By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
So the Dallas City Council has spoken, and we are not going to devote our money or our energy to any kind of natural treatment of the river that runs through us. Instead, according to the council's recent unanimous vote on the multibillion-dollar Trinity River project, we will build a new freeway next to the river and a couple of small fake lakes. But it will be OK, because we're going to put a Calatrava suspension bridge over it.
To me, this is the same thinking that says you can take a girl straight off the farm, fill her purse with oil money, hang a Neiman Marcus sable on her shoulders, and you got yourself a duchess. I'm a snob. I think the Trinity River project is a farm girl in a fur coat.
But here's the international news: Apparently Santiago Calatrava, the famed architect of bridges and buildings, has arrived at that key moment in his career when he will build anything for money. He's ready to do the big rollout. How long before he's in Home Depot?
The proposed Calatrava bridge or bridges in Dallas will be, after all, suspension bridges over a freeway and a narrow drainage ditch. Their true nature, in architectural terms, will be as follies.
An architectural folly, according to the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, is "any costly structure considered to have shown folly in the builder." The mental state of folly is defined by the OED as "the quality or state of being foolish, want of good sense, weakness or derangement of mind."
That about nails it.
Let's not bore ourselves with a big dissertation on the purpose of suspension bridges. We all sort of get that bridges hung by cables overhead were invented to span deep or broad chasms or places where there was some other physical reason you couldn't build a bridge on piers. Modern concrete suspension bridges have a reason for being, in other words. They were invented by engineers, not flibbertigibbets.
Calatrava, a 52-year-old Spaniard of aristocratic lineage, started designing bridges in 1984 and has been stretching the aesthetic and engineering envelopes ever since. His world renown is for wonderful bridges that loom like harps across the sky. So far those projects have also solved real needs and express at least as much mathematical and engineering genius as art.
But come to Dallas.
Here, the proposed Calatrava bridges will span mud flats between the flood-control levees or berms at either bank of the Trinity River where it flows through downtown. The first bridge, for whose design a huge private gift was recently announced, will have a main suspension span of about 800 feet, or three city blocks, in length, a third of the distance between the levees. It will cross an expanse where the more common, more practical, much cheaper solution would be a bridge of beams on piers. Stuck out in the middle of the flat yellow floodplain like a silk bow on a cow, the role of this suspension bridge will be not merely ornamental but deceitful.
In fact, by lending his name to the Trinity River project, Calatrava demonstrates how architecture can serve as camouflage for exploitation, especially when it divorces itself from function and jumps into bed with politics. At the risk of sounding seriously overwrought, I can't resist pointing out that Hitler's architect, Albert Speer, started down his own personal path to hell the minute he decided the function of buildings was not shelter but "a serious way of giving expression in stone to the will of the National Socialist movement."
And all right, OK, keep your shirt on: I realize going from the Trinity River project to the Nazis is a reach. I prefer to think of it as argumentative rather than absurd. The fact remains that the Trinity River project, as configured by the recent city council vote, is the perfect expression of the political will of old-guard Dallas, in which everything else is subverted--especially the democratic process--to 1950s-style cars-and-freeways real estate development. It's so them. I don't think it's us.
For five years we have battled over this project, which was sold to voters initially in a 1998 bond election as the solution to flood-control issues and a chance to create a vast central park in a downtown woefully devoid of green. Not far along the way, it became obvious that this whole package was window dressing for a road project certain landholders had been seeking for decades. It is their conviction, expressed often and exuberantly in hearings, that "access is success"--a line from the Eisenhower era meaning prosperity flows from newer bigger better roads. Picture a family of maniacally grinning blond people in a turquoise '52 Buick Roadmaster with chrome-trimmed ventiports in the front fenders and a big toothy waterfall grille.
What the road hustlers want is a new freeway to bring people into the worn-out warehouse district at the northwest ear of downtown. Along the way, various urban land-use experts have warned them that the freeway idea is worn-out and won't work for development. What would really enhance land values, they have argued, is proximity to a splendid urban park. The old guard listens to this advice, exchanges knowing glances, nods and whispers, "Hippies from Boston."