The New Yorker:

In the century since Antoni Gaudí died, his wild design has been obsessively realized, creating the world’s tallest church—and an endlessly debated icon.

By D. T. Max

The Sagrada Família is an immense, unfinished church in Barcelona, begun in 1882 on what was once outlying farmland and is now the city’s center. When I last visited the building, in July, it was nine inches away from being the tallest in the city. Less than two weeks later, when a ring beam to support the base of a cross was added to its biggest tower, dedicated to Jesus, the church surpassed the city’s two highest skyscrapers, both of which stand at five hundred and five feet tall. The sandstone basilica will reach its full height, however, only once the cross—which is fifty-five feet tall and made of fluted steel—is installed atop the tower, later this month. This addition will also make it the tallest church in the world. But Antoni Gaudí, the Catalan architect who spent forty-three years working on the Sagrada Família, did not think that his work should compete with God’s, so the basilica will remain a few feet lower than the iconic peak of Montjuïc.

Gaudí’s structure is a head-spinning mixture of morphing geometrical forms, many inspired by nature. Its conical Art Nouveau pinnacles have the lumpy beauty of sandcastles. Building such an unusual church has been a famously slow project, even in a country where, to American eyes, many things move without haste. “Això dura més que les obres de la Sagrada Família”—“This is taking longer than building the Sagrada Família”—is a Catalan phrase one hears on the streets of Barcelona. Gaudí was confident that his vision would one day be fulfilled. “Providence will provide,” he assured a student. The Sagrada Família was founded as an expiatory church, meaning that it would be financed by prayerful donations from people atoning for their sins.

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