I’ve got the sky behind my back, at hand, and on my eyelids.
The sky binds me tight
and sweeps me off my feet.
Wisława Szymborska 11 Niebo mam za plecami, pod ręką i na powiekach. Niebo owija mnie szczelnie i unosi od spodu. Wisława Szymborska, 1993, trans. Stanisław Barańczak & Clare Cavanagh ↩︎
Fot.NASA/Samantha Cristoforetti, 15.12.2014.
Bound to the ground, we live submerged at the bottom of an ocean of the element air. 22 Evangelista Torricelli, from a letter to Michelangelo Ricci, June 11, 1644. ↩︎ Within this atmospheric space, we carry out our daily lives—moving, sleeping, gathering, and thinking. However, in modern life, the sky, as the vast and ever-changing field above us, often slips from our attention. We are in need of a reconnection with this environment. Through architecture, we shape matter to extend our physical presence into the world; it acts as the medium for experiencing and interpreting our surroundings. Architectural envelopes, thresholds, and openings define our relationship with the environment, guiding our perception and orienting our senses. They can therefore allow us to reconnect with the sky. Celestial Architecture emerges from this need for places that encourage a visual connection with the celestial expanse. It is not a style, but a space of attunement. It is meant to be looked through rather than looked at, 33 As Søren Nørkjær Bang once remarked about Celestial Architecture designs by Centrala. ↩︎ a space experienced rather than observed, which serves to deepen our awareness of what lies beyond. Such observatories are machines for the imagination, awe-inspiring structures that “evoke the presence of something vast, something that exceeds our understanding and challenges our everyday perception of the world.” 44 Dacher Keltner, Awe: The Transformative Power of Everyday Wonder (Penguin Books, London, 2024). ↩︎
Cosmic structures
Archaeoastronomical sites dating back to the dawn of civilization show that orienting constructions towards astronomical events was among the earliest architectural gestures. This evolution began with natural landforms recognized by Paleolithic people—hills framing the horizon or caves reached by the first spring rays of the sun—allowing them to experience and “inhabit” cosmic events. As these gestures became more permanent, prehistoric communities anchored their lives within the larger rhythms of the cosmos by aligning monuments like the pyramids or Stonehenge with solstices, equinoxes, and lunar cycles. These megaliths provided a frame for the moment. They indicated fragments of the horizon during lunar extremes, the heliacal rising of stars, or the appearance of the Sun during solstices.
The practice of framing the horizon reached a classical peak in antiquity. The Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion (440 BC), rising sixty metres above the sea, uses its colonnades to frame sunsets doubled in the mirror reflection of the water. Architecture that directs the gaze horizontally towards the horizon allows for the celebration of crepuscular times—dawn and dusk—when the filter of a thicker atmospheric layer permits a direct look at the Sun. During the day, when the solar disk is blinding, one can track its journey through the movement and reach of shadows.
Centuries later, this relationship between architecture and the sky expanded into a complex ritualised urbanism at sites like Chaco Canyon (approx. 850–1150). Here, the Ancestral Puebloans saw the landscape as a terrestrial counterpart of the Milky Way, organising their settlements into a ritualised landscape that operated as a vast, collective observatory. By aligning the massive walls of Great Houses with a precision exceeding 1°, they translated complex astronomical data into built form. These structures were not merely symbolic; they acted as static instruments capable of framing the Major Lunar Standstill—a rare event occurring only every 18.6 years. The permanent presence of these stones allowed for consistent observations over many generations, enabling the spotting of extremely rare configurations. Cultures that kept records for centuries possessed knowledge of phenomena not perceived during an ordinary human life. In Chaco, the whole valley became an interface, where the orientation of an entire city served to synchronise human life with the long-term mechanics of the solar system.
The building as instrument
The length and direction of a shadow indicate the Sun’s position—its altitude and azimuth. The obelisk, column, or gnomon are among the simplest astronomical instruments. Placed in a public square, they allow anyone to read the time of day, redirecting attention from the horizontal horizon upward toward the zenith. To achieve the necessary engineering and precision, architects developed specialised structures. Christoph Scheiner’s 1630 “viewing terrace”, illustrated in Rosa Ursina sive sol, utilised a pavimentum—a research platform providing a level, stable surface for precise instrument alignment. Equipped with two obelisks—one topped with a lens, the other with a perforated sphere—it allowed for tracking the Sun without staring directly at its disk, utilising plumb lines and optical instruments to project shadows and reflections onto movable boards.
This integration reached its peak in structures where the building itself is the apparatus. The Basilica of San Petronio in Bologna hosts the longest meridian line in the world, measuring 67.72 meters. Installed in 1655 by the astronomer Gian Domenico Cassini, this “heliometer” is a brass-inlaid line set into the floor: a sun-powered instrument of remarkable precision. Sunlight passes through a small gnomonic aperture some 27 meters high in the vault and falls upon the marble pavement below, forming a luminous point that travels quietly along the meridian line. The device served not only science but also faith, allowing the Church to determine with great accuracy the dates of movable feasts, most notably Easter. The Basilica dissolves the boundary between architecture and instrument; it turns its vast interior into a camera obscura where sunlight inscribes its slow passage—a photograph of time itself.
The integration of the celestial and the terrestrial entered a profound scale in the East, where buildings did not merely house instruments but became them. Around 1428, in Samarkand, Ulugh Beg constructed a monumental mural quadrant with a radius of approximately 40 metres along the meridian. This colossal device was embedded into the very fabric of the observatory: the instrument consisted of two parallel marble walls defining the arc of the scale, while the cylindrical casing of the structure provided the stability required for high-precision measurements. Here, the building’s mass was the only thing capable of anchoring such a gargantuan radius, turning the act of measurement into a feat of civil engineering.
Similarly, Jantar Mantar, built in New Delhi in 1724, features a collection of architectural instruments that Isamu Noguchi described as “useful sculpture, useless architecture”. These structures, such as the Samrat Yantra—a sundial reaching 27 meters in height—rely on their immense physical presence to achieve accuracy. The scale of these instruments allows for collective readings, transforming the solitary act of observation into a public event. Even those unfamiliar with their use can sense, among these giant artifacts, that they bind us to the mysteries of the world. By turning the sky’s movements into the movement of shadows across massive stone surfaces, they possess a metaphysical dimension: by measuring time, they remind us of its incessant passage. These sites offer visitors a unique opportunity to engage with the vastness of the universe through an embodied experience, where one does not just look at a tool, but walks within its geometry.
Vessels and ground structures
Bound to the ground by gravity, we nevertheless sail through the vacuum of the universe aboard Spaceship Earth, a vessel that nourishes us and protects us from the vastness of the cosmos. Our daily lives are not spent on a static platform, but on a moving craft perpetually navigating the celestial deep. The metaphor of the cosmonaut finds its architectural equivalent in the observatory of Johannes and Elisabetha Hevelius, built in 1650 above the roofs of three houses in Danzig (now Gdańsk). Measuring 14 by 7 metres, it matched the size of the decks of ships anchoring in the nearby port. Around a mast, telescopes were hung on ropes, and on the terrace, sighting instruments for angular measurements—sextant, octant, and quadrant—were placed. Hevelius, who famously stated “I prefer the unaided eye”, valued the ability to embrace the entire sky during his night watch. His scientific activity was closely linked to seventeenth-century maritime navigation and the fact that contemporary fleets constituted a network of moving, floating observatories—ships. Sometimes a dozen people bustled about the terrace like the crew of a Baltic sailing ship, maintaining what was both a laboratory and a “ship of the stars” grounded on a rooftop.
Stellaeburgum, Observatory of Johannes Hevelius and Elisabetha Hevelius, 1673
Sailors Navigating By Stars At Night. Woodcut From Andre Thevet’s 'La Cosmographie Universelle,' Paris, 1575.
Eimmart’s observatory on the bastion "Vestnertor" of Nuremberg castle (Doppelmayer, J.G.: Atlas novus coelestis, Nürnberg 1742)
Stjärneborg, first published in „Astronomiæ instauratæ mechanica”, 1598
Stjärneborg, section, Fred Hoyle, Astronomy, 1962
Obelics Solarium Augusti (Horologium of Augustus), Giovanni Battista Piranesi, 1762
While Hevelius rose above the roofs, Tycho Brahe conducted his observations from below the horizon. In 1584, he built Stjärneborg (“Castle of the Stars”) on the island of Ven, an observatory partially submerged in the ground. Five dug-in chambers with opening domes allowed astronomers to emerge to the surface. This dugout structure was the most stable, as it did not vibrate in the wind, proving that to look into the sky, one first had to go down and only from there optically connect with the universe. Each astronomer collected data in their chamber, which was then compared in the central hall—one of the first structures designed for the modern gathering and comparison of observational data.
Recreating the heavens
As scientific and mechanical understanding advanced, a parallel desire emerged to internalise the heavens—to move from the external act of observation toward the symbolic recreation of the sky within the architectural interior. This shift reflects a profound human impulse to domesticate the cosmos, transforming the ceiling or the vault into a mirror of the universe. The connection between physical observation and the symbolic recreation of the sky is exemplified by the Cathedral of St. Ignatius of Loyola in Rome. Raised in 1853, the observatory structures sit atop a cathedral whose famous dome does not exist—it was painted by Andrea Pozzo as a perfect illusion of architecture, a dome that opens upward only through perspective. What was meant to symbolize the heavens becomes, almost inadvertently, the foundation from which the heavens themselves are studied. An imagined sky gives way to the real one; illusion yields to observation. And so the absent dome of St. Ignatius completes itself, not in plaster or stone, but in the living vault above, where the sky becomes the cathedral’s true dome.
For both ancient and modern civilisations, the sky has always been present—even when it could not be seen, it was imagined and imitated. Whether across the curved vault of a temple, the flat plaster of a domestic ceiling, or the fabric canopy of a tent, humankind has long felt compelled to recreate the heavens. The internal landscape of the ceiling has long served as a mirror for our evolving understanding of the universe, shifting from a realm of pure metaphysics to one of scientific observation. Sometimes the sky is rendered as a symbolic eternity. In the Tomb of Nefertari, for instance, golden stars shimmer against a deep celestial blue, forming an endless nocturnal firmament. Here, the heavens are not an astronomical record but a spiritual environment: the ancient Egyptian vision of the cosmos as an eternal resting place through which the queen’s soul might travel.
Angelo Secchi and A. Vescovali, The Observatory of the Roman College, built on the structural ring of an unbuilt dome, 1853
Andrea Pozzo, The "Scupola" (fake dome), heavenly scene on a painted dome, 1694
Angelo Secchi and A. Vescovali, The Observatory of the Roman College, built on the structural ring of an unbuilt dome, 1853
The starry ceiling of the Tomb of Queen Nefertari (ca. 1250 BCE) features the 'imperishable stars' — a group of circumpolar constellations that never set. Phot. discoveriesinc
Scrovegni Chapel (ca. 1305), Giotto di Bondone
Eise Eisinga, "The Square of Heaven" plafond planetarium in Franeker, 1781
Simon Quagilio, The stage design for the scene of the Queen of the Night from Mozart's opera The Magic Flute, 1818
Hans Hollein: 'The star is a shape of man’s invention.' This exhibit was shown at the 'MAN transFORMS' exhibition at the Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum in New York in 1976. © Norman MacGrath
Étienne-Louis Boullée’s, Cenotaph for Newton, 1784
At other times, these painted skies quietly preserve moments of real celestial history. In the frescoes of the Scrovegni Chapel (ca. 1305), Giotto di Bondone included a striking depiction of Halley’s Comet. Having witnessed its passage across the sky in 1301, Giotto incorporated the phenomenon into the scene of the Star of Bethlehem, perhaps unaware that he was leaving behind one of the earliest pictorial records of a specific astronomical event.
Particularly fascinating is the didactic role that such representations of the cosmos have sometimes assumed. One of the earliest known examples comes from the medieval Islamic world: a traveling Damascene planetarium in the form of a painted tent, presented as a gift from Al-Ashraf Musa ibn Adil to Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor. Within its fabric canopy, the movements of the heavens were illustrated, transforming a temporary shelter into a portable universe—a space where knowledge of the stars could be both contemplated and taught. This nomadic architecture of the sky underscored that navigation across the desert was as demanding as navigation across the oceans, requiring a constant mental map of the stars.
As scientific understanding advanced, so too did the sophistication of these celestial interiors. A remarkable example survives in the Eise Eisinga Planetarium (1781) in Franeker, created by a self-taught Dutch astronomer. Installed directly into the ceiling of his living room, this mechanical model of the solar system—sometimes poetically called “the square of heaven”—still moves today with quiet precision, translating cosmic motion into the intimate scale of a domestic space. 55 Best regards, Studio Monnik! ↩︎
This domesticity of the infinite reached its ultimate, visionary conclusion in Étienne-Louis Boullée’s 1784 Cenotaph for Newton. Designed as a monumental hollow sphere, 150 meters in diameter, enclosed within a stepped base, the project functioned as a shadow-projection planetarium. By day, sunlight would pierce the perforated shell, scattering points of light across the interior like distant stars; by night, a single suspended lamp would illuminate the sphere from within, transforming the structure into a luminous cosmos. In Boullée’s vision, architecture itself becomes a universe—an immense homage to humanity’s enduring desire to bring the sky down into the spaces where we live, remember, and imagine.
Immersion
The sky is not distant—it surrounds and envelops us. As Jacek Damięcki stated: “The cosmos is not something very far from us, because as we sit here now, a fragment of it rests against our hands”. 66 “Architecture for the Universe: Jacek Damięcki in conversation with Magda Roszkowska, “Magazyn Zachęta” (November, December 2016, January 2017). ↩︎ This is experienced in Rundetårn in Copenhagen (1637/42), where ascending the spiral ramp is more significant than the view from the top itself. The tower gradually creates a feeling of immersion, as if one were truly walking up into the air.
The sky we observe is not a single moment in time. When we look at the night sky, we see some stars as they were a few years ago, others hundreds of years ago—some as they were when Stonehenge was being built. The light of the star Alkaid left it while Erich Mendelsohn was erecting the Einstein Tower in Potsdam (1921). This perspective of cosmic time connects multiple bodies in one collective observation, separated only by geography and time.
However, the human experience of the cosmos, and therefore the observation of the sky, has changed throughout history. As Walter Benjamin wrote: “The ancients’ intercourse with the cosmos had been different: the ecstatic trance. … For it is in this experience alone that we gain certain knowledge of what is nearest to us and what is remotest from us, and never of one without the other. This means, however, that man can be in ecstatic contact with the cosmos only communally.” 77 Walter Benjamin, One-Way Street and Other Writings, trans. Edmund Jephcott and Kingsley Shorter (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1978). ↩︎ In antiquity, contact with the cosmos was ecstatic and communal, involving participation in cosmic rhythms through rituals, celebrations, and mysteries. It was an experience of the whole body and the community, not just the eyes. Modern European astronomy changed this relationship, introducing—with the telescope—an exclusively optical connection. Many cultures, however, maintain collective and interspecies observations, not replacing participation with mere looking.
Celestial Architecture seeks to renew the ancient relationship. Embedded in the coming future, it does not serve to measure the sky, but to strengthen “sky awareness”—the experience of our immersion in the air and in the present moment. It allows the sense of position to calibrate itself across different scales of spacetime. This was the case, for instance with Centrala’s Celestial Architecture—a dispersed observatory project. Celestial architecture connects us with past astronomers and prehistoric communities, as well as with those of the future—inspiring ideas for new kinds of observatories that do not yet exist even as designs. One of these is the “Observatory of the Black Background of the Sky”, currently developed by Centrala, which will open a perspective of the deepest time, as it is the interstellar darkness and the light still reaching us that hide the most. In turn, in another concept, the “Observatory of Shooting Stars”, we will experience the shortest time, seeing in a flash how the world works as meteors ignite in the Earth’s atmosphere. Celestial Architecture calls for spaces to dwell in the sky—a place of collective experience through which people establish bonds of omnipresent interdependence, practicing a form of cosmopolitics for inhabitants who do not wish to leave the planet.
The Meteor Storm of 9 October 1933 (Draconids). Astronomie les astres l’univers by Lucien Rudaux, 1948