Metro Pulse/Commentary/Dear Sunsphere

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I've let you down, and I apologize

by Paige M. Travis

I tried my best to illuminate your true worth as a structure of significance among the buildings constructed in Knoxville during the modern age, to make them see how spectacular you are, Sunsphere, but my fellow panelists wouldn't have any of it. If their minds haven't already been turned after the 20 years you have dotted our skyline with your golden majesty, what mere words could I say to convince them to name you as one of East Tennessee's most notable buildings? Before you cast me among those who have failed you, let me explain.

In November, I was invited to participate in a panel of judges organized by the East Tennessee chapter of the American Institute of Architects. They wanted my opinion on architecture, something I know very little about but will discuss and debate ad nauseum. How could I say no? Celebrating its 50th anniversary in 2003, the group wanted to mark the occasion by inviting the public—regular, non-architect folks—to consider their personal relationships with architecture and nominate their favorite buildings constructed in the past half-century. Houses, schools, churches, glass towers, museums and other structures in our daily lives often go unnoticed, but they affect us greatly with their beauty, ease of use or striking absence of both. The main criteria for nomination was that the building be "notable" above all, and that it resonate memorably and emotionally in the eye and spirit of the viewer. The panel of judges—also made up of non-architects—would consider the results and narrow the list to a choice selection of truly worthy buildings to be feted at a gala event.

Submissions rolled in via email and the AIA website. Naturally, Knoxville architects weighed in with their educated, jargon-heavy and sometimes biased nominations, but more than a few other citizens were enticed to participate. At last call, our 10-member panel had more than 160 nominations to consider. In early November, we sat down together to look at the buildings that Knoxville's residents had deemed notable.

Assembled around a table at the AIA's downtown office, we judges were a motley group of educated and opinionated talkers. Among engineers, a historian, a museum director and other professionals, my main qualification for being included quickly revealed itself as my ability to throw around terms like "art deco," "modernist" and "cool" with complete abandon and irresponsibility. In spite of an ignorance of technical terms and architectural history, I do know what I like. City County Building? No. Lawson McGhee Library? Yes. Knoxville Convention Center? I still vacillate. Guided by an impartial facilitator, we decided to whittle the list to 50 notable buildings, plus one that didn't quite fit the age qualification (the Fine Arts Building at Maryville College, according to its nominee "one of the most superb intact examples of '40s-'50s modernism in Tennessee"). The question went to all the panelists: "Is there anything on this list that you can't live with?" Dramatic, yes, but our mission was very important; our findings would be scrutinized by our peers and anyone else who was paying attention. One false move on our part and our list would be mocked and disregarded. One by one, around the table, we offered up our vague notions, gut instincts and trained conclusions. The first structure proposed for elimination was the Sunsphere. Only three of us had voted for its inclusion, and here, the other two were rescinding their votes. I was the only pro-Sunsphere panelist left to defend the structure as notable.

Today, I can't recall my exact argument, although I rambled through an emotional plea. "It has real gold in the glass!" I offered. "It's tall." But not tall enough. As the youngest panelist by almost 10 years (and the second youngest is a newcomer to Sunsphere City), I am perhaps too sentimentally attached to the giant gold ball atop the green steel lattice.

Despite my loss of the Great Sunsphere Battle of 2003, one good result that came of participating in this experiment—a result the AIA intended for the greater public—was my newfound awareness of all buildings, not just those with kitsch value. From the contest's onset, I have been gawking at buildings almost uncontrollably. My attention behind the wheel has greatly suffered from my new propensity for curbside analysis. Where I previously admired only old buildings, I now measure the aesthetic benefits of flat-roofed boxes faced with sheer expanses of glass, rolling canopies, glazed bricks and butterfly roofs. My obsession followed me on a holiday trip to Portland, Ore., where I admired (almost to the point of worship) the clean, fresh, stylish lines of their downtown's modern structures.

Regardless of what I might learn about architecture from my fellow panelists or future forays into design discussions with more educated debaters, my heart remains true to you, Sunsphere. Erected in a valley of my hometown's downtown when I was 8 years old, you have withstood corruption, corrosion, hailstorms, ridicule, and the insult of various paintjobs, seasonal decorations and gross misrepresentation on The Simpsons. You—bulbous, golden, phallic—are a symbol of my town, and to me that is truly notable.