was essentially painstaking, and this characteristic, allied to very rare accomplishments in science and mathematics and great fertility of invention, enabled him to surmount difficulties that might
well have dismayed a man less gifted or less purposeful in method.
That Wren spared no effort to equip himself for his task can be seen from the number of drawings and sketches he prepared for the dome of St. Paul s. There are dozens of sketch designs and scale drawings, still preserved in various collections, which will well repay careful study as showing the various steps and stages by which the final masterpiece was achieved. There is first the tentative and shadowy, domed outline, followed by more carefully finished drawings for the pre-fire scheme of rebuilding the crossing and nave of the old Gothic Cathedral in the Classic style, and a very ˮfree’’ Classic at that! These drawings show a well-designed cupola crowned by a grotesque-looking skeleton pineapple. Later, the incidence of the Great Fire evoked the Warrant design, with a weird and wonderful telescopic spire superimposed on a flat saucer dome, and the “Model” scheme with its “Bramantesque” dome
and Greek cross plan. But while these fully-workedout schemes indicate the main lines of development, it must be remembered that at no stage does finality appear to have been reached, and always the restless mind of the designer was at work on some alternative treatment. This is seen in countless drawings, details and “thumbnail” sketches of various dome shapes
ranging from conical types to flat depressed cupolas frankly reminiscent of the Pantheon at Rome.
Curiously enough, however, no complete drawing has been preserved, so far as we know, which shows the dome as actually carried out or even one closely resembling it. Perhaps there never was one. It may be that some rough sketches, long since destroyed, were given to the master masons and carpenters, and with their aid, and under the vigilant supervision of the architect, the crowning glory of the great building was gradually set in place. We know the immensity of Wren’s task, the number of buildings in London and out of it with which he was concerned at one and the same time, and the impossibility of preparing anything like the number of drawings that would be deemed necessary for a similar building erected at the present time. Nevertheless, it seems difficult to believe that Wren would not provide his workmen with adequate drawings for the most important feature, æsthetically, of his whole design. Strength is given to this assumption by the fact that there is preserved in the Cathedral Library Wren’s actual working drawing for the ball and cross, consisting of plan, elevation and section, all fully detailed and dimensioned.
This drawing for the cross and cupola of the lantern is dated June 29, 1708, and was possibly the last detail sent out from the architect ’s office. It furnishes unmistakable evidence that, to the very end of his task, and although tired out in body and mind by weight of years and the petty intrigues and jealousies with which he was latterly beset, Wren kept his firm masterful grip, on the work.
Curiosity tempted me to compare this drawing with a measured drawing of the actual feature. I found that the general lines and dimensions were practically identical, and I have no reason to believe that the construction shown on Wren’s section was not faithfully followed also. Incidentally it would be interesting to know just why Wren decided that the diameter of the ball should be six feet two-and-a-half inches. It is thus carefully dimensioned on the drawings!
H. Duncan Hendry.
I. The Dome, Ball and Cross of St. Paul’s
To the architect critic, which, of course, means all architects, nothing is quite so wickedly intriguing as the opportunity that occurs all too rarely of comparing the original sketch designs for a building with the actual structure as it eventually appears in all its stark and fearsome nakedness.
The Architecture Club, a year or two ago, organised a section exhibition of architects’ original sketches designed to show the British public just how its beautiful buildings were first conceived in the minds of their designers. How, for instance, the plan of the great Parliament House or mighty Cathedral found its initial expression on the back of a disused envelope or on the conveniently blank ‘ ‘ stop press” column of the evening newspaper. Unfortunately, however, it all fell rather flat because the response from the profession was unaccountably disappointing. It seemed that the precious envelope had been thrown away or the newspaper had been carelessly left in the train. At any rate, few of these fascinating exhibits appeared, and the great stuntloving public was robbed of a very pretty thrill. The conclusion was forced upon us that either the architect was an even more shy and diffident creature than we had suspected, or that, directly the contract drawings were duly signed by employer and contractor, he marked his relief and thanksgiving by making a sacrificial bonfire of all his preliminary sketches and rejected ideas.
There is, of course, a decided limit to the number of drawings that can be stored in the average architect’s office, but it is to be hoped that the designers of the more important buildings of the present day will preserve for posterity some at least of their earlier sketch schemes. By so doing they will follow the very good precedent set by Sir Christopher Wren, whose preliminary drawings and sketches for great compositions, such as St. Paul’s, Greenwich Hospital and Hampton Court Palace, are exceedingly interesting to the student of architecture and intelligent layman alike, and have a definite historical value.
It was my good fortune, during a strenuous pupilage in a City office, to occupy a drawing-table from which a magnificent near view of the dome of St. Paul’s could be seen, and I have very clear recollections of the awe and wonder with which that majestic outline inspired me. I speculated many times then (and since, for that matter) how on earth it was all done — not the actual building, but the designing of it. How Wren, with his ludicrously scant training in architecture and limited knowledge of domed structures, could evolve such a tour-de-force of sheer design. Was it luck or genius that suggested the use of engaged columns to the drum and the solid filling to each fourth intercolumniation that gives the strength and interest so lacking in Soufflot’s dome of the Paris Pantheon? Was it more good fortune than the exercise of any particular skill that resulted in the superbly poised lantern, compared with which that of St. Peter’s at Rome is a poor, squat thing? How could he be sure that the finely-handled design for the ball and cross would not suffer from the foreshortening effect inevitable in a building of such immense height. These and a dozen similar questions must occur to any thoughtful observer, and the only answer seems to lie in Carlyle’s famous dictum that genius is simply the capacity for taking pains. Wren was essentially painstaking, and this characteristic, allied to very rare accomplishments in science and mathematics and great fertility of invention, enabled him to surmount difficulties that might
well have dismayed a man less gifted or less purposeful in method.
That Wren spared no effort to equip himself for his task can be seen from the number of drawings and sketches he prepared for the dome of St. Paul s. There are dozens of sketch designs and scale drawings, still preserved in various collections, which will well repay careful study as showing the various steps and stages by which the final masterpiece was achieved. There is first the tentative and shadowy, domed outline, followed by more carefully finished drawings for the pre-fire scheme of rebuilding the crossing and nave of the old Gothic Cathedral in the Classic style, and a very ˮfree’’ Classic at that! These drawings show a well-designed cupola crowned by a grotesque-looking skeleton pineapple. Later, the incidence of the Great Fire evoked the Warrant design, with a weird and wonderful telescopic spire superimposed on a flat saucer dome, and the “Model” scheme with its “Bramantesque” dome
and Greek cross plan. But while these fully-workedout schemes indicate the main lines of development, it must be remembered that at no stage does finality appear to have been reached, and always the restless mind of the designer was at work on some alternative treatment. This is seen in countless drawings, details and “thumbnail” sketches of various dome shapes
ranging from conical types to flat depressed cupolas frankly reminiscent of the Pantheon at Rome.
Curiously enough, however, no complete drawing has been preserved, so far as we know, which shows the dome as actually carried out or even one closely resembling it. Perhaps there never was one. It may be that some rough sketches, long since destroyed, were given to the master masons and carpenters, and with their aid, and under the vigilant supervision of the architect, the crowning glory of the great building was gradually set in place. We know the immensity of Wren’s task, the number of buildings in London and out of it with which he was concerned at one and the same time, and the impossibility of preparing anything like the number of drawings that would be deemed necessary for a similar building erected at the present time. Nevertheless, it seems difficult to believe that Wren would not provide his workmen with adequate drawings for the most important feature, æsthetically, of his whole design. Strength is given to this assumption by the fact that there is preserved in the Cathedral Library Wren’s actual working drawing for the ball and cross, consisting of plan, elevation and section, all fully detailed and dimensioned.
This drawing for the cross and cupola of the lantern is dated June 29, 1708, and was possibly the last detail sent out from the architect ’s office. It furnishes unmistakable evidence that, to the very end of his task, and although tired out in body and mind by weight of years and the petty intrigues and jealousies with which he was latterly beset, Wren kept his firm masterful grip, on the work.
Curiosity tempted me to compare this drawing with a measured drawing of the actual feature. I found that the general lines and dimensions were practically identical, and I have no reason to believe that the construction shown on Wren’s section was not faithfully followed also. Incidentally it would be interesting to know just why Wren decided that the diameter of the ball should be six feet two-and-a-half inches. It is thus carefully dimensioned on the drawings!
H. Duncan Hendry.