Los Angeles

Sleek Distortion

Observing the Walt Disney Concert Hall

An entirely metal alcove, engineered and designed to a smooth perfection. Gazing out around the distant curved walls, I can only see the sky's colors, a bright electric blue in central Los Angeles, not a cloud to be seen. The air is clear, but it threatens to become warm and suffocating. 

This space, these lines, all of it is so unfamiliar to me. 

I walk into the waves of silver, peering over the edge of the enclosure to the first floor below. Turning back to make an offhand comment, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflective steel walls. I stop in my tracks. 

Who is that? The detailed proportions of my face are distorted: nose too thin, forehead too bulbous, and eyes too close together. The rest of my features look as though they are being dragged irrevocably by the sheer gravity of my upper lip. It looks as though I am being jeered at, my reflected caricature a stark contrast from the incredibly sleek and modern composition of the entire hall. The inanimate lines jarringly shun my animate nature. 

A single speck of sunlight is fractured across multiple panels slightly overhead. It observes its own reflection directly across as well. Does it recognize itself still as a bearer of warmth and vitality, an absolute guide of wanderers throughout? Or is it also lost, unsure of where it belongs, unable to situate itself among the coolness of the manufactured giant? 

Entering the lobby of the hall, a cool breeze of air conditioning grazes my face, a welcome break from the steadily rising temperature outdoors. The coolness extends over the palette of the lobby’s interior design with overarching curves of white and wood, overlapping with each other to create a layered and tiered effect. The eye, as far as it can see, is not bored by flatness. In a never ending game to link new unknowns with familiar ideas, and perhaps much to the original architect’s satisfaction, I recognize the instrumentation within the beams and panels. Piercing rays of sunlight reflect against the metal, conjuring the image of stage lights bouncing off the neck of a tuba. The complex layering of the pale wooden arches resemble the multidimensional nature of a string instrument--the central bridge, the instrument’s body, the sound post within. 

Even with the level of connection I feel with the motive of the infrastructure, I still continue to feel displaced. The curves of the douglas fir beams decorating the walls and ceiling are reminiscent of the curves of my own violin, but only in the sense of general shape and color. No life, no memories course through the grandness of the hall. The hall is beautiful and magnificent, no doubt, but I can’t help but feel that its design means nothing. If the hall is meant to represent the universality, elegance, and grandeur of classical music, why should the exterior represent such gate-keeping, both in physical composition and approachability? 

Words: Anna Fang

Photos: Niko Frost & Apollonia Cuneo