It is now common knowledge that people do not linger too long in front of a work of art: on average, we look for 15 to 30 seconds. But what do we see and think when we stop for a little longer? Because the Groninger Museum building had its 25th anniversary this year, we spent over half an hour outside the museum on a chilly October day instead of sitting in front of a work of art in the museum.
Architecture is usually like art in that everyone has an opinion about it. The Groninger Museum building is no exception. To put it mildly, opinions vary wildly and tend to be of the love-it-or-hate-it variety. Yet I don't fall into either category: I’m not sure how I feel about the Groninger Museum. Paradoxically, I do think that that’s a good point. Why? Because doubt makes for a much more interesting discussion in that it forces us to start thinking and articulating much more precisely about why we think or assume something.
First, the Groninger Museum is an imposing building and one of a kind. It is a dominant presence in the cityscape and forms the entrance to the city from the central station. The number of people who use the bridge daily is staggering, and I doubt many realise they are on top of a museum. It is also a typical example of postmodernist architecture. I myself must confess that I never took such an interest in it, but I’ve known many an architecture student from abroad who, without fail, could tell me who had designed the Groninger Museum and why it was such a special building, without knowing at all where Groningen was located. So any way you look at it; it's an icon. Even if you absolutely loathe it, that just means the building has managed to capture your attention and forced you to form an opinion. And that is already quite an achievement for a building.
‘It's like continuously looking at a maquette.’
Another factor for me is that I am too young to remember the previous building. The building as it is today has shaped how I look at museums. Growing up, I had the notion that modern art was always in a building like this. This is where the major exhibitions in the city have always been and where I could catch a glimpse of the great artists from around the world. I can't actually imagine the city of Groningen without this building either: it would immediately lose the eccentricity that is characteristic of Groningen.
Nevertheless, I must say that — despite its colourful appearance — it feels quite distant: it is as difficult to approach physically as it is emotionally. This is mainly because it is built in the middle of the water, so most of the building is always inaccessible and you can only see it from a distance. The only option to get closer is to walk across the bridge or by actually entering the building, but that is another experience entirely. Of course, you can still see the architecture, but the inside is also a place where the architecture lends itself to exhibitions. It sometimes fades into the background more — and sometimes a bit less. From the outside, it is the architecture that is all important, and because of the different pavilions and architectural styles, there is so much going on that as an observer you almost have little to say about it. It is difficult to discern the intimate details and always keep looking at the big picture. It is like continuously looking at a maquette. Only on the bridge, for example, can you see that some of the small mosaics are missing a few tiles.
What is striking is that, when you look from the bridge, apart from the unsettlingly green, uninterrupted layer of duckweed, your attention is drawn mainly to one side of the museum, and the De Lucchi and Starck pavilions are far too austere by comparison. My gaze constantly turns to the bombastic element, and I often forget that the other part goes with it. For me, herein lies the answer to why it is so difficult to form one opinion about the building: it is far from a homogeneous whole. To really form an opinion, you need more information (which is actually provided on either side of the barriers thanks to two steel plaques) and you need to break things down and analyse them. Because unlike most buildings, each component here is yet another completely different approach within the architecture itself, requiring yet another approach from the viewer for each pavilion. For example, the Lucchi pavilion primarily refers to the history of the location and to the collection housed in the pavilion, while the Coop Himmelb(l)au pavilion is a sculpture and completely different from the way the other architects address the architecture itself. It is not a single vision; you are dealing with multiple, completely different visions and styles.
This is also exactly what makes the building of the Groninger Museum so interesting to me; it is not so easy to say what you think of it without some thought. It forces you to look further and consider things more deeply. That is also fairly consistent with the exhibition policy of the Groninger Museum itself: it is challenging and eccentric. In that respect, they could not have hoped for a better building.