San Francisco
Magnificent Façade
Discovering the Palace of Fine Arts
Grandeur. As I approach the central rotunda of the Palace of Fine Arts, I crane my neck in an effort to internalize the sheer magnitude of the structure before me. The soles of my feet sink deeper with every step, as my toes absorb the crunch of gravel beneath me. Pouring out from within this meticulously carved dome is a celestial melody, which amplifies and warps as it moves throughout the space. Its rhythm serves as the accompaniment to the shimmering light that dances across these outer-walls, reflecting off the gentle ripples of the lagoon surrounding the Palace. A vast entablature rests on a colonnade of Corinthian columns that tower above me, stretching into the sky alongside evergreens that fold themselves into the structure itself. A sight like this only compels my mind to ponder the inevitably rich history behind this artifact.
The staggering truth, however, is that merely fifty years ago, this structure did not exist. Constructed in 1915 for the San Francisco world’s fair, then torn down and completely rebuilt in 1965, the walls of the Palace of Fine Arts have not seen civilizations pass before them. They have hardly stood here for decades.
The 1915 Panama-Pacific International Exposition was the world’s celebration for the completion of the Panama Canal, the 51 mile man-made strait that cuts through the Isthmus of Panama. Though the stated intention was one symbolizing progress and prosperity, the world’s fair was widely seen by the people of San Francisco as an opportunity to showcase its rapid recovery from the devastating 1906 earthquake, which pillaged 80% of the city. To prove a spirit of unrelenting perseverance, land by the San Francisco Marina was quickly cleared and stunning-yet-temporary structures were erected in a matter of months, forming a utopian city modeled after Greek and Roman capitals.
Built from plaster, these structures which once proudly displayed as a symbol of a city’s prosperity began to crumble in the immediate years following 1915. Every edifice from the exhibition but the Palace of Fine Arts has since been demolished, and their memory remains only through grainy black-and-white photographs. The lone savior protecting the Palace from sure destruction was the city of San Francisco, whose residents vowed to preserve the beloved structure while the fair was still in progress.
This construction, however, was not built to survive longer than the ten month duration of the fair. As years progressed, the artificial façade was the victim of natural erosion and savage vandalism. In 1964, the Palace was finally torn down and reconstructed in its original location.
The statues I gaze at now are not the products of sculptors laboriously chiseling away at slabs of marble — they are made from poured concrete. There was no monarch to commission this palace to honor the gods — only a city yearning for superficial approval. The Palace of Fine Arts is neither a palace nor a beacon for the fine arts, but a hollow name devoid of any meaning.
And yet. As I look around the expanse, at couples nestling on the open fields of grass, at toddlers scurrying away from their parents, at people of all backgrounds joining to admire this architectural feat; gone is my former suspicion. Gone is the disintegrating plaster façade, littered with crude graffiti. Gone is the voice that attempts to convince me that this Palace is any less bona fide than the Pantheons of Europe. What stands is a monument, ever representing the culture and story of San Francisco itself. Generation after generation will share the opportunity to be stunned into paralysis upon gazing up at the Palace for the very first time.
As I stand beneath one of the arches surrounding the rotunda, the sunlight settling into my body while I collect my thoughts, a dark haze charges toward me with enough velocity to send me staggering backward. Quickly turning my head so as to identify my assailant, I watch as a flight of pigeons flutters through the air, making sweeping revolutions around the top of the dome. These birds, as was just now demonstrated, have a blatant disregard for any human presence here at all. The permanence of this building suddenly becomes clear to me. The pigeons simply do not care about the reason behind the construction of this building – neither do the trees that rely on its columns for support, nor do the swans that glide through the lagoon surrounding it. Regardless of whatever lacking motivation man had in creating it, this Palace has earned its rightful place in the annals of the city. The pigeons seem to think so too.
Words: David Chen
Photos: Emmanuel Flores
