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Valley
News, September 4, 2005
Donald Maurice Kreis
In
a culture that is too often oblivious to architecture and the quality
of its public buildings, it's good to hear the comments about the
new Richmond Middle School on Route 10 in Hanover.
One motorist, Joan Ashley of Norwich, calls the facade "that
funny green" — the warm, almost olive color of the metal
siding that covers much of the building.
"Not
only I, but many other Route 10 observers, thought and hoped that
the green was primer, and whatever the final surface color, it would
look visually integrated with the brick," agrees Anne Baird
of Lyme.
"Not
so," she says. "I wish I were driving by with a delighted
'Ah!' rather than an, 'Oh no, why is it so ugly?' "
Green does indeed loom large here, but not necessarily in the sense
meant by the car-bound critics. After all, how much more of that
dark and stolid Dartmouth green can one community withstand? And
the motorists can't see the back of the school, where a classroom
wing reaches into a forest whose greenery, much of it coniferous,
actually resonates pleasingly with the siding.
A green worthy of more serious discussion concerns the laudable
decision of the Dresden School District and the building's designers,
Banwell Architects of Lebanon, to make energy efficiency such a
high priority. Beneath the siding is a layer of foam insulation.
Air ventilated to the gym, cafeteria and auditorium, is controlled
by carbon dioxide sensors — the more people are breathing
there, the more the air is blowing. Eight-five percent of the heat
is expected to come from burning wood, a renewable, locally produced
fuel.
Banwell's attention to lighting is also noteworthy. In a typical
classroom,
according to the firm's Stuart White, "sunlight striking clerestory
south glass is intercepted by a reflective shelf that reflects daylight
to the ceiling, and this light is diffused and reflected back to
the classroom. The shelf eliminates glare, and usable solar light
minimizes the need for electric lights." "Clerestory glass"
refers to windows that are close to the ceiling rather than at a
level conducive to daydreaming.
"Green"
design no longer means big south-facing window walls. Here, sunshades
adorn the south-facing windows. "We are often asked to make
sure that classrooms have a lot of south facing glass to take advantage
of passive solar heating, White reports. "The problem is that
too much south glass will result in overheated classrooms, even
on frigid but sunny days in January, and excessive heat loss at
night."
But another kind of green influenced this building, and that is
the green printed by Uncle Sam. Energy-efficient attributes notwithstanding,
the place was built on the cheap.
At
some point, criticism of public architecture becomes political commentary.
What does the caliber of this building say about the community's
commitment to public education and the belief that it is a democratizing
force leading to upward mobility?
It's
clear that the designers were instructed to economize and then economize
some more (cost overruns forced the Dresden district to raise supplemental
funds for the project). Alas, the architects did the right thing
and, alas, gave the facade short shrift. The interior (tours of
the inside will be available at the end of the month) may not be
so disappointing.
"For
example," according to English teacher Jody Horan, "from
the outside, at the north end, the auditorium is a box. Inside,
we have a fabulous stage and auditorium and music rooms plus practice
spaces. At the old school, our tiny stage was at one end of the
library . . . Our old library had no windows at all . . . and now
it has an entire wall of windows looking out on the back woods and
skylights that further brighten the area for learning and reading."
But the message delivered to the street still counts. The expensive
brick, everywhere scaled back in favor of siding reminiscent of
a cheap cinderblock, suggests not a school but a correctional institution.
It's as obvious as the notorious Ledyard Bridge finial balls: The
two richest towns in the region are unwilling to invest in their
future.
In
other places, new public schools express higher aspirations. Thom
Mayne – whose 2005 Pritzker Prize makes him the architectural
equivalent of a Nobel laureate – is famous in part for his
Diamond Ranch High School in Los Angeles, a series of bold angles
and cantilevers, clad in corrugated metal. They are the building
itself, as opposed to its decoration, and they inspire students
to notice and to think about their surroundings.
In other times, new public buildings in New Hampshire also had higher
aspirations. Hanover High School's classicism is both hackneyed
and tepid, but at least it invokes the aspirations we associate
with ancient Greece and Rome. Even the state hospital campus in
Concord, built in the early 20th century, is a sturdy and graceful
disquisition in brick and granite on the subject of permanence.
Some
day, historians may hail the creators of the new Richmond Middle
School for their vision. They foresaw the coming energy crisis.
They knew people would come to love a shade of green siding that
never needs repainting. And they also created something that could
easily be torn down, or converted to an annex of the printing company
next door, which it resembles. This will be a useful option should
public education, once represented by stolid architecture,
finally succumbs altogether.
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