a deep dive into Sainte-Chapelle

By: Eren Davis

Rightful disclaimer before we begin: I have only ever spied, with my professional little eye, Sainte-Chapelle through the lens of academic PowerPoints. Needless to say, it’s captivating in any visual format, but I can only begin to imagine the experience Emma had in person.

Anyway, first off:

Take a look at it. And take it all in. Yep, good.

St. Chapelle is quite literally the holy grail of Medieval architecture. Medieval, as in Knights of the Round Table and all that jazz. For you history buffs, this puts us at about 400-1500 A.D. For all you non-historics, this was a really long time ago. Back then, the Byzantine empire was going through a rough breakup (poor thing). As a result, architecture shifted towards Gothic style, especially in church design. There’s Early Gothic, High Gothic, and Flamboyant Gothic. A lot of Goth. And yes, the last one is truly flamboyant.

Guess which one St. Chapelle is.

Of course it falls closer to the fancy side of things, otherwise I wouldn’t love it so much. This Rayonnant architecture was all about verticality and reaching towards the heavens (so metaphorical). Prior to this era, however, the height of cathedrals was achieved through sturdy flying buttresses. Essentially, they’re these large masonry support systems that prevent super tall churches from collapsing because imploding buildings are not good. There’s a more physics-y explanation about weight loads and downforces and all that, but you get the point. Normally, all that structural integrity took place on the inside of cathedrals, tucked away behind thick beefy walls.

This is where it gets cool.

St. Chapelle flips those elements to the exterior so that the church’s interior, in its entirety, is left to open space and subjective awe. It’s elegant. It’s not the biggest, nor is it the tallest cathedral, but it certainly exceeds the rest for the most daring conception. That harmony of interior and exterior had not yet been feated. It’s like balancing Noah’s Ark on icicles or building a skyscraper out of toothpicks. It should be infeasible. And yet a couple master builders with wooden triangles figured it out, and they built a toothpick castle . . . in the 15th century. While King Arthur was eating turkey legs over in Camelot.

Moving on.

If you look upwards, those thin lines stretching across the ceiling are “ribs and webbing” that uphold the vault. See how they fit into the tedious and fragile theme? And yet somehow, they create an obscenely vast height of space. Paradoxes. You gotta love them. What’s even better—the ribs frame this sort of exoskeleton, and it’s purposefully left exposed. So when you (or Emma) walk in and your head automatically raises upwards, you’re looking at the literal bones of the church. The tendons, the ligaments, the joints—they’re all there, smoothly connected in humanoid fashion. You have to admit, that’s so much cooler than walking into an industrial coffee shop today where “exposed ceilings” made of pipes and AC units are supposed to be a wow factor.

Then again, this is religious architecture which is on a whole different level. Church craft is so intriguing to me because it places an infinite God into defined space. Sure, He lives in our hearts and He inhabits every inch of the universe, but what happens when we try to symbolize the grandeur of His presence within manmade space?

All of a sudden, it hinges around the architect’s view of the supernatural. Cathedrals can be mighty, or they can be delicate, or they can be both—whatever reflects the religion within. Is our God big and just, or do you imagine Him within a realm of tenderness and mercy? I tend to err on the side of caution by answering “both,” since He is perfectly all those things. So, naturally, I love St. Chapelle because it embodies all such attributes. But, if you want straight up mighty, go check out Durham Cathedral. Those piers are thick, like thick with two c’s.

Anywho, we’re divulging way too far into Eren’s overthought thoughts, and in most cases, architecture isn’t even that deep (sorry professors, it’s true). Chances are that the builders had an average level of intuition and chose stained glass because it just . . . looked good.

We can talk about motives, opinions, and symbols all day long; what truly matters in architecture is the experience. We love feelings.