On a sunny day in Redding, California, the magnificent Sundial Bridge tilted in greeting. Santiago Calatrava’s design is a glass-decked wonder, 217 feet high. That day the Sacramento River glimmered into a diamond-flecked waterway, and I was awed by the bridge’s 710 foot span across the water.
Often we hear of “intentional slant” as partisans bicker, but crossing Sundial has little to do with politics. What a phenomenon to have a creation meant to tilt one way or the other. There are plenty of architectural designs that had no intention of ending in a slant. Tourists bemoan the leaning of Bologna’s Garisenda Tower and London’s Big Ben. The listing often occurs in foundation issues, soft ground, or unexpected geological faults.
In direct contrast are the intentional slants of The Gate of Europe in Spain and the Nationale-Nederlanden in Prague—the latter referred to as “Fred & Ginger.”
Architects know that tilt offers fluidity, natural light, dancing movement, and shading.
Calatrava, in his design for the world’s largest working sundial, takes the knowledge one step further. Telling time is as old as our first ancestors watching the sun rise and the sun set. The irony of the sundial is not that people stared endlessly into the sun, but that they studied shadows, and that is what his creation does: casts shadows on a large dial plate and into the nature garden—the gradual ticking of nature’s clock.
Emily Dickinson wrote about the tilt of life which applies to poets and architects and travelers across a bridge:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight . . .
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind.