New UC Davis art museum hints at fresh directions for American architecture

The courtyard of the Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art at UC Davis, by SO-IL and Bohlin Cywinski Jackson. (Iwan Baan)

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

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A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

Aerial view of the museum, with train tracks, Interstate 80 and farmland in the distance. (Iwan Baan / SO-IL and Bohlin Cywinski Jackson)

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

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A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

A small site on the outskirts of this college town near Sacramento, backed up against some train tracks and Interstate 80, is not where you might expect to find a building to boost your faith in the future of American architecture. But UC Davis’ Jan Shrem and Maria Manetti Shrem Museum of Art, which opened to the public last month, is accomplished enough, in its precise and unhurried way, to do just that.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

A view from the lobby toward the large courtyard at the front of the museum. (Iwan Baan / SO-IL and Bohlin Cywinski Jackson)

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

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From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

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From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

From the air the canopy’s crosshatched design is an abstraction of the gridded farmland that lies on the far side of the train tracks and freeway. At ground level it draws the museum’s three interior wings — each with a different height — into a loose embrace, one suggesting (in the manner of 1980s projects by Charles Moore or Frank Gehry) a small village as much as a single building.

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