Frank Gehry hates disabled people
Jul. 5th, 2009 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabotabbyHey ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
troubleinchina, I'm stealing your tag.
I finally got around to visiting the redesigned Art Gallery of Ontario this afternoon. I went for the Surreal Things show, and the less-publicized Dada and Remix shows, but the art didn't leave much of an impression on me. The architecture, however, is deserving of some analysis.
Entering the building, I was struck immediately by two things. The first was the light-coloured wood and soaring ceilings, reminiscent of the recently built Four Seasons Centre. The second was that the twisting narrow ramp that leads to the ticket booth has enough room for either a wheelchair to go up or a stroller to go down, but not enough room for two-way wheeled traffic. Accordingly, halfway up the ramp, we had to reverse my step-father's wheelchair out in order to allow a man pushing a stroller to leave.
From the main hall leading into the museum, there's a large open court featuring a sculpture and a video installation. A ramp leads down into the court. If you are an able-bodied person, you can continue on through the court through the rest of the gallery. If, however, you use a wheelchair or you are pushing a stroller, you find yourself confused and disoriented, trying to figure out where the other ramp is. As it turns out, you have to head back out the same way you came, and then follow a narrow, counter-intuitive corridor to the exhibit halls.
At this point, we asked one of the museum guides if there was an easier way to get to the exhibits we wanted to see. (The visitor map provided was of little use; it showed things that looked like ramps but were actually stairways, with no indication of which routes were accessible and which were not.) She explained that Gehry's design was intended to encourage the museum-goer to explore the existing galleries (though one could circumvent more galleries by using the stairs), and that the re-design had taken out most of the ramps. "Frank hates ramps," she explained. She was sympathetic; it was clear that she had heard this question before, and she encouraged us to write letters and provide feedback via the website.
The architecture is strikingly sculptural: winding staircases lead up through airy spaces. But the building is primarily a self-contained sculpture rather than a functional space where the public can view art. I watched as an older woman struggled to make it up the stairs—they are tall, narrow, and lack resting spaces. But the space is even more overwhelming and difficult to navigate if you can't climb the stairs at all—you are instead forced into indirect routes that lack signage, occasionally having to cross most of the building in order to find an elevator.
Both signage and staffing are minimal—using the routes available to able-bodied people, a very alert individual can find his or her way. I found myself flagging down the guides far more than I was used to (and far more often than I have done in any other museums, including museums in countries where I didn't speak the language) in order to find routes that avoided stairs. The signage does include some Braille, which is fortunate because the lighting is so low in places that even a sighted person might be tempted to use it.
The washrooms, while they have a handicapped symbol on them, are just as malevolent as the rest of the building. The doors don't have a wide enough swing to allow a wheelchair easy access—it requires two extra people (besides the person using the wheelchair) to get the door open, keep it open, and navigate the person inside. There are things that look like automatic doors, but half the buttons to open them are broken.
The gift store is a particularly interesting case. It has two levels, two staircases, and no ramps. A person using a wheelchair can access both floors of the shop, but in order to get from one to another, he or she would have to exit the shop, find a ramp, and enter through another floor. Apparently, the AGO plans to have only able-bodied people work in the gift store.
The AGO is a public institution; its promotional material promises a welcoming space, a personalized experience, an innovative environment, and "programming and services that reflect the diversity of our audience." The architecture of the building, however, creates something different—while some people are free to experience the space in a variety of ways, a large part of the museum-going public—families with young children, elderly people, people with disabilities, and family and friends of the aforementioned visitors—do not have the same level of choices. Anyone who uses a mobility aid will have a vastly different experience of the museum than someone who does not.
The result is a building that serves the architect's personal aesthetic, but not the audience's needs. It may technically comply with Ontario building and human rights codes, but in practice, it is alienating space that creates a two-tiered experience, dividing its audience into people who are worthy of culture and people who are not. For a new building, and especially in light of the structure it replaced, this is unforgivable.
troubleinchina, I'm stealing your tag.I finally got around to visiting the redesigned Art Gallery of Ontario this afternoon. I went for the Surreal Things show, and the less-publicized Dada and Remix shows, but the art didn't leave much of an impression on me. The architecture, however, is deserving of some analysis.
Entering the building, I was struck immediately by two things. The first was the light-coloured wood and soaring ceilings, reminiscent of the recently built Four Seasons Centre. The second was that the twisting narrow ramp that leads to the ticket booth has enough room for either a wheelchair to go up or a stroller to go down, but not enough room for two-way wheeled traffic. Accordingly, halfway up the ramp, we had to reverse my step-father's wheelchair out in order to allow a man pushing a stroller to leave.
From the main hall leading into the museum, there's a large open court featuring a sculpture and a video installation. A ramp leads down into the court. If you are an able-bodied person, you can continue on through the court through the rest of the gallery. If, however, you use a wheelchair or you are pushing a stroller, you find yourself confused and disoriented, trying to figure out where the other ramp is. As it turns out, you have to head back out the same way you came, and then follow a narrow, counter-intuitive corridor to the exhibit halls.
At this point, we asked one of the museum guides if there was an easier way to get to the exhibits we wanted to see. (The visitor map provided was of little use; it showed things that looked like ramps but were actually stairways, with no indication of which routes were accessible and which were not.) She explained that Gehry's design was intended to encourage the museum-goer to explore the existing galleries (though one could circumvent more galleries by using the stairs), and that the re-design had taken out most of the ramps. "Frank hates ramps," she explained. She was sympathetic; it was clear that she had heard this question before, and she encouraged us to write letters and provide feedback via the website.
The architecture is strikingly sculptural: winding staircases lead up through airy spaces. But the building is primarily a self-contained sculpture rather than a functional space where the public can view art. I watched as an older woman struggled to make it up the stairs—they are tall, narrow, and lack resting spaces. But the space is even more overwhelming and difficult to navigate if you can't climb the stairs at all—you are instead forced into indirect routes that lack signage, occasionally having to cross most of the building in order to find an elevator.
Both signage and staffing are minimal—using the routes available to able-bodied people, a very alert individual can find his or her way. I found myself flagging down the guides far more than I was used to (and far more often than I have done in any other museums, including museums in countries where I didn't speak the language) in order to find routes that avoided stairs. The signage does include some Braille, which is fortunate because the lighting is so low in places that even a sighted person might be tempted to use it.
The washrooms, while they have a handicapped symbol on them, are just as malevolent as the rest of the building. The doors don't have a wide enough swing to allow a wheelchair easy access—it requires two extra people (besides the person using the wheelchair) to get the door open, keep it open, and navigate the person inside. There are things that look like automatic doors, but half the buttons to open them are broken.
The gift store is a particularly interesting case. It has two levels, two staircases, and no ramps. A person using a wheelchair can access both floors of the shop, but in order to get from one to another, he or she would have to exit the shop, find a ramp, and enter through another floor. Apparently, the AGO plans to have only able-bodied people work in the gift store.
The AGO is a public institution; its promotional material promises a welcoming space, a personalized experience, an innovative environment, and "programming and services that reflect the diversity of our audience." The architecture of the building, however, creates something different—while some people are free to experience the space in a variety of ways, a large part of the museum-going public—families with young children, elderly people, people with disabilities, and family and friends of the aforementioned visitors—do not have the same level of choices. Anyone who uses a mobility aid will have a vastly different experience of the museum than someone who does not.
The result is a building that serves the architect's personal aesthetic, but not the audience's needs. It may technically comply with Ontario building and human rights codes, but in practice, it is alienating space that creates a two-tiered experience, dividing its audience into people who are worthy of culture and people who are not. For a new building, and especially in light of the structure it replaced, this is unforgivable.
