WAYS OF SEEING THE GLASSHOUSE

The critique of architectural presentations is often that the photographic image is so carefully managed to present only the preferred vision with cleverly framed, arty details that exclude all references to context, (see: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-architectural-image.html); that one is given a bespoke impression of a project that bears little relationship to the everyday encounter, best documented in Google’s Street View: see - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2017/10/the-need-for-street-view-in-architecture.html. The new theatre at QPAC, The Glasshouse, has been promoted in such a manner as to suggest possibilities that just do not exist outside of such presentations – see: https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2026/09/the-glasshouse-theatre.html. The camera is able to fabricate images that have their own reality divorced from ordinary experience, creating an idealistic grandeur, a spectacle with its own remote identity: such is photography. The pattern of understanding seems to be that one frequently comes to know a place through the eyes of the camera lens before it is actually experienced, leaving one with the strange sensing of the expectation that one might, when visiting the work, actually see what the camera has revealed; to go looking for this in an effort to recreate the expected identity – to see it as originally understood, as if the confirming of 'facts' was necessary. This indulgence might even go as far as one using one’s own camera to capture the same concept of pictured identity that one has seen published. “Ah! There it is!” – snap; as if one might be able to regain meaning in memory as recalled in this 'seeing as.' Architectural renderings can be just as persuasive and misleading too.

This drawing of the interior has a sense of the spatial experience using a technique not unlike 

that expression of space in William Robinson's paintings of Springbrook.

Alas, what actually frequently occurs is that one experiences something totally remote, a circumstance removed from the idealism of the glossy presentation when seen in the real surroundings – in the context of the immediate siting and that of the location in the broader experience of place, be this a town, city, or countryside. There are adjacencies, spaces, textures, smells, sounds, solid mass, people, and imperfections that are all revealed insitu in a different, varying light. Even getting there has an impact on perceptions never revealed in the defined photographs that are usually viewed when one is isolated in a safe, relaxed, and comfortable world conducive to feeling good about deliciously positive, ‘dreamy’ outcomes assembled from the isolated perfection of the published glossy images.

Might some sketches be inspired by the photographs?

See - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2014/10/drawing-belfast-command-character.html 

These ways of seeing are highlighted by the contrast in the sketches of the exterior and interior of The Glasshouse.  The artist’s eye is rigorous in its raw delineation – using unforgiving lines as marks on paper to indicate place. One might protest, claiming that there are no lines in nature, so the sketches are an irrelevance.# With these drawings, one notes how the awkward stair below the dramatically waving wall that usually attracts the lens, is highlighted just as it is seen to be there by the passersby. It is an unfortunate vision that the camera cleverly seems to want to avoid with shadows, reflections, selected angles, and various distractions. The artists are less canny with their readings, revealing just what is seen, an approach which has much the same native rigour as the Street View camera, recording deliberately and with a certain determined innocence, which, in drawings, also has something to do with the skill and intent of the renderer, for even artists can manipulate visions to suit their eye, talent, or ambitions.

'Curved panels in the greenhouse theatre' -

the translation from Spanish seems to confuse Glasshouse with greenhouse.

What we see in the published drawings is the harsh reality of the form of The Glasshouse, free from the guile of the manipulated lens and the artifice of the architectural rendering. What these drawings reveal is the elegance and sophistication of the selective, preferred presentations that have been published, suave images that contrast with the harsh reality of the awkward bulk of the sketched forms. One might think that one could choose how one might look at a place, but here, with this collection of photographs and line drawings, it is clear how persuasive the camera can be in setting the stage for ways of remembering that manage our ways of seeing. These visual memories are so powerful that when we see the sketches, we are somewhat repulsed, and seek out excuses for the apparent awkwardness in this expression that we are happy to put down to a lack of skill; perhaps the work of an amateur; or might it be the expression of some intimate, personal vision, maybe a special, different feeling for place, when what we have before us is really what one sees everyday, put down on paper in what might be described as the equivalent of handwriting.

The difference is that between the coffee table image and Street View. The latter is always challenged by the former which forcefully determines the identity with its latent demands. We have to decide which world we might choose to live in: the fanciful world of bespoke maybes, or the harsh world of being there, with the raw experience that develops a resonance with its own inner richness and integral, lived meaning? In one sense, to use a current piece of jargon, the prior world is simply ‘fake’ in a real way. If we are to anchor our understanding in substance and reality, something solid, firm, and certain, rather than in things ephemeral, fanciful, and flimsy, then we have to do away with our intoxication with and enthusiasm for the slick games of camera and computer artistry, and deal honestly with ordinary matters. If we do not do this, we leave ourselves in danger of forever searching for impossibilities, and enduring the disappointments of never achieving these, or the delusion that we have, as we continue to fool ourselves with the innate, unchallenged brilliance of ME, the Starchitect defining MY way of seeing as we slide off into the lies of a fantasy world where hope is always failing; a world of smoke and mirrors sufficient to test the sanity and contentment of all.

On reflection, (no pun intended), considering the proposition that architecture embodies the spirit of its time, might this latter circumstance be the true expression of our overly confident, clever ‘AI era’ that is full of hallucinations and slop? But who knows what the future might hold? Perhaps the wisdom of time and the rigour of raw experience could eventually reveal the essential significance of the intimacy of references in the reference of intimacies held integrally in true meaning in our lives and its living as a simple necessity for contentment in satisfaction.

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Édouard Manet: The French painter famously stated, "There are no lines in nature, only areas of colour, one against another".

DEFINING PLACE – GOSTWYCK

We are on the New England Tablelands, just south of Armidale in New South Wales, Australia. At the edge of town, the road east from Uralla suddenly narrows down from its ‘CinemaScope’ civic dimensions as it heads out into the countryside to Gostwyck,* freed of its tidy managed markings, neat cambers, and kerbed gutters. We had decided to take the short trip late in the afternoon. The blaze of the sun was easing into a cool, crystal-clear sky blue. The winter air chilled as the fiery disk dipped low behind the black, scatty gums banding the road with long shadings.

Uralla.

Google Earth Street View

The track meandered as it followed the contoured undulations of the low hills, squeezing in between the barriers at the grids as the boundaries were crossed. This narrow bitumen strip was the typical, dirt-edged, two-way single track thoroughfare of country Australia, made for the rough and tumble of speedy utes, the farmer’s cliché Hilux. As the light grew dimmer, one gradually became aware that we were driving into an organised arrangement of denser planting. The transition from partially cleared fields with ad hoc, random roadside gums, into the formality of an avenue of tall, mature elms was subtle and unexpected, but obvious. This was Gostwyck, the place identified by the avenues, the chapel, the creek, the bridge, and the Deeargee (DRG) shearing shed.

It had been some years since we had last visited this site; our return did not disappoint. The western sky grew darker as a band of deep red cloud glowed under dim grey puffs, profiling the distant hills framed by the silhouetted chunky tree trunks. As the road turned, the little, dark, brick chapel appeared in the late Gothic gloom, looking as quaint and modestly assertive as ever. We had arrived.

Chapel is just left of centre frame; shearing shed is lower centre;

the main residence is out of centre top frame at the end of the avenue;

the bridge over the creek is to the left of the red dot.

The chapel marked this locus as a focus in the expansive landscape, becoming the centrepiece anchoring the avenues of elms and the bridge that all reached out from this core to the point of arrival, the main residence, and the shed. The sense of place in an infinity of distance is remarkable for its native ordinariness and singular, powerful identity, all enhanced by the intimate, defining character of the chapel itself. It is a memorial chapel, built like those of the crusaders, in memory of or with thanks for . . . # (see NOTES below). It is indeed a memorable location.

This tiny building has the complexity of larger places, in full-size miniature. It is visually rich in form, stringently logical in its solid shaping, precise in its detailing, and delightfully intriguing in its presentation, being draped in its seasonal foliage that now reminds one, in the heart of winter, of a crown of thorns, ready for the resurrection, its transformation in spring. The chapel holds some of the sense of a rustic, ‘Red Riding Hood’ cottage in an idyllic forest clearing, something of a surprising, gingerbread delight that never reaches any kitsch extremes, rather, being left just standing alone, proudly assertive, with a self-assured integrity in this central, pivotal position with a special, somewhat grand but unpretentious identity that reveals a certain humble spirituality. The building has been made with care and is cared for. It is more than a historic relic, as it is still being used for a monthly service. It stands separated from the everyday with its surrounding grey stone wall and small gates, reminding one of graveyards in Shetland, with their isolation from the agricultural surrounds defined by the drystone dykes marking special place where the rule is to always close the gate.

Shetland graveyard.

Main residence, Gostwyck.

A spectacularly grand avenue of sturdy, large, old elms promenades impressionably up to the main residence out of sight, over the hill, anticipating arrival for the visitor, while the adjacent narrow timber bridge continues the track over the nearby creek, nicely named Salisbury Waters, pointing the way to the astonishing shearing shed that sits high on the opposite slope with a crisp form  that is likewise humble in its grandeur, heedless of its reputation. This is Gostwyck's famous Deeargee shearing shed. A step south away from the chapel and the proud point of the pyramidal roof appears through the trees. Place here is held defined as a location with a natural authority, marked in a marvellous openness of splendid countryside that stretches under the broad, now darkening skies to an infinity in all directions. This is undulating high country. One knows one is somewhere without being told that this is so; one can sense place, feel location in the heart of nowhere. One wonders: did this land hold any special meaning for our First Nations people?

One knows this site that has been visited again and again over a period of some fifty years, but still one comes and strolls around the chapel and views the shed with confirmed amazement, as if seeing things for the first time. Gostwyck is a friend; there is depth here. One admires what has been admired before with as much satisfaction as that experienced previously. Perhaps Ruskin would have said ‘with more satisfaction,’ given his comment on the annual holiday he took with his parents, a journey that was identical each year, when the same places were visited along the same roads, in the same carriages, while staying in the same rooms in the same hotels, looking at the same views. Ruskin’s comment was that everything was ‘more beautiful for being familiar.’ There is an enveloping coherence in this perception that acknowledges the original experience that is sustained over time, and time again, holding meaning in a lived history that embodies enrichment in its diversity.

Moving on over the invitation of the bridge, the glimpse of the shearing shed comes into full view, with its stepped, pyramidal profile settled low on the rise, white and grey, happily content, making the viewer feel likewise. Just being there is sufficient. One needs to do nothing; nothing is expected. The admiration leaves one silenced, in quiet awe, as the landscape is perused, noting how adequately agreeable is this fit of form. There is no grand WOW!, just the pleasure in the satisfaction of being a part of this place, a hub in a grand landscape: Gostwyck. One knows that this is a very schematic understanding of this site. There is history here that lies embodied in the experience not yet made explicit. One remains thankful for being able to be a part of this quiet, unassuming marvel.

As the sun set with the pale mauves fading into softer pinks and misty greys, the evening chill settles in. It is time to go. The drive back to Uralla is managed with caution: the glow of this dim twilight is kangaroo time. There is always an elated sadness when leaving Gostwyck - but the joy remains, lingers, happy in the knowledge that we'll be back - God willing as the Islamic world appropriately notes.

See also – https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2014/02/deeargee-gostwyck-shed-and-chapel.html.

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AI Overview

Gostwyck is a historic rural locality and pastoral property in the New England Tablelands of New South Wales, located about 11 kilometers east of Uralla.

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The Basilica of Saint-Sauveur de Dinan

Legend has it that Riwallon le Roux, the lord of Dinan, founded the priory of Saint-Sauveur de Dinan in 1112 upon his return from the Holy Land. As the story goes, the knight was taken prisoner during the First Crusade and vowed to build a church in honor of Saint-Sauveur and the Holy Trinity if he ever returned home.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_Saint-Sauveur_(Dinan)

NOTES

AI Overview

Key Landmarks

• Gostwyck Chapel (All Saints Anglican Church): Built in 1921 by Nora Dangar in memory of her husband, Major Clive Collingwood Dangar, who died in World War I. It is famous for being covered in Virginia creeper that turns bright red in autumn.

• Elm Avenue: An approach lined with 200 mature English elm trees that turn golden during autumn and Easter. The trees were planted by a worker brought from England specifically for the job.

• Deeargee Woolshed: Located nearby, this unique octagonal woolshed was built in 1872 on an older part of the Gostwyck station lands. It features a three-tier roof and allowed 24 blade shearers to work in a circle.

History and Industry

• Establishment: The station was first settled as a massive pastoral run in the 1830s and purchased by Henry Dangar in 1834.

• Gostwyck Merino: The property remains renowned today through Gostwyck Merino, a high-quality wool producer managed by descendants of the original founders.