Whatever the short-comings of Dublin’s Spire, technical and aesthetic, it fares well when considered alongside a similar structure erected in 1948 in the Polish city of Wroclaw.
The Iglica, as it’s known, is not an exact comparison with the thing in O’Connell St. Even at its highest (106 metres), for example, it was never as tall. It also has a triangular rather than round shape. And with three legs bolted to the ground, it looks at that level a bit like a rocket waiting for a fuse to be lit under it.
But the pyrotechnics, as it happened, were at the other end. Like the Dublin Spire, the Iglica was supposed to be crowned by a special lighting effect: in its case a spinning mirror device that would create dramatic effects at night, in the process reflecting glory on the new Communist Poland, then emerging from the war and looking to a bright future.
Alas, within hours of completion, it was hit by lightning. And not only was this was a worrying omen for communism, but in the words of the city guidebook, Wroclaw in Your Pocket, it sent much of the mirror contraption “crashing to the ground in dazzling catastrophe”.
The remainder dangled dangerously, posing a threat to a huge exhibition of which the spire was the centre-piece. Amid bad weather, the military were powerless to intervene. Then two heroic students, members of a climbing club, volunteered. Their ascent took 24 hours, the dismantling another six. But the day, if not the the project’s dignity, was saved.
Having presaged trouble ahead for communist Poland, meanwhile, the Iglica would also unwittingly flag the regime’s demise. During the martial law of the early 1980s, another daredevil climber tied a Solidarity flag to the top.
By then the summit had been reduced to 96 metres for safety reasons, and there it remains. But even in this edited form, as the harsh (but funny) conclusion of the city guide puts it, it is still “probably one of the tallest pieces of useless bolted metal in the world”.
The backdrop to the Iglica, by the way, and the scene of the 1948 exhibition, is itself an architectural marvel: albeit a more successful one. The Centennial Hall was built by the city’s then German rulers to mark the 100th anniversary of the 1813 battle of Leipzig.
And it too was controversial for a while, aesthetically — the acerbic guide suggests it looks like a “colossal concrete hatbox” — and otherwise.
The highest structure of its kind at the time, apparently, it so stretched technology that the builders were afraid to enter the finished article, fearing collapse. But it was still standing when I visited last week, and for the past decade it has been a designated UNESCO World Heritage site.
Mind you, I didn’t manage to get inside, and there was a certain irony in that. Having long intimidated visitors with its sheer enormity, the hall was successfully reinvented a few years ago by the addition of the so-called Discovery Centre: a high-tech exhibition explaining the building and Wroclaw generally.
Unfortunately, during a trek around the hall, I couldn’t find any of its multiple doors that looked open. This might have been less of a challenge had it not been 35 degrees. But with a protesting family in tow, I decided against a second lap of the building. The Discovery Centre would have to await another visit.
The Centennial Hall was the creation of the then city architect, Max Berg, and we caught another glimpse of his questionable vision elsewhere, in the old town square. This is a beautiful thing, at least on the outside: the buildings were largely destroyed in the 1945 siege, and later restored to their pre-war appearance, with necessary modernisation behind.
But the square’s postcard perfection is disturbed at one corner by an ugly 10-storey office block: the creation, in 1931, of an architect with the apt-sounding name of Heinrich Rump. And if Berg had had his way, the modernisation of the square might have been more than just a rump. He wanted to demolish all the old houses and replace them with concrete towers.
Happily, the civic authorities eventually vetoed such progress, and when the war did what Berg had failed to, their Polish successors restored the old facades. As for Rump’s handiwork, I’m not sure whether the bombs missed it, or that too was rebuilt. Either way, it was a regrettable oversight.
@FrankmcnallyIT fmcnally@irishtimes.com