Необични ентериери и екстериери

In truth, the wooden temples, pagodas, palaces, houses and shrines of the far east are remarkably stable structures. Far better to be inside one of these during the earthquakes that rock that part of the world than inside a stiff stone building that might well crack and fall with crushing effect. Timber, says Pryce, is very strong for its weight; spruce and pine offer the same strength for a given structure, weighing 16 times less than steel, or five times less than concrete.

"Far from being an inherently inferior building material," he argues, "wood is simply a different one." And who can fail to be persuaded by Pryce's eloquent praise for the architectural joys of spruce, larch, oak, cypress, beech, fir, black pine, red pine, maple, aspen, teak and chestnut? And who could possibly fail to be moved by the sensational image of the talismanic building the author has chosen as a cover for his book? This is the central tower of the Cathedral of the Transfiguration adorning Kizhi Island, Karelia, a tantalising confection of no fewer than 22 onion domes arranged, like some great ceremonial cake, in five tiers iced with silver aspen shingles. The cathedral was carved by Nestor at the time of the northern war between Sweden and Russia. The legendary craftsman is said to have thrown his axe in the lake surrounding Kizhi because he knew he would never be able to create such a monument again. [1]

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In truth, the wooden temples, pagodas, palaces, houses and shrines of the far east are remarkably stable structures. Far better to be inside one of these during the earthquakes that rock that part of the world than inside a stiff stone building that might well crack and fall with crushing effect. Timber, says Pryce, is very strong for its weight; spruce and pine offer the same strength for a given structure, weighing 16 times less than steel, or five times less than concrete.

"Far from being an inherently inferior building material," he argues, "wood is simply a different one." And who can fail to be persuaded by Pryce's eloquent praise for the architectural joys of spruce, larch, oak, cypress, beech, fir, black pine, red pine, maple, aspen, teak and chestnut? And who could possibly fail to be moved by the sensational image of the talismanic building the author has chosen as a cover for his book? This is the central tower of the Cathedral of the Transfiguration adorning Kizhi Island, Karelia, a tantalising confection of no fewer than 22 onion domes arranged, like some great ceremonial cake, in five tiers iced with silver aspen shingles. The cathedral was carved by Nestor at the time of the northern war between Sweden and Russia. The legendary craftsman is said to have thrown his axe in the lake surrounding Kizhi because he knew he would never be able to create such a monument again.

Such are the joys of timber. There is, though, a caveat: fire. For all its many virtues, wood burns thoroughly and well, which is why London became a city of brick and Portland stone after the great fire of 1666 and why, as Pryce admits, there are very few truly ancient timber buildings. Most of those that are old in legend have been rebuilt many times over. The oldest, as far as anyone can be sure, is happily in Japan. This is the Golden Hall at the Horu palace, Nara prefecture; it was built in 677 to house images of the Buddha, some 120 years after Buddhism had spread to Japan from India via China and Korea. I say happily, because timber buildings in Japan were, almost from the start, some of the most enchanting structures of their type. Those improbable roofs looking like giant waxed moustaches. The richly complex mazes of decorated mortice-and-tenon joints supporting them. The sheer beauty of Japanese cypress and different-coloured pines. Traditional Japanese carpenters were held in such esteem that they lived in temples, their jobs bequeathed from father to son.

The biggest timber building of all was built in Japan in 730. This is the Buddha Hall at Todai-ji, also in Nara prefecture. Yet the daunting structure you see today, two-thirds of the original size, is a rebuild of a rebuild. Fire struck twice as invading armies stormed this way in the 12th century and again in the 16th.

Chinese emperors commanded magnificent timber palaces and temples, too. A million workers are said to have been recruited to build Beijing's Forbidden City. Supported by 100,000 planners and craftsmen, they took just three years to erect this vast yet subtle imperial city-within-a-city, completed in 1420. Logs, floated down mighty rivers, took up to three years to arrive on site. Here were 800 buildings containing 9,000 chambers and, somewhere in their infinite recesses, their eternal enfilades, the emperor himself connecting humankind, the natural world and the heavens.

The Chinese saw themselves as a part of nature and not above it, as monotheistic western religions taught their faithful; so much so that carpenters would bow to the trees they chopped down and vow to ensure that they were used well in buildings that would dignify the wood they had sacrificed for palaces and temples.

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http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2005/dec/24/highereducation.news