How Warsaw's Lubomirski Palace Rotated 78 Degrees in 1970

"Building Movers": When Architecture Goes on the Move

Not all structures stay put—sometimes, they embark on journeys, changing locations entirely. A new book explores the most spectacular cases.

Without the photographs documenting every step, it would be impossible to believe. A palace in Warsaw's historic district—a colossal 8,000-ton, 18th-century structure—was detached from its foundations and outbuildings, lifted onto steel beams, and lowered onto 16 curved rails resting on 1,400 rollers. Then came the command: using a system of hydraulic jacks, the building was set in motion. This was March 30, 1970, and the task at hand was rotating the Lubomirski Palace.

The process was agonizingly slow. The three-story building inched forward at a speed of one centimeter per minute. Forty-nine days later, on May 18, 1970, its farthest edge had shifted roughly 90 meters. Once repositioned on its new foundation, the palace was turned 78 degrees (some sources say 74), where it remains to this day.

The late-Baroque aristocratic residence had already endured much in its history, including damage from aerial bombs in World War II. But to 1960s urban planners, it stood in the wrong place. They had a clear vision for rebuilding the heavily destroyed city, one that involved reimagining the Baroque Saxon Axis and relocating Żelaznej Bramy Square. The palace was in the way. To fit into the new design, it had to move. The operation guaranteed worldwide media attention.

The phenomenon described here is called translocation—an unwieldy term for a process we don't typically associate with architecture. "We think of it as fixed, immovable," writes art historian Barbara Borngässer in her new, richly illustrated book on the relocation of buildings. "And for the overwhelming majority of structures, that's true: they stand reliably where they were placed today, yesterday, or 2,000 years ago." But as it turns out, it's not just residents who can change addresses—buildings can too.

The book reveals how a Nubian temple found its way to Madrid and a southern French cloister ended up in New York, how the colossal statues of Abu Simbel were saved from flooding, why a communist dictator in Bucharest displaced churches, and how exhibition pavilions were scattered across the globe. Behind these moves often lie the whims of millionaires, romantic obsessions, the exertions of dictatorial power, or the ambitions of urban planners. The question arises: what does the "mobilization" of architecture mean for the art of building and city planning? This thought-provoking journey—from antiquity to the present—culminates in the world of mobile homes and the fiction of floating cities in literature and utopia.

The art of transporting massive structures intact was already practiced in antiquity, using colossal stone blocks. Moving fragile monolithic monuments like obelisks required exceptional skill. Egyptian pyramid reliefs depict how they were shipped by water—a far easier method than overland transport. When rivers or canals weren't available, sledges, rollers, and ramps were used to navigate uneven terrain. More than a dozen obelisks made their way from Egypt to ancient Rome this way. In 1586, the Church repurposed the pagan symbol: an obelisk, crowned with a cross, was erected in front of the main portal of the newly built St. Peter's Basilica.

One thing has clearly endured across the centuries: the overwhelming fascination, the awe that such titanic endeavors inspire in people. Dignitaries from around the world traveled to Rome to witness the completion of the works, which had employed 907 men and 75 horses. The architects and master builders in charge—who shrank from no risk, organized every necessary step, and bore the burden of calculating loads and forces—were hailed as national heroes. With New York in 1880, the era of obelisk relocations came to an end, marking the final chapter after Paris and London.

The book is no short of "madcap ventures in construction history." In 1742, the pious Portuguese King John V commissioned Rome's finest artists to build a chapel in honor of his patron saint—only to have it dismantled and shipped to Lisbon. The haughty Roman craftsmen had refused to travel to the Tagus. This Chapel of Saint John stands as a prime example of "migratory architecture" and a testament to advanced logistics. American millionaires eager to live in English Tudor-style homes later carried on the tradition. Equally spectacular were the art transports for the cloisters of New York's medieval museum, The Cloisters.