Renowned car giant Porsche has unveiled another extraordinary sculpture to celebrate the 911 on the roundabout outside the company’s museum at Zuffenhausen in Stuttgart, Germany.
The sculpture features three real cars - a brand-new 911 Carrera flanked by 911 SC Coupé and 911 2.2 Coupé classics - each restored to showroom condition.
Designed by Gerry Judah, with structural engineering by Capita and fabrication by Littlehampton Welding, the sculpture was prefabricated in the UK before being shipped to Germany for assembly on site.
25 metres (82 feet) high, the sculpture is a lightweight steel monocoque shell, similar to the original Porsche sculpture for the Goodwood Festival of Speed, 2013.
Gerry Judah's Centrepiece at the 2015 Goodwood Festival of Speed celebrates the Mazda Motor Corporation's unique motorsport heritage with a powerful fusion of sculptural innovation and engineering precision.
Locked in close contention, the rotary-engined 787B Le Mans winner and the LM55 Vision Gran Turismo concept sprint 40 metres skywards trailing a spectacular slipstream of muscular twisted steel.
Stacked in the manner of pristine matchsticks, 720 steel beams of varying length and juxtaposition seamlessly swell, slim and fold the structure from right to left, cantilevering the cars high over the spectators below.
Featuring 120 tonnes of steel sections which, laid end-to-end, would stretch the entire 1235 metre length of the Goodwood Hill Climb, this beguiling structure is sculptor Gerry Judah's most complex and sophisticated Centrepiece to date.
Mercedes-Benz can trace its motorsport origins back through three centuries, to 1894, when Daimler engines powered the world’s first winners on the rough roads of France. It’s appropriate then, that the 2014 sculpture at Goodwood Festival of Speed represents that enormous span through thirteen decades. Soaring 26 metres over Goodwood House, this 160-tonne steel sculpture is 90 metres long and was created by artist Gerry Judah.
It was 80 years ago when the legend of the German racing “Silver Arrows” was born. Stripped of their lead-based white paint, the 1934 Mercedes-Benz W25 – like the example installed here - won at its first outing at the notorious Nürburgring Nordschleife, with Manfred von Brauchitsch at the wheel – and since then, the company’s works cars have always been silver. The other Silver Arrow soaring overhead is the MERCEDES AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team’s F1 W04. This car, chassis number 04, was raced in 15 Grands Prix in 2013 by Lewis Hamilton, most notably to five Pole positions; to victory in the Hungarian Grand Prix; and to third place podiums in Malaysia, China and Belgium.
St Paul's Cathedral, 2014
Gerry Judah’s twin sculptures in the nave of St Paul’s Cathedral have been erected to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the beginning of the First World War. Their white cruciform shapes evoking the meticulously maintained war graves of northern France and further afield, in fact represent an utterly contemporary questioning of the continued need for warfare. Bearing the shells of bombed out residential blocks, Judah's crosses bring to mind the horrors of total war, to images of which we have become almost inured. They ask us to think of Verdun, Hamburg or Hiroshima, of Beirut, Baghdad or Homs. The wantonness and wastefulness they represent should also remind us of the ravaged earth of the First World War, of the millions of young men sacrificed defending or attacking mere yards of mud. Judah wants us to see in these works the waste and pity of all wars; perhaps especially he wants to suggest that the current Middle Eastern wars are to an extent the consequence of that First World War, of the chopping up of the Ottoman Empire that followed it. In the damaged buildings there is a further element, too, of revelation, for destruction is a kind of perverse archaeology. Bombs expose the private, the personal, the intimate; the skin of a building ripped away to show lived lives ended in a single blast. Mass deaths are made of thousands of individual tragedies. This is public art unafraid of the obvious, not footling with self-expression or abstract aesthetics, but with the world as it was and as it is. And yet in the embedded themes are the great abstracts: God, life, death, love, despair and hope.
Canon Mark Oakley, Chancellor of St Paul’s Cathedral, says: “Gerry Judah’s striking sculptures confront us with the reality of a War that saw thousands and thousands of young people from around the world buried with white crosses over their remains. They also provoke us into interrogating the present world and the landscapes we casually view on the news every day, scarred and agonised by military hate in the hearts and minds of those who survive. Gerry Judah’s work ruptures the symmetry of the Cathedral just as war works breaks down human harmony. Placed where they are, we are invited to walk through them, and the failure and pain they represent, into a sacred space of hope where people in all our diversity are invited to come together to worship, to respect and to learn from each other. It is a work that starkly asks of us what it must now mean for us to be loyal to our shared future.”
This sculpture was commissioned by Porsche GB to celebrate 50 years of the Porsche 911. It has three futuristic white, steel ‘arrows’ shooting upwards, supporting and racing each other, each with an example of the 911 at its apex. The models incorporated are the 1963 Original 911, the 1973 911 Carrera RS 2.7 and the 2013 911. At 35 metres high and weighing over 22 tonnes, each leg is a monocoque made of steel plate welded together with no internal structure. It balances on points at the base that are extremely narrow. The sculpture is finished in a clean white coating, giving it an elegant simplicity. Like the cars it displays, the sculpture is engineered to be lightweight and reflective of the Porsche 911 itself: simple, pure and built for the job.
From a series entitled BENGAL, these sculptures are the result of a commission specifically for the TIPPING POINT exhibition at Wolverhampton Art Gallery. They are inspired by a research trip to West Bengal and Jharkhand undertaken by in 2012. Gerry Judah was born and raised in Calcutta, which allowed him to reflect on issues of identity, displacement and loss. These intricate, fragile and colourful works reflect the beauty of India amongst its degradation. Not simply motivated to produce reportage, Judah aims to capture the ‘subtle poetry’ of the situation facing the people there. The temples, pylons and monuments to progress are remade from different media, including coal and ash – symbols of industry in a now developed country, one widely regarded as a key economic force. However the media portrayal of a country in ascendance does not tally with Judah’s experiences: "It seems to me that there are some people in India getting richer and richer and there are a great many people getting poorer and poorer. And it’s those who are more affected by climate change impacting on people so hard, that they’re trying to patch up whatever they can to just deal with it."
This sculpture, sponsored by Lotus Cars, displays six historic Lotus Formula One cars driving on a winding road that has been tied into the shape of a half-hitch - or trefoil - knot. The road length is 150 metres, and the whole installation weighs 60 tonnes. There are six classic cars: the Lotus 32B (Jim Clark 1965), Lotus 49B (Graham Hill 1968), Lotus 72E (Emerson Fittipaldi 1973), Lotus 79 (Mario Andretti 1978), Lotus 99T (Ayrton Senna 1987) and the latest Lotus F1 Team challenger. The sculpture is a triangular section, each of the three sides is a continuously variable curve developable surface made up of flat sheet metal curves rolled up and joined into three-dimensional shapes. The result is a lightweight, extremely strong and rigid thin-shell structure, with no internal framework or core. In automobile terms this is a monocoque body, a tribute to the legendary designer and Lotus founder Colin Chapman's introduction of monocoque chassis construction to automobile racing.
Very few cars in history have matched the allure of the Jaguar E-Type. The sensational Malcolm Sayer design, 150 mph performance and race-winning heritage gave it a unique combination of beauty, speed and credibility. The E-Type was an overnight sensation when it was unveiled at the Geneva Motor Show in 1961. Despite changing fashions and the passage of time, our fascination with the E-Type is as strong today as it was 50 years ago, and those swooping curves are still as breathtaking as they were when Enzo Ferrari described it as “the most beautiful car ever made."
Constructed using half a kilometre of 1200mm diameter steel tube, this sculpture to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the E-Type stands 28 metres tall and weighs over 175 tonnes – the equivalent to 135 E-types! A striking tribute to a true motoring icon.
Two years ago, the Imperial War Museum approached me to make a miniature representational model of Auschwitz-Birkenau for their forthcoming Holocaust Exhibition. This model was to focus on the selection ramp where trains pulled up on a specially built spur line to discharge prisoners to virtually certain death. The purpose of the model was to be educational. It was not to be a memorial. The brief was to make it no longer than 12 metres and no wider than 2 metres and it was to be all in white. It was to show in a frozen moment, the processing of people. Prisoners disembarking from the wagons, queuing for selection and being separated, some to join a workforce and many, unknowingly, are walking a kilometre or so towards the gas chambers. This may sound a straightforward enough brief, but it was not. As an artist and designer, having often to come up with new concepts, I was now faced with a project that required me to look much further than my own creative resources. I was to examine some of the darkest hours of 20th century history and make them come alive again in order to tell a story. A different kind of art for me. I was humbled and challenged.
The first thing to do was practical. Put aside the horror and concentrate on the facts, of which the basics are well enough known. Trains arrived at Auschwitz in occupied Poland from as far away as Salonika in Greece. In them people, young and old, male and female were packed together in all weathers for as long as 10 days with little or no space, water, food or hygiene. They were mostly Jews, but there were also Poles, Soviet captives, Gypsies, homosexuals, political dissidents and every other variety of deviant from Nazi norms. Auschwitz was only one of many killing camps. Its distinction was to be conveniently situated at the heart of Hitler’s Europe and so the murder factory most easily fed with its raw material, human beings. Someone who arrived there faced only two prospects: an immediate death from Zyclon B pellets dropped into a gas chamber or a slower death from hard labour in atrocious conditions of overwork, starvation, beatings and torture. More than a million died at Auschwitz alone. Only a few escaped or survived, and I met some of them.
I started researching the project, beginning with the architecture and landscape of the camp so as to ensure complete accuracy. This was not easy. The Nazis had tried to destroy the evidence of their crimes. As the Soviet armies approached Auschwitz in 1945, barracks were torched; gas chambers and crematoria blown up and prisoners – those with enough energy to walk – were marched away. As well as evidence from aerial reconnaissance by allied planes, some plans and photographs survived in Nazi archives and these were made available to us from the museum. Most of the photographic evidence was unrevealing. Few showed Nazi troops and almost none any hint of brutality. A single blurry, almost indecipherable, shot taken by brave and ingenious prisoners showed a group of women stripped off and heading at a run towards the gas chambers. Two other pictures showed naked and burning bodies being handled by a wretched Sonderkommando of Jewish prisoners, who earned an extension of their own lives by burning the dead for their SS masters.
There was one vivid exception to this predominantly blank record: an album of photographs taken at Auschwitz by what is understood to be a couple of SS photographers on 22 May 1944. It shows the arrival and dispersal of a trainload of Jews from Berehovo in Sub-Carpathian Ruthenia. The circumstances of the album’s recovery are as mysterious as its making. Among those on the train that day was the 18-year-old Lili Jacob, the only one of her numerous families to survive. She finished the war in a subsidiary camp called Mittelbau-Dora, 500 miles away near Nordhausen in Germany.
By the time she was liberated by the Americans, Lili had contracted typhus. She sought refuge in the newly emptied SS barracks. Poking around for something warm to wear, she found a pyjama top in a cupboard. Wrapped inside was the album. She opened the book and to her amazement she came across photographs of herself and her community taken on the day they arrived at Auschwitz-Birkenau. She kept the book as the only memento of her family and after 11 years gave it to Yad Vashem in Jerusalem. As part of my brief, I had to now make sense of it and recreate it. For the model was to show the events of the day recorded in the album.
I then decided to visit Auschwitz-Birkenau itself. I needed to make connections to the album, measure everything I could and study the terrain so that the model would be as physically accurate as possible. With help from Teresa Swiebocka, curator of the Auschwitz State Museum, I examined the two sites: the main camp of Auschwitz in a former Polish army barracks and Auschwitz-Birkenau, purpose built for the victims of the Third Reich. The odd thing about being in Auschwitz-Birkenau was that, while I expected to be overwhelmed with horror, I was simply numbed. There is little resonance of evil in what has been left behind. The place was not designed to express its purpose - like a church or a bank - but on the contrary, to conceal it. The scatter of shoddy buildings that survive does not make a setting for extreme evil. If you passed the place you probably wouldn’t notice it. Even the gatehouse, one of the icons of 20th century terror, is a rather small utilitarian brick building, hardly concealing the vast bleak fields with their clinical rows of freestanding chimneystacks and surrounding barbed wire.
I immersed myself in the Holocaust: speaking with survivors, listening to tape recordings and studying many books and testimonials. Most of them made very grim reading. But what really struck me were the histories and lives of people and their communities before they reached Auschwitz. To be removed from these lives was the start of a process repeated throughout Nazi Europe. People were singled out, snatched from their homes, robbed of their possessions, herded into ghettos and then forced into trains. The Nazis tried to strip them of their identity. They were rich and poor, young and old, men and women, sophisticated Berlin intellectuals and peasants from the countryside, criminals and those who had given pre-Hitler Germany proud service. Whoever they had been no longer mattered to the Nazis. But they now mattered to me. Each time I placed a tiny figure on the ramp or along the road towards the gas chamber, I felt as if I knew whom they were and what mattered about them was not where they were going but what they left behind. This project for me was more about life than about death.
Some of the prisoners had already died days before the train pulled in at Auschwitz-Birkenau with Lili and the Jews of her ghetto. The model represents only one part of the process. It shows as faithfully as possible the arrival of that train through the gatehouse and all the obscene rituals that followed: disembarkation, selection by sex, health and age and dispatch to slow or sudden death. Even the dumping of luggage for removal to the ‘Canada’ barracks – ‘the land of plenty’ – an ironic title given to the sheds in which prisoners’ luggage was stored so that they could be looted later. Halfway along the model, a column of women judged fit to work is being marched away from the arriving train. At the far end, another column is being marched to Crematorium 2 on their left, while to their right a column of old and unfit men and boys are being herded down the steps of Crematorium 3, expecting a shower but in reality to be gassed. When I placed the last figure on the ramp, I stood back and was astonished to discover how clinical and graphic everything looked. Rows and rows of barbed wire, ditches, barracks and thousands of people adding yet another texture to the overall bleakness. Here are people queuing, just as if for a bus or a football match.
But sheer numbers also have a vitality of their own and the process does not end. The scene frozen in the model was followed by many others and for the people in them, mostly of an unimaginable horror. Not all of them died. Some survived but none of us, I hope, will ever have to endure their terror. Like them, though we cannot know what lies ahead. Greater forces gather momentum and overwhelm us.
But the process of life continues, with all its accidents and chances. That process has included for me, the chance to study and express something of the horror of one particularly dark phase of the human story. It has been, against the odds perhaps, an enriching, even improving experience. In a profound way, it has stretched me greatly as an artist and touched me deeply as a human being.