Here at Ink and Stone (its probably a little early in the day to be referring to ourselves in the third person (sixth person?)), we want to probe the margins of the Oxford architectural world. Social media feeds all over this city are inundated with a glut of artistically framed Rad Cams, Tom Towers and Bridges of Sighs – at an infinitude of different angles and lit in every conceivable way imaginable. Quite frankly, we’re bored of the eternal rehashing of those mainstream bastions and edifices of Oxford’s identity (edgy). Instead, we intend to plough the eccentric and eclectic depths of the landscape around us with a view to discovering those hidden gems which many of us walk past every day, but whose PR doesn’t compare to those havens of the selfie stick.
If you’re aiming for marginality, it doesn’t get much more marginal (both geographically and stylistically) than the chapel of Lady Margaret Hall. I interviewed at LMH, and that much maligned college could not have made a worse impression on me than with the drab, squat, brick lump that represents its place of worship – utterly undecorated internally, save for white plaster. The chapel is a product of the 1930s extension to Lady Margaret Hall, undertaken by architect Giles Gilbert Scott Jr. Outside of this dull little building, Scott’s oeuvre is mightily impressive – the stunning vaulting brickwork of Liverpool Cathedral, the monumental Battersea power station, and the iconic red telephone box. As a devotee of the Gothic Revival it pains me to discover that he was the grandson of George Gilbert Scott – pioneer of the pointed architecture which so defined Victorian building, from the breath-taking St Pancras, to our own, dearly beloved Martyr’s memorial. Given this lineage and evident skill, where did it all go wrong for Gilbert Scott Jr?
To answer this question thoroughly, we must consider what the intention behind this building is – where its influences stem from, and what it’s trying to achieve. This chapel has been described in various places as Byzantine, Romanesque, Quasi-Romanesque, Pseudo-Byzantine and, indeed, Romano-Byzantine. I can certainly see where the various writers are coming from with these slightly uncertain descriptors. The central, concrete dome reaching skyward, and the symmetricality of the floor plan harkens to an orthodox church of the eastern Mediterranean, however the sparse decoration pales in comparison to the gilt finery of most Byzantine places of worship. Similarly the stepped, or terraced, effect of the various areas of tiled roofing, combined with the small round windows evokes the architecture of post-Roman Western Europe – a simplicity and elegance in its solidity.
The more time I spend with this building, the more it starts to grow on me. There is some beauty in its Spartan interior, and a balance or poise in the purity of the ideas expressed in brick. In many ways I wish that I could relocate it to some windswept hill – away from its umbilical connection to the stripped back Georgian façade of Deneke, and the grim tower block of Sutherland. If you ever find yourself as far from Oxford as Norham Gardens, I strongly advise you have a look over this strange relic of inter-war architecture which adamantly refuses to subscribe to the trends of much of the building from this era.
