Thursday 24 May 2012

Le Belvédère du Rayon Vert



Travel 273 miles up the coast from Valencia and the moment you cross the border into France you will find a different architectural conundrum.  Looking more wistful than winsome, is the Belvédère du Rayon Vert.

Towering above the sleepy bay of Cerbère the Belvédère du Rayon Vert is an art deco hotel designed in 1928 by local architect Léon Baille. It is a gaunt and extruded structure, proud yet lifeless, disproportionately large to be a comfortable part of the pretty little seaside town lying far below.   There should be light glinting from its windows but they are dead, empty, like the eye sockets in a skull of pallid, rotting concrete.  The building has been shamed into dereliction because it no longer serves a purpose. 
 
It was completed in 1932 to offer luxury accommodation to travellers passing through the adjacent railway station on the French-Spanish border.  Passengers would be required to interrupt their journey for customs formalities and subsequently to change trains, because the railways of neither country could offer a through journey due to a difference in gauges.  The entrepreneurs of Cerbère saw a chance to offer a service to these inconvenienced voyagers.  They built a hotel. 

These were confident times and, capitalising on the theme of glamorous international travel, M. Baille took inspiration for his design from the transatlantic liners of the day.  His hotel had its own cinema and ballroom and offered its guests the opportunity to play tennis on a roof-top court.  Created to provide a sumptuous overnight sojourn during travellers’ long hauls around the Pyrénées, the hotel’s focus extended beyond the inconvenienced rail passenger.  In an effort to attract the few but well-heeled gentry now opting to motor their way along the Nationale and across the border to the south, the hotel maintained a fully-equipped service station and garage on its ground floor. 
 
The five-storey building teeters on a narrow, rocky triangle of land between the railway and a precipitous cliff which tumbles down to the cobalt blue Mediterranean.  Whether any of the residents of yesteryear gazing from its verandas out to sea in the moment before sunrise ever glimpsed the elusive ‘rayon vert’ is not recorded, although the romantic notion of doing so would be intrinsic to the luxurious atmosphere pervading the seductive elevations of the Belvédère.

But the Belvédère du Rayon Vert has been disused since 1983.  It stands today crumbling and neglected, without purpose and, despite being listed as a protected monument in 1987, anyone who wants to look after it.  Squatters occupy a handful of top floor rooms. The mirrors in the ballroom are broken and the lobbies stand derelict.  Chunks of concrete are missing from the exterior staircase and the flourishes of its flamboyant design lie in a parlous state.
 
There are few reasons to pass through Cerbère these days. The international E15 motorway replacing the coast road passes through the mountains far inland.  A dozen or so local trains arrive at the local station from both countries during the day, but connections are poor.  Land travel is not the means by which Europe now elects to visit Spain and today the sky above the town is criss-crossed by vapour trails as aircraft speed travellers to their destinations.  Journeys are now completed in a couple of hours. No overnight stay is required en route because arduous customs procedures no longer exist.  The hotel is totally redundant.
 
Yet even though the Belvédère du Rayon Vert no longer takes guests, it remains a formidable piece of architecture, well worth a visit. 

Even if you can’t stay.




   




The Devil in the Detail


Pardon me slipping into the Valencian for a moment but the Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciènciese (the City of Arts and Sciences) is possibly Europe’s most beautiful architectural achievement of recent decades.  Designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava and completed in the late 1990s, it is a collection of monumental buildings spread along the abandoned bed of the River Turìa in Valencia.  These are giant, organically elegant structures that not only embody purity of form but serve a cultural purpose too.  Concert halls, cinemas, museums and galleries are enclosed within outstandingly elegant exteriors whose overall design is rightly applauded across the world.  I adore the overall look of the place. 

But the devil is in the detail and something is amiss in the City of Arts and Sciences.  

The colossal size and shape of Calatrava’s structures mean each is recognisable from far away.  Yet what if a visitor en route to the Planetarium needs to visit the lavatory? How are the locations of such lesser amenities to be identified?  A signage system is required. 
Many visitors will come to experience the whole site for itself.  Some form of transportation will be needed to assist them to travel around, because this vast project covers many hectares and an hour’s walk in the debilitating heat of the Valencian summer is out of the question. Also, all that heat means refreshment will required, so some form of catering facility will be needed. 

Did any of this appear on Calatrava’s brief?

These are all minutiæ that make up - and, in fact, finalise - the successful execution of a project envisioned to capture the engagement of the general public. We can assume that if Calatrava had been responsible for the design of such minutiæ, they too would incorporate an iconic allure consistent with the rest of the project. 

But he wasn’t.

Someone else was. Someone who hadn’t a clue.  As a result, these almost inconsequential aspects of the appearance of The City of Arts and Sciences are now as glaring in the valley of the Turìa as a wart would be on the nose of the Mona Lisa.

The sign system is reminiscent of a holiday camp: sticky letters on arrowed board featuring a questionable graphic interpretation of what walking looks like.  If the cinema can look like a giant eye, why can’t the walker look like he can walk?
Transport around the glistening ethereal arena is in plastic railway wagons, pulled by a noisy diesel-powered replica 19th century Wild West steam locomotive.  
The cafeteria is of a style reminiscent of a East London dog track.  Rubbish bins stand sentinel to a crate-laden fast food stand around which are scattered chairs and tables. It is tucked into a niche at the base of the Science Museum like a grimy rash of mould on an uncleaned bathroom floor. 
Yet the organisation's management appears to be unbothered with these incongruities and its official publicity appears impervious.  To what extent do these component flaws contribute to the the “bold strokes” and the “futuristic image” of the design of this iconic City of The Arts and Sciences?  Signage is blunt, crude almost.  The train is the antithesis of “avant-garde” (or "21st century") and the catering stall spectacularly fails to “harmonise” with the “architectural complex of exceptional beauty” it seeks to serve. 

It is bewildering that those responsible for permitting the design of these aspects can remain insensitive when they are immersed in the workings of such a fabulous project. Confidence and imagination oozes from every square millimetre of their surroundings. 

When did the inspiration run out?
"... like mouldy grout on an uncleaned bathroom floor".