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RAMPWAY TO HEAVEN
By Charles Krauthammer
Columnist
November 7, 1997
Having been in a wheelchair since I was 22, I have become a connoisseur of ramps. I have, my readers may have noticed, opinions on everything. But this -- access -- I know. I know what works and I know what doesn't.
I know, for example, that retrofitting to make a building wheelchair accessible is hard and often very expensive. In fact, so expensive that no owner of, say, a modest second-story restaurant should have to bankrupt himself building an elevator. The Americans With Disabilities Act has the good sense to require only "readily achievable" retrofits. It is unreasonable to ask that every establishment be accessible. Some places -- why, some of my friends' homes -- are simply out of reach. It is a fact of life. Big deal. Some people have allergies to places and things, and they don't make a federal case of it.
But then there are places that can be reasonably adapted and are not. The problem here is often not recalcitrance but a simple lack of imagination. There are two basic ways to stairlessly bridge an elevation: ramps and lifts. Lifts, which are becoming ubiquitous in theaters and other public places, are almost always the wrong choice.
They are chosen because they are easy. You buy it off the rack and call in a contractor. He bolts it into place, gives you the key and there you are. For the user, however, lifts are a horror.
One of the newest movie theaters in Washington, for example, needlessly bridges a five-step drop with one of these contraptions. (A ramp was easily doable.) You've seen them. They are essentially a cage, like the pen from which the bull is released at the rodeo. You go in one end, they slam the door behind you, send you on your agonizingly slow and loud ascent (the machine runs on a massive metal screw) and, when the spectacle is over -- and a spectacle it is -- you are released out the other end.
What's wrong with this picture? First, the indignity. The most embarrassing visual of Bill Clinton's entire presidency was the picture of him in Helsinki being lowered from his plane in a Finnair food cart. (His knee injury had landed him in a wheelchair.) There is nothing more mortifying than being hauled around like freight.
Second, lifts are almost always unnecessary. Nearly every architectural space that is bridged by a lift can be bridged by a ramp. (And Clinton should have been given a jetway.) No need to find the usher with the keys. No physical confinement. No interminable ride. No excruciating noise. Just silence and freedom.
There is a right way to design access for wheelchairs. It involves the imaginative use of ramps. And if you want to see such imagination on display, visit the brilliantly renovated Concert Hall at the Kennedy Center.
The Concert Hall was redesigned for two reasons: to improve the acoustics and to improve the access. My ear for music is untrained, but my eye for accessible design is well-honed. I know elegance and subtlety when I see it, and I saw it at the Concert Hall.
Every possible elevation -- to orchestra, boxes, even the stage -- is ramped, but given that the Concert Hall floor is one big inclined plane anyway, the effect appears perfectly natural. So natural, in fact, that on opening night, the ramps were as crowded with able-bodied patrons as were the stairs. (Full disclosure: I was asked to consult with the designers at an early stage in the renovation, but my contribution, apart from suggesting what might and might not work, was minuscule.)
Subtlety is a function not of money but of thought. You've seen those spaces in movie theaters where a seat or two has been torn out to make room for a wheelchair. The intention is good, but these spaces are perfectly useless. Most wheelchairs won't fit, and even if after endless maneuvering it finally does, you find yourself blocking the view of a half-dozen people behind you.
What did the Kennedy Center do? It removed a full row of orchestra seats and replaced them with identical-looking but movable chairs. Brilliant: serviceable for as many disabled and non-disabled as necessary. And -- my favorite touch -- the floor is ever so slightly depressed, so the folks sitting behind you don't spend the evening gazing at the back of a head with an oboe coming out one ear.
For the disabled, the new Concert Hall is a marvel: You go in on your own, you go out on your own: no one to ask, no one to thank, nothing to do but, like everyone else, enjoy. For those in wheelchairs, having an everyone-else experience in a public building is a rare thing indeed. The Kennedy Center has created the model for how to make it happen.
Charles Krauthammer Charles Krauthammer wrote a weekly political column that ran on Fridays. He died on June 21, 2018. Follow
By Charles Krauthammer
Columnist
November 7, 1997
Having been in a wheelchair since I was 22, I have become a connoisseur of ramps. I have, my readers may have noticed, opinions on everything. But this -- access -- I know. I know what works and I know what doesn't.
I know, for example, that retrofitting to make a building wheelchair accessible is hard and often very expensive. In fact, so expensive that no owner of, say, a modest second-story restaurant should have to bankrupt himself building an elevator. The Americans With Disabilities Act has the good sense to require only "readily achievable" retrofits. It is unreasonable to ask that every establishment be accessible. Some places -- why, some of my friends' homes -- are simply out of reach. It is a fact of life. Big deal. Some people have allergies to places and things, and they don't make a federal case of it.
But then there are places that can be reasonably adapted and are not. The problem here is often not recalcitrance but a simple lack of imagination. There are two basic ways to stairlessly bridge an elevation: ramps and lifts. Lifts, which are becoming ubiquitous in theaters and other public places, are almost always the wrong choice.
They are chosen because they are easy. You buy it off the rack and call in a contractor. He bolts it into place, gives you the key and there you are. For the user, however, lifts are a horror.
One of the newest movie theaters in Washington, for example, needlessly bridges a five-step drop with one of these contraptions. (A ramp was easily doable.) You've seen them. They are essentially a cage, like the pen from which the bull is released at the rodeo. You go in one end, they slam the door behind you, send you on your agonizingly slow and loud ascent (the machine runs on a massive metal screw) and, when the spectacle is over -- and a spectacle it is -- you are released out the other end.
What's wrong with this picture? First, the indignity. The most embarrassing visual of Bill Clinton's entire presidency was the picture of him in Helsinki being lowered from his plane in a Finnair food cart. (His knee injury had landed him in a wheelchair.) There is nothing more mortifying than being hauled around like freight.
Second, lifts are almost always unnecessary. Nearly every architectural space that is bridged by a lift can be bridged by a ramp. (And Clinton should have been given a jetway.) No need to find the usher with the keys. No physical confinement. No interminable ride. No excruciating noise. Just silence and freedom.
There is a right way to design access for wheelchairs. It involves the imaginative use of ramps. And if you want to see such imagination on display, visit the brilliantly renovated Concert Hall at the Kennedy Center.
The Concert Hall was redesigned for two reasons: to improve the acoustics and to improve the access. My ear for music is untrained, but my eye for accessible design is well-honed. I know elegance and subtlety when I see it, and I saw it at the Concert Hall.
Every possible elevation -- to orchestra, boxes, even the stage -- is ramped, but given that the Concert Hall floor is one big inclined plane anyway, the effect appears perfectly natural. So natural, in fact, that on opening night, the ramps were as crowded with able-bodied patrons as were the stairs. (Full disclosure: I was asked to consult with the designers at an early stage in the renovation, but my contribution, apart from suggesting what might and might not work, was minuscule.)
Subtlety is a function not of money but of thought. You've seen those spaces in movie theaters where a seat or two has been torn out to make room for a wheelchair. The intention is good, but these spaces are perfectly useless. Most wheelchairs won't fit, and even if after endless maneuvering it finally does, you find yourself blocking the view of a half-dozen people behind you.
What did the Kennedy Center do? It removed a full row of orchestra seats and replaced them with identical-looking but movable chairs. Brilliant: serviceable for as many disabled and non-disabled as necessary. And -- my favorite touch -- the floor is ever so slightly depressed, so the folks sitting behind you don't spend the evening gazing at the back of a head with an oboe coming out one ear.
For the disabled, the new Concert Hall is a marvel: You go in on your own, you go out on your own: no one to ask, no one to thank, nothing to do but, like everyone else, enjoy. For those in wheelchairs, having an everyone-else experience in a public building is a rare thing indeed. The Kennedy Center has created the model for how to make it happen.
Charles Krauthammer Charles Krauthammer wrote a weekly political column that ran on Fridays. He died on June 21, 2018. Follow
