A Bunker Hill duet

On a Saturday afternoon, a few weeks from the official opening of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, people with television cameras attached to their shoulders are steering Frank Gehry from the Founders Room to the main entrance. Graciously, Gehry allows himself to be steered -- but at his own pace; he knows the way, after all.

Like nervous birds, publicists dart up to him to inform him of the next interview on the agenda. “We’ll bring Esa-Pekka out to you,” one of them says as the television crew draws the architect outside for an exterior shot. “Esa-Pekka?” Gehry replies with a perfectly straight face, “who’s Esa-Pekka?”

Disney Hall, which opens officially Thursday, was built on many personal relationships, but it’s difficult to imagine that any two names will be as closely, and permanently, linked with the landmark and each other as Frank Gehry and Philharmonic music director Esa-Pekka Salonen. For years, they have been working together on the building’s design and functionality, their give and take becoming even more intense as the opening drew closer.

“The most important collaboration was the stage,” Salonen says. “How the orchestra was seated, how the risers are positioned.”

“It’s hard to remember everything,” says Gehry, again with the deadpan face, “but I do know we’ve spent a lot of time together.”

“With very good memories, and vodka,” Salonen adds, laughing.

On a walking tour of the building that has consumed them for so long, the men radiate mutual admiration and almost competitive deference. “He is just terrific, I just love him,” Gehry says at one point when Salonen is out of earshot, sounding for all the world like a friendly uncle pressing a favored suitor. “This is so Frank Gehry,” Salonen says repeatedly, pointing to a cascade of natural light or a curving wall revealing the surprise of even more space.

After all these years, and all that drama, their friendship appears as vivid and accessible as the hall itself.

Standing at the top of the stairs leading up from Grand Avenue, in the gleaming embrace of the hall’s main entrance, Gehry considers for a moment his favorite method of viewing his latest creation.

“I like to walk around and look at it from the streets,” he says, “seeing it like a flower between the buildings. You don’t see the whole of it, you see flecks of it.

“The doors on Grand will be open during the day,” he adds. This seems for a moment like a bit of a non sequitur, but it isn’t -- one of Gehry’s overriding goals is to get people into his building, to create many points of entry, both physically and psychically. “This main entrance is more formal, for special events and parties, but these steps are made for people to sit on with their lunches, with brown bags.”

“That’s what sets this building apart from almost every other concert hall, its openness,” Salonen says. “And that has been Frank’s ideological position from Day One. Doors open during the day, access to garden -- it’s very unique.”

For Salonen, the hall’s architectural accessibility is even more important for what it symbolizes. Visitors to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion were confronted with a facade visible only “if you went like this,” he says, tilting his head and shoulders back. “Which is a bad message. Like worship or something.”

Many people, he says, wrongly associate symphonic music with upper-class attitudes and requirements. “That you have to dress in a certain way and behave in a certain way.”

Disney Hall may be dazzling, but with its cafes, gardens and tantalizing funhouse of public walkways, it will, Salonen hopes, tempt and accommodate all sorts of people. “You walk in, you hang around, and you might hear some music, just accidentally, in the foyer or the children’s amphitheater,” he says. “And then, we hope, the next step to go to the box office and buy a ticket will be a mere formality.”

“The idea of having CalArts here was in Esa-Pekka’s mind since the beginning,” adds Gehry, referring to the Roy and Edna Disney/Cal Arts Theater.

As the two head indoors, raised voices from the street breach the barriers at the bottom of the steps.

“Mr. Gehry, Mr. Gehry.” Mr. Gehry turns. “Mr. Gehry,” two young men shout, raising thumbs-up high in the air, “right on.”

Mr. Gehry laughs and waves. “Thanks,” he says and pushes open the door.

Through the main entrance, one steps into what is now called a preconcert space. “We really wanted a room for chamber concerts,” he says, “but we couldn’t afford it, so we designed a room that at some point could be retrofitted for chamber music.”

As with much of Gehry’s work, the word “room” doesn’t really fit; instead it is a rounded space with the warm wood walls moving up and in like giant clam shells.

Salonen has already tested the space for sound, and walking into the cave formed by the sloping walls, he motions to the two areas where the musicians might be positioned, a bit like a new homeowner pointing out placement possibilities for the prized antique desk. Gehry hangs back, watching him.

“The point is,” Gehry says, “and you can see it, that we talked about all this together over time and it’s now his building. He’s going to invent ways to use it. He’s already doing it.”

“The metaphor of course is that of an instrument,” says Salonen, coming up beside him. “You just have to learn to play it. Everything, not just playing symphonies on stage.”

A study in contrast

Standing together, they are a study in artistic contrast. Slender and physically very still, Salonen, dressed in conductor’s black, does not so much occupy space as he does focus it into a fine dark line; Gehry is more expansive, in speech and in the obvious comfort he feels in his surroundings. Salonen is still a newcomer -- he just saw the inside of the Founders Room two days ago, and he is discovering new things in the hall every day -- Gehry has sat on every sofa, put his feet up on the tables. He is right at home, even as he relinquishes occupancy.

“Halls always have a conductor,” Gehry says. “[Herbert] von Karajan will forever be associated with Berlin because he helped build it. This is Esa-Pekka’s hall forever -- everyone else will be a visitor.”

“That’s a scary thought,” Salonen says. Looking at the main staircase that curls itself away from the preconcert space up to the heavens, he adds: “It’s been permanent Christmas for a while now.”

Wanting to show off the hall as most people will discover it, Gehry heads down to street level where there will be a cafe, a bookstore and public space. “Everybody, everybody comes in at this level,” he says, whether from the street or the parking garage, to find themselves surrounded by glass walls and multibranched columns that tower and lean like a copse of modern enchanted trees.

“L.A. isn’t a pedestrian city,” Gehry says, “so we’ve created a pedestrian environment yearning for pedestrians.”

Up on the second floor, he heads for the “diva staircase,” which is actually the Henry Mancini staircase, the main thoroughfare to the auditorium. Although familiar with every nook and cranny of the building, Gehry is still discovering some of the donor-honoring names of things. “Mrs. [Ginny] Mancini’s so full of energy,” he says, “I can just imagine her running up the staircase.”

As if by tacit agreement, Gehry and Salonen save entering the auditorium for last, but that doesn’t keep them from talking about it as they move through the various milling spaces. Salonen has been rehearsing with full audiences for a week.

“It’s a great opportunity to get used to not only the stage,” Salonen says, “but also the audience being there because it’s very different. They’re very close, and we’re being surrounded by them.” There are exits to the garden on either side of the hall and stepping from the inside out is not the squintable shock it is in other buildings -- so much of the Disney Hall is glass, so much of the light is natural.

“There was a lot of angst about the Founders Room, about it being elitist,” says Gehry, motioning to the room’s exterior, which, unlike the rest of the matted building, is shiny as a new silver teapot. “I made it a sculpture so it doesn’t matter what’s inside.”

The garden, which is so large it is being referred to as an urban park, was designed by Melinda Taylor and Lawrence Reed Moline and includes nearly 50 trees and many native plants.

“Kind of an obvious idea that in a Southern California building there has to be a public garden,” Salonen says, “such an obvious thought that no one has thought about it, like the safety pin.”

And then he catches sight of the fountain. The Lillian Disney Memorial Fountain, an enormous rose constructed of broken Delft china.

“Oh boy, Frank,” Salonen says, “I hadn’t seen this.”

“It’s crazy, isn’t it? Esa-Pekka, that’s about as nuts as it gets.” Gehry shakes his head, laughing, hands suspended open-palmed in the air. This is his tribute to Lillian Disney who never really understood Gehry’s aesthetic but gave him the money anyway. “A really wonderful artist [Tomas Osinski] made it for us. Lillian collected real stuff and cheap stuff, so we decided to make it of cheap stuff. But when we called [Delft], they insisted we use the real stuff. So this is a lot of broken real stuff.”

Around the corner, in the outdoor amphitheater, a stack of long tables, portable high-watt lighting and outdoor heaters mark the setup of yet another pre-pre-pre gala event.

“A party,” Gehry says over his shoulder to Salonen, “they’re having a party, and they didn’t invite us.” He can’t keep track of the number of parties he will be attending in the next month. “At this point,” he says, “I’m relieved when I’m not invited. Aren’t you?”

“Let’s discuss this in four weeks time,” Salonen replies dryly. “We’ll see what state we’re in.”

The Keck’s Children Amphitheatre seats 300 and is made of easily cleanable concrete, making it actually usable by children.

“From early on, we wanted an outdoor space as well,” says Salonen, raising his voice a bit over the metallic clamor of party construction.

“It’s all about trying to include the community,” Gehry adds. “Children will hear performances, ‘Peter and the Wolf,’ and they’ll start to come in. In Germany, young kids line up for no-show tickets, and that doesn’t happen here. I think that’s because of the failure of our musical education. We have a lot to overcome.”

A few feet away, something large and heavy hits the ground with an alarming clang. “Let’s get out of here,” Gehry says. “It’s starting to make me nervous.”

Wedding site

Passing along the walkways that wander in and out of the smooth curved metal, it’s easy to get disoriented, and although Gehry clearly knows where he is going and why, something Willy Wonka-ish creeps into the trip. “It took us two years to work out this detail,” Gehry says suddenly, stopping to point at a space between the metal plates that form the exterior. “When you look at in drawings, you want to cover it, and finally matter-of-fact is the best way.”

He paused for moment in front of another, much smaller amphitheater, designed, he says, for lectures. “We knew there would be docents running around a lot,” he says. “We thought it would be nice to give people a place to sit down.”

Peering down at Grand Avenue from between metallic swirls, he points out a scenic patio. “This is off the green room,” he says. “I’ve always thought people would want to get married there.”

“Oh, it’s starting already,” Salonen says, as they mount a series of staircases; people are already requesting ceremonies on stage. All you have to do, he adds with a laugh, is “donate a couple of million dollars.”

Any plans to offer premium burial space in the basement like at Our Lady of the Angels cathedral down the street?

“Not yet,” Gehry says, laughing. “A very tempting thought,” Salonen says.

If Disney Hall is one of the best things to view in downtown Los Angeles, it also offers some of the best views of Los Angeles. From the top of the hall, Grand Avenue looks suspiciously like the corridor of culture and commerce it is endlessly proposed to be; even City Hall seems impressive. It’s not a little climb, however; the next fitness trend may well be running the stairs at Disney Hall.

“If your trainer permits,” Gehry says, “you can run, or walk 360 degrees, all the way around. Look at this,” he says suddenly, pointing at a piece of wall. “The Otis Chandler Aerial Pathway.” He laughs ruefully. “When you get the fund-raisers together, they concoct these crazy things. If I had done it, I would have sold these cracks,” he says, pointing to the unsealed seams.

Only when the building has been thoroughly paced inside and out does Gehry head into the auditorium. This is where he comes when he is alone in his steel flower, to sit dead center and look at the pipe organ bursting from the wall like a forest of winter trees, at the rows and rows of empty seats, Oz-bright with the pattern he designed, the floral motif that is answered on the carpet. Here the light is perfect gold and the silence so complete it leans against cheek and shoulder like a cat but still makes no sound. Here even Frank Gehry sits in wonder.

“I think of it as a miracle,” he says on this day, and his voice is soft, though there is no reason for this, except the desire to leave the silence content and undisturbed. “I’m so far from the original thinking of it that I’m detached. So I look at it and I can’t believe it’s here, and I think, ‘I must have thought of all these details but I don’t remember when....’ ”

Salonen, who has taken a seat behind him, leans forward and the two speak to each other about the importance of establishing intimacy between the audience and the performers, of creating a closed, communal experience that will transport people, transform them. The night before, Gehry had attended a rehearsal held for him and his friends and he was amazed that the music sounded even more beautiful with the people in the hall, that everything seemed to work almost better than he had imagined.

Or almost everything.

“Last night, they didn’t have lights back there,” he says to Salonen, pointing to the area behind the orchestra where, during the day, natural light pours in. “It went dark in the corners. I guess when the real concerts start, we’ll have to play with the lights,” he says, his voice getting a little louder again because, of course, the work isn’t over yet -- isn’t close to being over. “We can add lights, we can even play with colored lights. Or we could make a lava lamp out of it.”

“Of course,” Salonen says, leaning back into his seat. “That would be my first choice.”