If you drive up to the wrong (west) side of
Salt Lake City's Main Library, you might just drive on by, certain that there is no way this can be the very same place about which you've heard nothing but rave reviews. It would be a fair decision, too, as the west bank of squareness is so square and oppressively beige, you might mistake it for a sad, nameless county office that issues permits for tiling the floors of the sanitation department's broom closets.
But if you turn any corner, you'll find a weird and wonderful thing: The Most Extra Library in Existence. Clearly someone had a vision. There were lots of floaty ideas lilting all around, and they were scooped up with a butterfly net and put into an architectural, build-a-scheme, Thing Maker, hooked up with jumper cables to a picture of the Colosseum, and two tween boys with bras on their heads flipped a switch and WA LA, Main Library.
It's won all sorts of awards, which it should for ambition alone, but my first impression of the site was one of dread and unease, as I again found myself sinking into the subterranean depths of the adjacent parking garage. It was a narrow, sketchy scene reminiscent of the J. Erikson back in Dallas, except it was somehow spookier. More echos or something...but it freaked me out. It was also super narrow, so navigating was a little stressful--I could see all the marks from fenders and tires that had not quite made the turn at every stingy bend.
I took the elevator up to the main courtyard and walked out into a scene from
Star Trek...you know the ones where they're at Starfleet Academy on Earth and you can still see the Golden Gate Bridge but there are a ton of new, soaring buildings with glinty, spiked edges that always remind me of
The Jetsons. The western edge of the library is a fake out, a boring lie. The remaining three corners, if you can call them that, are anything but boring. It is a concrete and glass wonder, a sight to behold. It is nothing but winged, glorious curves. I was in lurve.
The tail of the curve is made up of individual little square units whose purpose was difficult to determine. They basically look like glass and metal boxes attached in a neat row, each no bigger than a standard foyer. According to Wikipedia, they contain things like radio stations and studios (
x).
The space within the curve of the library is a grand, open plaza, with a recessed amphitheater right at the base of the main building. The plaza also features a waterfall and geometrically patterned garden spaces.
Main entrance (l) and the first view of the urban room (r).
The main glass doors lead into what is called the "Urban Room," a moniker so rigorously understated that I had to triple check the map to make sure I got it right. It isn't a "room," it is a cavernous, monumental open space of glass and metal. It is a sort of atrium or courtyard, with windows soaring all five floors to the top of the structure. The Urban Room has shops, restaurants, and seating areas where you can sit, drink coffee, talk with friends, or just wonder at the views all around you. I saw ladies lunching and business folk meeting, laptops open, spreadsheets queued.
When viewing the library proper from inside the Urban Room or out in the plaza, the open and airy design exposes four floors of nothing but books--rows and rows of stacks--and trendy but modest seating situated along the expansive banks of windows. The fifth floor appears mostly administrative, with some meeting rooms and access to the garden roof. When I entered the building, I scoped the place out a bit from the main floor, but my ultimate goal was to grab one of those primo desks--the higher the better.
Main elevator bank (l) and the four main floors of the library (r), viewed from the Urban Room.
Before heading to the elevators, I looked around the first floor and found, to my delight, plushies of
Where the Wild Things Are encased in displays near the children's section. In light of my recent
Magna experience, imagining those monsters running rampant through the library, biting books and stomping on furniture, seeing the Sendak display was a little on the nose, but a treat nonetheless. This library, though eight years older than the Magna, showed few signs of brutish beasts roughing up the upholstery or climbing up the stacks.
Safely encased for minimum tomfoolery.
The layout of each floor is expansive and generous. There is a lot of open floorspace to balance out the multitude of stacks, lounge furniture, and desks. The furniture and carpet follow a cool blue, gray, and silver template to match the streamlined, futuristic aesthetics of all that glass and metal.
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| Circulation. |
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| Information. |
I have a love/hate relationship with heights. I love to see incredible views, things that knock me on my ass with shock and love, but if I get a little too self aware then it's time for the cold sweats and maybe a little swooning (exactly the sort of thing you want to do on a precipice). For example, I am good with viewing the Grand Canyon from the rail, or even going up into a very tall building (good-ish), but those viewing decks made of Plexiglas, where you walk out onto
freaking nothing so you can feel like you are levitating high above the ground? I think fucking not. Hell to the no.
Noooooo.
The scary elevator ride.
So I love glass elevators, and if I am not stuffed onto one with other people, all the better. But the glass elevators at the Salt Lake City Main Library have one extra surprise in store, something more extraordinary that lifting people to and fro and all with an open view of the entire five stories of the Urban Room. They go
fast. Which is great! You get where you want to go in no time at all. But it is also terrible, because your stomach is still trying to stay on floor one while your bodily self is zinging up to floor five. So, I was a fan of the expedience, not so much the experience. Blerg.
I checked out five for a few minutes, then headed back down to four since I was set on getting a good spot. As I headed toward the seats that faced the plaza, I started to notice an unbelievable aspect of the SLC Main that I hadn't processed earlier when taking pictures from below. The library is open on all sides and throughout, where there are bridges from the main sections to the bathrooms or back storage/staff areas. This is most evident along the wall interior to the massive Urban Room, where you can just look over the side and all the way down to the ground. As I walked through the library I realized this had to be a place people would try to kill themselves; the barriers are only waist high and it would be all too easy to just jump. Later when I researched the library
via Wikipedia, my assumptions were confirmed. It even has it's own subentry, which is incredibly sad.
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| The view from the Bridge. |
You have to wonder what they were thinking when they designed the building. It seems an obvious consideration, so what's the logic? I refuse to believe that no one thought of the suicide factor when creating a building where people could jump from five or four stories, to their likely deaths, with no more effort than bending over the edge and dropping. A person would not even have to climb. Even if you put the prickly subject of suicide to the side, you still have to consider the ramifications of library staff having to deal with these incidents. The toll it must take.
It's incredible to have such an open space, but I realized that part of that wonderment was based on the fact that most things are built to discourage the human impulse for self destruction. It's an interesting and exciting experience because we are so rarely afforded the chance to stand at the precipice without a safety net of some sort.
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| My desk. |
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| Looking straight down. |
I set up shop near the windows facing the plaza and got to work. Each desk has its own outlet for electricity and the chairs are simple but comfortable. I worked for awhile, but eventually two distractions were too much to overcome.
First, that view. It was as the planners envisioned: Something to remember, something to write home about, something else. The drop is one thing, especially since desks are right up next to the glass and that is all there is, no concrete barrier even. But the plaza down below and the Wasatch mountains in the distance? Every few minutes my eyes would wander, because I couldn't stand not to look. It was too beautiful.
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| A view of the plaza from my desk. |
Second, the homeless population. Of all the places I've visited, the Salt Lake City Main Library had the largest contingent of homeless patrons. You have to remember just how large this library is--it is enormous. They hung out in the amphitheater, and those with carts had set up semi-permanent residences near the glass boxes in the tail of curve. Many others were inside, surrounded by bags, in reading chairs and at desks.
It is important to note that no one bothered me--everyone minded their own business, found their spots to hang out, and kept to themselves. Were it not for my sensitive nose, I wouldn't have cared, but the as the day progressed, the smell of urine intensified and I had to leave. Remember, my stomach is made of tissue paper and hot acid, so anything that triggers my nausea is a non starter. I simply must go or face inevitable, vomity consequences.
My point is that plenty of less sensitive folks would be perfectly fine -- I saw no disturbances or anything that worried or alarmed me. All in all it was a very positive library experience, though probably more for the architectural splendors than the practicality of library usage. Of course, any view can become mundane after awhile, so I am sure regular patrons, while pleased with their surroundings, are far less distracted by the awesome structure than a traveling flatlander like me.
My last stop was the gallery, also on floor four, and a great addition to the Main Library's offerings. A few of my favorite pieces are featured below.
Laura Erekson Atkinson, (l) Build With Three Kinds of Brick,
Mixed Media on Wood, and (r) A time to Build Up,
Mixed Media on Wood (capitalization per the installation).
Laura Erekson Atkinson, Cities of the North, Mixed Media on Panel.
Natalie Kaye Stallings, Life in a Contradicting Shadow, Oil on Panel.
Really. Do Not.
I love a library that pretends to be a 1950s post office, especially when it's actually significantly newer, but I especially love a library that refuses to state her age. I had to look past the information page offered by the library system itself to an article on the Cottonwood Heights community website to find out that Whitmore is 43 years old (b. 1974).
Alas, I could not stay. Perhaps the weird, circus-tent structure of the building is the problem. Maybe it is some technical issue beyond my understanding or influence. Whatever the reason, the wifi would not cooperate. I tried every trick in my bag, but the best coverage I could get was weak or nonexistent, and constantly changing. Since my objective for that day was to track down links for an obscene number of 80s songs, it simply was not going to do.
