Art: Orpheus and Apollo

In bygone eras, sweeping stairways, ornate moldings and sparkling chandeliers graced the main lobbies of great concert halls, but such fusty amenities would never do for the austere lobby of Architect Max Abramovitz’ new Philharmonic Hall in Manhattan’s Lincoln Center. The three outside walls are simple glass arcades; on the inner wall run three balconies that make the space, which is 190 ft. by 25 ft., seem even longer than it is. Abramovitz from the beginning sensed the need for a sculpture that would “float in space and relate in a contemporary manner to the interior of the foyer, just as the magnificent crystal chandeliers of a former day took command of their space.” He selected one of the best space-commanders around: Sculptor Richard Lippold.

At 47, Lippold has produced as elegant a body of work as any artist that ever wielded a welding torch. The images that inspire him are wholly modern—”suspension bridges, TV antennas, steel skyscrapers. Our faith is in space, energy, communications, not in pyramids and cathedrals.” For an age that has successfully defied the law of gravity, the great preoccupation, as Lippold sees it, is space—not only the getting of things off the ground, but also the many ways of opening things up, from atomic fission to psychoanalysis. “In the 20th century,” he has said, “we do not look at things; we look through them.”

At Philharmonic Hall, Lippold chose as his material highly polished copper alloy because it complemented the travertine used in the interior. After experimenting with a model in his studio, he ordered 190 slender metal planks of different sizes, to be hung from the ceiling by steel wires of extra strength. He had no final image in mind as he worked, but in the end he produced two giant floating sculptures that suggested “two friendly gods.” He named his work Orpheus and Apollo.

Few of the 190 bars can move, but the constant play of light keeps them in motion. Between the clusters is a graceful arch of bars that connects them like golden steppingstones. But Lippold’s achievement is that on every level and from every angle the sculptures are successful, as esthetically true as a bunch of grapes. From the lobby, they cut the room’s vast elongation without removing an inch of space. From the first balcony, they explode like flowers suddenly bursting into bloom. Higher up, the slender wires attract attention: hundreds of cats’ cradles that seem to have the delicacy of spiders’ webs. The sculptures weigh a total of five tons, but they seem to keep afloat through some inner power of their own.