The making of architecture has always been a political act, not limited to seats of governments or the houses of elected leaders. In the second of my three-part series, “Hating Modern Architecture,” I described how Louis VII of France reacted when he saw, for the first time, the architecture of Saint Denis, which in the distant future would be called Gothic. This was important for Louis, not simply because it was a new and “modern” manner of building; it excited him because it could be called “French,” at a time when French-ness was still a nebulous thing. The same was true 600 years later when the builder of Strawberry Hill, Horace Walpole, published his pamphlet defending modern taste in gardening practices in 18th-century England.

As things turned out, Gothic architecture was no more French than it was German or English. In 16th century Italy, for example, many still knew it as building in “the German manner.” As for Mr. Walpole’s defense of English gardening, he knew well that the English gardens about which he wrote were more Chinese in origin than English, and that the French sometimes did them better. Further confusing the issue of national identity, by the time Walpole had completed his influential booklet, there was already a stunningly huge and beautiful picturesque landscape garden in what was then the independent state of Anhalt-Dessau (now part of post-war Saxony-Anhalt, Germany). The Dessau-Wörlitz Garden Kingdom, consciously based on French and English models, was revered for being both innovative and modern. One would think from all of this confusion that political leaders would have given up adopting national architectural or landscape styles. Yet, architecture and the scaping of large tracts of land remains a popular source of asserting power by another name.

While today one can visit such landscapes as George Vanderbilt’s erstwhile bachelor getaway at Biltmore, the gardens at Louis’ hunting lodge at Versailles, or the many picturesque landscapes in Southern England (Stourhead, Stowe, Chiswick, and Twickenham), originally these were designed for an extremely small group of courtiers, familiars, and peers. In fact, of all these, Wörlitz was opened to the public more than half a century before Central Park. On Sundays, with the guidance of a Lex Hortorum, or “Laws of the Garden,” hoi polloi were permitted in for a limited time. One was handed a guidebook delineating one’s comportment: “It is not allowed: to walk in the garden or the mansion in hobnailed boots; …to have meals…in the garden or mansion; [or] to cover the wall or statues with graffiti.” Seems little to ask of strangers. In the buildings Prince Anhalt set in this picturesque landscape, common folk saw such technical innovations as sash windows, retractable beds, sliding doors, and dumb waiters. While it may not be so obvious today, for the prince to dedicate so much land (55 square miles or almost one-half present-day Knoxville) for pleasure gardens rather than food production is yet another sign of power and control.

Knoxville’s City County Building, the University of Tennessee’s Andy Holt Tower and Ayres Hall, or the TVA towers all telegraph, through their locations, size, and character, that these are seats of power wherein decisions for the many are (or were once) made by the few. The same holds true, albeit through different means, domestically. The homes of those who live on higher elevations (with views and breezes and from which water drains) tend to be more politically connected than those at lower depths (absent views and wind, and where water collects). When we pass a curvaceous tree-lined driveway, the end of which we cannot see, it is because we are not empowered to see the end. Gated communities are much the same.

Then there is the convention center phenomenon, a commonplace way for many American cities to make both a commercial and political statement about their status. They are second only to the promotion of publicly funded stadiums for professional sports teams, although neither prove very profitable. Knoxville’s center, sandwiched between Henley Street and World’s Fair Park, was certainly built more to send a signal than to house the multitude that groused for exhibition space in the Marble City. And now that Nashville has done the same but exponentially larger, it seems time to seriously consider other uses for the largely under-utilized venue—a new public/private use that could help bridge the gap between the east and west sides of downtown’s worst street.

Seats of learning have always been sources of power, although administrators at state-operated universities are loathe to admit such. We have a good example on the west side of Henley. It’s well known that the oldest and most celebrated part of UT is “The Hill,” topped by Ayres Hall that fronts onto one of the university’s most clearly defined and attractive spaces. If the Knoxville campus of UT has a crown, many would argue that Ayres is its jewel. Recently restored, the work has been honored, and deservedly so, by professional organizations for its architectural and technical merit. The university administration, the architects who restored it, and even the university’s own Campus Heritage Plan (2009), consistently refer to Ayres as collegiate Gothic. Architects proposing new projects for the Knoxville campus to university committees show images of Ayres (including details) to demonstrate how their new project evokes the collegiate Gothic-ness of Ayres.

In its Sept. 11 press release announcing the opening of the first half of the new student union, the university explained: “The new facility represents a contemporary approach to collegiate gothic architectural design, which seeks to honor both UT’s heritage and its promise for the future.” Yet, a recent thesis on Ayres Hall by a Master’s candidate in the UT graduate architecture program successfully argues that the collegiate Gothic designation is one of several ironies and misnomers surrounding the building’s history. The distinction between Elizabethan Revival (which it is) and collegiate Gothic (which it is not), however, goes far beyond establishing stylistic exactitude for its own sake; it speaks to the politics of the university, then and now, and the powerful role architecture plays in both displaying and concealing power.

When it was razed to make room for Ayres, College Hall (1826) was the oldest building on campus and in the city. By the time it was demolished, a cupola had been added to the roof, adding a bit of charm to an otherwise Calvinist block of a building. Were it extant today, it would be a profoundly important artifact as it would on any American campus—a virtual ur-hut of UT’s “academical village,” to borrow Thomas Jefferson’s famous phrase. Despite a letter published in the Sentinel from John Staub (the well-known Knoxville-born architect of Hopecote Manor and Eugenia Williams Estate, both excellent UT-owned properties) arguing for the preservation of its “beautiful heritage,” the university chose demolition and modernization, which they saw (and sadly often still see) as being at odds with preservation.

Consistent with a certain East Tennessee tradition, there was much consternation at the time—not so much about tearing down a venerable and beloved building (Staub notwithstanding), but rather the cost of constructing the new one. Not long after Old College was built, a Tennessee legislator attacked it as “a monument of folly,” “a tomb of extravagance,” and “a building for the rich man’s son….” Much the same sort of baseless diatribe was printed in the local press surrounding the planned construction of what became known as Ayres Hall after the university’s president, Brown Ayres, died in 1919, as construction was beginning. This concern about perception over reality is, perhaps, one of several reasons why Ayres Hall was designed, not in collegiate Gothic—one can find exemplars from this same time period on college campuses across the Northeast—but in Elizabethan Revival. The latter is marked, not only by its classical structure (overall formal symmetry) but, more importantly, it is simpler in detail, with fewer flourishes, and lower cost. Ayres Hall had to be both the jewel in the crown and, at the same time, not a particularly shiny bauble, without all of the bling that one finds at the Quadrangle Dormitories (1894-1911) at the University of Pennsylvania or Graduate College (1911-17) at Princeton.

In four years, UT can mark the 100th anniversary of the death of President Ayres and the birth of Ayres Hall (the commencement of construction). Size, location, quality of materials, character, are all indexes of architecture’s ability to both represent power, and to literally make it present in our lives. That Ayres chose the character of the more discreet Elizabethan Revival over the flashier Gothic is less a stylistic issue than it speaks to the president’s desire to use architecture to mark the university’s entry into a modern age. Like Louis and the Abbot Suger, the latter of whom was the chief architect of Saint Denis, President Ayres wanted for the University of Tennessee a modern building for a modern time. That he chose to do so with such a sizable building at the same location as College Hall, at the expense of preserving the university’s history, is a problem UT has yet to resolve. Yet, as it is a seat of higher learning, one can hope.

Photo courtesy of Calvin M. McClung Collection

George Dodds

George Dodds’ Architecture Matters explores issues concerning the human-made environment, primarily focused on Knoxville and its environs. He has been teaching and publishing commentaries on the practice and history of architecture, urbanism, and landscape architecture for over 30 years. He has practiced in Detroit, Philadelphia, and Washington, D.C., has lectured internationally, and has served on the editorial boards of several journals. Since 2000, he has been on the faculty of architecture at the University of Tennessee.