Spacing out

Visit the UIC Skyspace for the first time at any hour other than sunrise or sunset and risk being underwhelmed.

Located on the southwest corner of Roosevelt and Halsted, the touted public art project by Arizona artist James Turrell suffers architecturally, looking a bit like some strip mall developer’s idea of a Greek temple. Of all the sites on which this world-famous artist has plopped down a “skyspace”—his signature chamber for viewing the heavens—this has got to be the least attractive. It is also the most urban and the most accessible.

Commissioned by the University of Illinois at Chicago, the project, an elliptical pavilion 26 feet high and 43 feet wide, broke ground a few years ago and suffered the usual delays. For reasons of cost and safety, the artist veered from his original plan. Some critics find it hard to believe that Turrell, a notorious stickler for the purity of his projects, would agree to any compromises, but fortunately for us, he did—and for that, we got something pretty special.

During a recent visit at dusk, it was mesmerizing to watch the sky change colors through the 10-by-16-foot oval opening in the structure’s white ceiling—going from an intense azure blue to a velvety moss green and a violet gray. The shifts in hue are enhanced by fluorescent lights housed below the ceiling. The lights change color for one hour at dusk and dawn to create an interplay between light and sky. Benches line the interior circumference of the space, dotted with metal brackets designed to keep skateboarders from turning Skyspace into a temple of grinds and slides.

The sky spectacle was so moving in its simplicity that even a companion, annoyed by the patter of the falling water surrounding us, became completely enthralled, then agreed that the sound of water was preferable to traffic noise. Which was exactly what Turrell had in mind when he had to give up the idea of submerging his Skyspace: There would be no underground pathways because the university wanted to avoid what in security circles is called “a rape space.” The challenge was to create a tranquil environment on a busy corner using water and landscaping. Turrell selected 24 maple trees for the plaza. He also finessed the shape and position of the oculus to keep the elegant steeple of St. Francis Assisi out of the view.

“One of the things about doing art in a place that you did not pick yourself is you have to come up with solutions,” Turrell says during a recent interview. For the most part, he found the location a useful exercise. “When you take on a problem that you never wanted, you stretch yourself.”

For more than 20 years, Turrell has been working on Roden Crater, at the edge of Arizona’s Painted Desert. This dormant volcano contains a series of chambers for viewing the sky. Turrell comes by this connection to the sky and meditative spaces honestly: He flew his first plane at age 16 and was raised a Quaker, for which silent meditation was a daily exercise. In the 1970s, he became a rancher by default. In order to protect Roden Crater, he acquired 22 square miles around the site and—because of complex land-loan laws—started raising cattle. Coming from a family with agricultural roots, this was not a leap. In fact, being an artist was frowned upon by Quakers who connect art with fashion and decoration. “Having bought the ranch, my family thought I had come back to my senses,” Turrell says.

After our interview, Turrell headed off to meet with an engineer at the site to tweak the lighting program. A flicker had developed with the lights, and after Turrell adjusted that quirk, the color spectrum had been thrown off, which meant the sky through the oculus was not going to appear as intensely dark as he had planned. ”I want that deep black,” he said.