Daniel Libeskind's Jewish Museum

            The new addition to the Jewish Museum in Berlin was completed in 2001 by famed architect Daniel Libeskind.  The building itself is a testament to the hardships that the Jewish population faced under the reign of Hitler, and the plan of the building was developed by warping the Star of David.  It sits on land that used to be part of West Berlin before the Berlin Wall was in place.  The only public entrance to the new addition is actually through an underground tunnel coming from the existing building.  This form of entry was intended to evoke emotion out of the user almost immediately, and to set up an expectation for what kind of space was to come.

One of the most interesting things about Daniel Libeskind's addition to the Jewish Museum is the manner in which he used voids in the skin to create shadows within the interior spaces.  At first glance the voids may seem sporadic, but there is a definite meaning to their pattern, and the spaces within greatly benefit from the kind of shadows created by these voids.  Libeskind intended the spaces within to make the visitor feel empty and to create a sense of absence throughout. 

I chose to focus on the concept of these voids and how they create meaningful shadows within the spaces.  The room I represented in my model is a small exhibit space that shows just how effective the shadows are at affecting the feeling of the space.  The voids not only create a zigzag pattern on the walls, they relay that pattern to the floor as well, which in my opinion makes the spaces quite interesting.  

Exterior Shadows

Interior Shadows

Voids 

Sketch showing the voids in the exhibit space

Fabrication plan

Decomposing the Star of David: Daniel Libeskind's Jewish Museum in Berlin

Decomposing the Star of David

by Victoria Shingleton

When I first saw Daniel Libeskind's Jewish Museum in Berlin, I was intrigued not only by the harsh angles and zig-zagging mass of the building, but also by the irregularity of the exterior surface.  Voids in the facade of the building are cut with seemingly random, sharp punctures, almost as if the skin itself was scarred.  Libeskind's building is completely metaphorical, intended to evoke feelings that the Jewish population of Berlin felt after World War II.  I wanted to further explore the metaphorical and emotional qualities that Libeskind used to create the experience.

Sketch of Libeskind's Jewish Museum in Berlin

The voids in exterior skin, while random, are uninterrupted - as if the angles which form the sharp edges of the building do not exist.  If you flatten out the facade of the building, the sides appear as a continuous surface.  It is difficult to tell where the skin folds into zig-zagging angles, as well as where they would fit in relation to the plan.  It is almost as if Libeskind cut into a continuous strip of paper and then folded it around his plan.

Though punctured, the facade is continuous.

It has been suggested that Libeskind used a loose interpretation of the Star of David, a Jewish symbol, to form the irregular angles of the voids of the museum's skin.  I decided to use light and shadow to further explore this idea in attempt to gain a stronger understanding of the meaning behind the punctures.

Shadow Study: Star of David

By comparing the shadow produced by the Star of David to the shadow produced by the voids of the museum's facade, I could begin to see how the angles of the cuts of the facades could be construed from angles of the Star of David.  However, I believe that the voids can also serve as a metaphor for the permanent marks left on the Jewish population of Berlin after WWII.  And while the voids appear on the surface of the building as darkness, I couldn't help but notice that the shadows produced by the paper fabrication left exactly the opposite - light - perhaps indicating that even in the darkest of times, even the smallest trace of light can provide a glimmer of hope.

Shadow Study: Libeskind's Jewish Museum

The zig-zagging plan of the building was said to be based upon the deconstruction of the Star of David.  To further understand this method, I used the symmetrical and regular geometry of the Star of David and physically arranged it with the asymmetrical and irregular geometry of the plan of the Jewish Museum.

Geometry Study: Star of David v. Jewish Museum Plan

While there may be similar angles and proportions of the Star of David in relation to the plan of the building, most apparent in the sharp angles can provide symbolic meaning to the plan, there may be a stronger relation within the confusion and disorientation the guests must feel in the irregular layout of the museum, similar to how lost and afraid the Jewish population must have felt before, during, and after WWII.

Whether or not the Star of David is visually present in Daniel Libeskind's design of the Jewish Museum in Berlin can really only be determined by the observer.  However, whether or not the user can see the star, I believe it is nearly impossible to ignore the many metaphorical values present in Libeskind's design.  It isn't a building constructed to be beautiful - it's a building constructed to evoke emotion.  And whether that emotion is fear, hatred, confusion, or scorn is simply in the eye of the beholder.

Berlin: A Comparison of the Manipulation of Light

            “When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow.” This quote can relate to both Neue Nationalgalerie by Mies van der Rohe and the Jewish Museum by Libeskind, but in very different aspects. While both structures deal with manipulating natural light, they do so in almost opposite ways. Comparing and contrasting the two you can study how they serve as almost perfect foils to each other, though they were not created to do so. Built almost twenty years apart, and by two very different men, the study of these two monuments can teach a lot about the manipulation of emotion via the manipulation of light.

            The most apparent way that the two buildings are similar is that each appears as though made almost entirely of glass, and therefore appears let in multitudes of natural light. The side of the Neue Nationalgalerie that you enter into is made mostly of glass, which leads you to believe that a lot of light fills the entire building. While the building contains a lot more light than the Jewish Museum, the space that light reaches is actually carefully contained. The art is entirely encased in stone to protect the pieces from being damaged by harsh sunlight. On the other hand, when you first glance at the Jewish Museum, it looks to be made entirely of some sort of transparent material. However, it is really made of a metal sheath covered with zinc. In reality the windows are small, irregularly cut, and spaced to allow light in only a certain points. The careful allocation of light in these two buildings serves different purposes, but it is very evident that light is being manipulated in each case.

            As previously mentioned, in the Neue Nationalgalerie, light is openly and generously emitted into the building, which promotes a tranquil and pleasant atmosphere for the guests viewing the exhibitions. The light and open mood of the building is mainly due to the way that light enters the building. It enters from above and is then reflected off of the dark polished floors. This serves to light up the space even more and effectively eliminates the feeling of being walled in or encased in a structure. This technique was meant to symbolize an open and free space for artists to be creative, and for people to be receptive to this creativity. It symbolizes no boundaries within the realm and in my opinion is very effective in doing so.

            On the opposite side of the spectrum, the Jewish Museum manipulates light to achieve an entirely opposing goal. Where the Galerie is light and open, Libeskind intended the path throughout the Museum to represent the tortuous and difficult journey of the Jews. He does this from the very entrance of the building. From there, you journey through dark and twisted paths, which are only occasionally penetrated by beams of light at critical moments. Where the Galerie is meant to be free and open, the Museum is in equal parts meant to show oppression and darkness. However, the fact that this darkness is sporadically lit shows passengers that you can find hope and light when you least expect it. To me the light is almost more powerful in this building because if there were no darkness, there could be no light and vice versa. For example, the Holocaust tower of the Museum is a tall dark tower that is lit only by a small slit of windows at the very top. The light is almost stronger in this case because is symbolizes so much.

            In both buildings, there is a clear way that the manipulation of light is meant to affect your emotions as you move throughout the space. Even though the messages are supposed to convey different things, the comparison of them helps you to gain each message and the buildings serve as distinct and natural compliments of each other, though they were not created with that in mind. Regardless, it is obviously apparent that Libeskind and van der Rohe knew what they were doing when they undertook their respective projects.

Emotive and Symbolic Spaces

By Abbie Gentry

The architecture of Berlin, Germany, has transformed greatly in the past century. Monumentality, which acted as a physical representation of Germany’s political dominance and leadership within the world, led to partial obliteration by the Great War. This then opened doors for reconstruction, renovation, and reconsolidation of its damaged past to a brighter, more peaceful future. However, there are still emotional scars that will take a long time to heal. Berlin’s emotional history, where pride, power, prejudice, and pain coexisted, can be expressed through architecture that can have a profound impact upon visitors. Two architects in particular, Daniel Libeskind and Peter Eisenman, strove to design in a way that portrayed the anguish and dehumanization that were felt by, and to honor, the victims of World War II.

Because of his Polish and Jewish heritage, Daniel Libeskind felt a strong connection to those who had suffered from Nazi oppression. When he designed the Jüdisches Museum in 1998, he aimed to create a space that was emotionally stirring and extremely metaphorical. More specifically, he “wanted to express the feelings of absence, emptiness, and invisibility” (Kroll). Symbolism is manifested through every detail, beginning with the zigzag shape of the building, which is arranged to create an abstraction of the Star of David (Krull). Its zinc façade displays thin lines of windows that slash through the building in a violent and seemingly random manner but are not, however, without reason. The contours are derived from the relationship of “addresses of prominent Jewish and German citizens on a map of pre-war Berlin” (Lenhardt). These connections form “an “irrational and invisible matrix on which he based the language of form, geometry and shape of the building” (Lenhardt). Within the museum, there are three main axes for visitors to choose a path: the Axis of Continuity, the Axis of Emigration, and the Axis of the Holocaust. The first axis represents the history of Berlin and the continuum of time. The second comprises of an increasingly tight and enclosing staircase that leads to the Garden of Exile. The garden was designed to disorient visitors so that they can understand the how lost those cast out of Germany felt. The last axis is a dead-end, a disturbingly accurate metaphor for the lives that lost (Lenhardt). Furthermore, five deep Voids occur throughout the building to represent how empty, hopeless, and lost in despair the victims felt during the Holocaust. They feature “concrete walls [that] add a cold, overwhelming atmosphere to the space where the only light emanates from a small slit at the top of the space” (Kroll). The building in its entirety is psychologically unsettling. Its sharp angles, voids, and darkness, all of which allude to the horrors and cruelty endured during the Holocaust, invoke a keen sense of sadness and empathy. I can only imagine how incredibly moved one would feel to personally experience the building because simply viewing photographs makes me cringe.

Peter Eisenman also sought to illustrate the abhorrent narrative of the Holocaust in his Memorial to the Murdered Jews in Europe. On a large scale, the memorial is symbolic because its “grid… can be read as both an extension of the streets that surround the site and an unnerving evocation of the rigid discipline and bureaucratic order that kept the killing machine grinding along” (Ouroussoff). A graveyard of rectangular masses, the site is comprised of “ 2,711 pillars, planted close together in undulating waves, [that] represent the 6 million murdered Jews” (Quigley). Visitors experience a range of emotions while traveling through the monument. They may walk in between the rows and sit on the lower blocks that lay on the perimeters. However, when one wanders further into the maze, the blocks grow taller and soon tower far above the human scale where tallest blocks are 4.7 meters high and block all views of the cityscape and vegetation (Quigley). This severance from the city creates feelings of confinement, insignificance, and loneliness that echo the emotional experiences of those who were persecuted during the World Wars. One of Eisenman’s key concept was to “speak to one of the Holocaust's most tragic lessons: the ability of human beings to numb themselves to all sorts of suffering - a feeling that only intensifies as you descend into the site” (Ouroussoff). Furthermore, he wanted the memorial to be just that, memorable. He did not “want people to weep and then walk away with a clear conscience” but to remember and reflect on the reality of what occurred only a few decades past. It speaks to “those who looked the other way, [those who] continued with their work, [those who] refused to bear witness,” and especially those who allowed themselves to become numbed and apathetic to the truth of the situation (Ouroussoff).

These buildings have begun to pave the way to allow Germany to move on from its guilt for its involvement in the World Wars without disrespecting or forgetting those who lost their lives in the great tragedy. It acts as an educational resource and is, and will continue to be, successful because of its powerful symbolism and strong, psychological effects on the human spirit. 

Sources Cited

Kroll, Andrew. “AD Classics: Jewish Museum, Berlin/Daniel Libeskind.” ArchDaily.  25 November 2010. Web. 01 September 2012. <http://www.archdaily.com/91273/ad-classics-jewish-museum-berlin-daniel-libeskind/>

Lenhardt, Maja, Lubrich, Naomi, and Tesche, Doreen. “The Libeskind Building.” Stiftung Jüdisches Museum Berlin. Web. 31 August 2012.

<http://www.jmberlin.de/main/EN/04-About-The-Museum/01-Architecture/01-libeskind-Building.php>

Ouroussoff, Nicolai. “A Forest of Pillars, Recalling the Unimaginable.” The New York Times. 9 May 2005. Web. 31 August 2012. <http://www.nytimes.com/2005/05/09/arts/design/09holo.html?pagewanted=all>

Quigley, Sarah. “Holocaust Memorial: Architect Peter Eisenman, Berlin 2005.” The Polynational War Memorial. 21 September 2005. Web. 1 September 2012. <http://www.war-memorial.net/Holocaust-Memorial--Architect-Peter-Eisenman,-Berlin-2005-2.66>

Jewish Museum, Berlin: An Architectural Monument

An Architectural Monument

By Rachel Gamble

By analyzing Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum in Berlin, we can see how architecture’s role within society has expanded and transformed as a result of the two World Wars. With war comes profound political changes, as well as drastic changes in people’s lifestyles. Even the ways in which people use their spaces evolve during periods of war. In the unstable years following the World Wars, we see much architectural experimentation in Europe as people looked restlessly for change. Europeans affected by the war had to reconstruct their lives entirely and adapt, and thus their architecture adapted as well. The result was a new and different role for architecture - the role of architecture as a monument. Architecture evolved and became more than simply “buildings” as people began to use works of architecture as monuments to convey social information or to memorialize wartime events. In some instances buildings were used as political monuments designed to send political messages or to reinforce governmental power. Buildings like Libeskind’s museum, however, were a different kind of monument: poignant memorials to commemorate people affected by the war.

In Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum, we can observe clearly how the line between architecture and monument began to blur in the tumultuous years following the World Wars. Libeskind’s structure is not simply a neutral backdrop for the historic artifacts inside, but can also stand alone as a symbolic monument, even when empty. This expansion of architecture beyond its basic functions brings to mind a quote from Le Corbusier’s Towards a New Architecture: “The business of Architecture is to show emotional relationships with raw materials. Architecture goes beyond utilitarian needs... passion can create drama out of inert stone.” Libeskind successfully creates a space that does not stop at its functional requirements. His building is full of emotion – a moving exhibition in itself, regardless of its contents. Here, in the wake of war, architecture becomes more than simply a building. 

Libeskind extends the boundaries of architecture to "monument" through his heavy use of symbolism. Libeskind’s symbolic organization of the spaces inside the museum creates a monument that paints a telling picture of life for Jews in Germany. Throughout the museum are empty void spaces. The spaces around the voids are full of life, yet the void spaces themselves are unfriendly and almost inaccessible to visitors of the museum. This perhaps mirrors the absence of the Jewish population in Germany history caused by the Holocaust. The architecture, with its missing pieces, becomes an evocative physical manifestation of the empty spaces in Jewish history. Libeskind’s building is also designed in the shape of a deformed Star of David. The result seems to be zigzagging navigation through the building that is difficult and disorienting, perhaps suggesting some of the discord in the lives on the Jewish people during the Holocaust. Libeskind’s symbolism extends to the exterior as well. Jagged, irregular windows slice across the building's façade with no discernible pattern - perhaps symbolizing scars in Jewish history. The building, through its disconcerting symbolic elements, is not simply an empty vessel designed to house monuments to German Jews, but a monument in its own right.

In Libeskind’s Jewish Museum and other buildings built in the wake of the World Wars, architecture becomes more than a setting for human experiences but begins to have a life of its own. Architecture like that of Daniel Libeskind in Berlin goes a step further than structure and function, to become commemorative and symbolic. The war produced many fissures in European history, and architecture built since then seems to have gone deeper, socially and psychologically, than ever before. Juhani Pallasmaa in his book, The Eyes of the Skin, writes about this potential of architecture to become something more: “The ultimate meaning of any building is beyond architecture; it directs our consciousness back to the world and towards our own sense of self and being.” Post-war buildings are an example of how architecture can become more than simply buildings and serve as poignant monuments to times past. Through them we can see how architecture is continually acquiring a greater and more complex social role, especially in times of war.

Void spaces

Irregular circulation

Sources

Le Corbusier. “Towards a New Architecture.” New York: Dover Publications, 1927.

Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Eyes of the Skin.” John Wiley: New York, 2005.

Beneath the Surface

By: Emma Lyne Pouch

Today, Berlin is known as the central figure in the new modern identity of European architecture. The city has experienced a transformation from the Nazi architecture of the 1930s to a hyper modernist style shown by Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum. The pivotal point in this new movement towards modernism was Mies van der Rohe’s design for the modern art gallery in Berlin known as the Neue Nationalgalerie. With this project he discovered an element of architecture that would be an inspiration for other architects and their future designs in Berlin.

            The Neue Nationalgalerie’s most recognizable aesthetic conception is the steel grid roof with the glass box below. This look is powerful and expressive yet the pure geometry and transparent space leaves you with a tranquil feel. The smooth floors and open plan create space beyond boundaries as the light reflects off the polished floors. This statement in the design is what we associate with the building yet this level doesn’t even serve the main function of an art gallery. The art is all stored below ground with only a few pieces rotating on display in this glass space to give an indication of what is below and prepares the viewer for the experience. We are forced to go deeper to discover the substance of the place. What Mies van der Rohe didn’t know as the time was that is idea of going deeper would be carried into the more modern future of Berlin’s architecture.

Daniel Libeskind is the first example of using the idea of going beneath the surface in the Jewish Museum. The entire project is filled with symbolism and well thought out representation to create different suggestions and experiences for the people. From the outside we see an 18th century courthouse next to Libeskind’s modern design with no visible connection from the surface. Thus, a visitor must enter through the old courthouse and experience the underground entrance to the new building as a way to emotionally pull them into and prepare them for the experience, just the opposite of Mies van der Rohe’s art gallery going from above to below. In both scenarios we find that this change in levels can affect the experience of the visitor. If we look into these projects further we see they also use the light to enhance this change. At the Neue Nationalgalerie a visitor would go from a space letting in all light to a reserved, closed off space with soft overhead lighting. At the Jewish Museum, Libeskind carefully considered the shapes and spaces through which the light comes through as it leads the eye to voids that are not accessible. This gives the sense of the heavy history of the missing Jews and the personal stories of the people. At the end of the journey the visitor will once again be outside in natural light as a contrast to the restricted areas within the building.

In relation to these pieces of architecture in Berlin is the Holocaust Memorial designed by Peter Eisenman. He uses 2,700 concrete block structures all at different levels to fabricate an uncomfortable feel that is only further intensified by the way the light shines through the rows of blocks. An interesting element of this monument is that most of the blocks are below street level and then even beneath them is the “place of information” which resembles a small museum to list the names of those who died.

It’s this reoccurring element of going below that I find most intriguing. I often associate a great building by its height, showing power and making it stand out but these important structures head us in a different direction. They bring about this sense of emotion, a heaviness that makes you stop and think and take in your surroundings on a deeper level that you hadn’t originally prepared for. The architects’ use of light in these particular situations enriches the experience and leaves you with a lasting impression. That is what we should aim for in our own designs. Not something that gives a false sense of power from it’s substantial height but a piece that makes you go deeper, maybe not literally but figuratively. Make the visitors stop and think and remember the space. That is a successful building.

Architecture Speaks

By Shawna Hammon
Lecture - "Berlin"

Death no longer belongs to an individual.  Acts of war and terrorism such as Hiroshima and 9/11 along with natural disasters like earth quakes and tsunamis have made mass deaths more common.  A single tombstone could never fully express the scope of terror inflicted on the victims of these tragedies.  Architects are challenged to find another way for their designs to speak.  Enter Peter Eisenman and Daniel Libeskind – two architects whose architecture attempts to communicate the terrible nature of the Holocaust to the public.

  

Peter Eisenman explains that “the enormity and horror of the Holocaust are such that any attempt to represent it by traditional means is inevitably inadequate.”  It was along these lines that he designed his Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (aka Holocaust Memorial) with 2,711 slabs on a grid pattern on a sloping field.  The slabs, which are 2.38m x .95m, vary in height from .2 to 4.8m making each slab dimensionally unique.  Eisenman intentionally created an uneasy and confusing atmosphere so that visitors of the memorial could relate to the Jews at the time of WWII.

Similarly, Daniel Libeskind’s Jewish Museum of Berlin endeavors to capture the emotional journey of the Jewish population in Germany during World War II.  The Garden of Exile is connected to the museum proper through the second tunnel which represents the mass emigration of Jews from Germany.  The garden consists of 49 tall pillars with Russian olive trees growing on top.  Similar to Eisenman’s design, the grid is on a tilted foundation which is meant to disorient visitors and make them feel instable. 

Libeskind noted, “In my view, architecture is a communicative medium. To me, it's a storytelling medium. And I attempted to create a building that told that complex story in many different ways… It's a cultural medium. It has to be able to communicate.”  Archdaily describes Libeskind’s building as “less of a museum but an experience depicting what most cannot understand,” he “translated human experience into an architectural composition.” 

Both works are meant to leave visitors feeling lost and confused like the Jewish people so long ago who were uprooted and forced to leave their homes or stay to die.  Amongst the pillars and slabs of both projects you can look up to the open sky and feel exalted – there is still hope.

Eisenman avoided using symbols in his project.  His field of slabs represents tombs for victims of the mass genocide like a meadow of nameless tombstones.  Libeskind’s Jewish Museum commissioned Israeli artist, Menashe Kadishman, to exhibit Fallen Leaves in the Memory Void of the museum, the only occupiable voided space.  The exhibit consists of 10,000 punched metal faces that he encouraged visitors to walk on in order to hear the sounds created by the metal sheets clanging, rattling and scraping together, an eerie, disturbing sound that would echo in the voided space 20 meters tall and cause shivers down your spine.  Libeskind pointed out that Fallen Leaves represents “that which can never be exhibited when it comes to Jewish Berlin history: Humanity reduced to ashes.”  

Clearly, both projects bring visitors on an emotional journey through their spaces.  The architecture speaks to us about a tragedy that very few of us could otherwise understand or identify with.

 

Citations:

Eisenman, Peter. "Germany's Memorial: Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, Berlin." Frontline. PBS, 31 May 2005. Web. 31 Aug. 2012. <http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/germans/memorial/eisenman.html>.

Kroll , Andrew . "AD Classics: Jewish Museum, Berlin / Daniel Libeskind" 25 Nov 2010. ArchDaily. Accessed 31 Aug 2012. <http://www.archdaily.com/91273>.

Libeskind, Daniel, and Daniel Greene, perf. "Daniel Libeskind - architect." Voices on Antisemitism. United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, 13 Sep 2007. Accessed 1 Sep 2012. <http://www.ushmm.org/museum/exhibit/focus/antisemitism/voices/transcript/?content=20070913>.